Your Brain on Grief

Why feeling broken after loss isn't a character flaw but a neurological response you can learn to heal from.

The Problem With Grief

He continued his thought, elbows resting on the table, fork in hand, with the food barely holding on. It had been minutes since he wrestled the food onto his fork. I was staring at his face and nodding in agreement while noticing the dangling food out of the corner of my eye, doing my best to listen. I was distracted by the other conversations around us, the whizzing of the machines, and the distinct smell of coffee.

But mostly, I was distracted by the nagging critic in my head.

“You messed up again, CJ. I told you, you aren’t strong enough. You aren’t good enough. And this is proof. Figure your shit out and be stronger. Do better.”

I shook my head, trying my best to scramble the thoughts and refocus on the conversation happening in front of me. I felt impaired. Impatient. Scared. Pathetic. Unable to be present and only able to focus on the past.

This moment of distraction revealed how grief had taken my ability to be present for the people still in my life. I was there but not there; a ghost haunting my own relationships.

When Your Mind Becomes The Enemy

Ariana's death stripped away both my partner and my internal compass.

Grief, the second it took hold, began to amplify every nagging, incoherent, and abusive thought about myself and my actions. I would spend hours stuck in ruminations. My compulsions increased as I desperately tried to find safety and lessen the fears.

Every headache triggered my belief that I was dying. All the normal aches and pains in my body felt like tumors growing inside, worming their way through my organs. My mind was flooded with intrusive thoughts and images, forcing me to search my memory banks to find the antidote to the horror movie playing in my mind.

I was barely able to function: forgetting entire conversations, missing appointments, and being completely unavailable. Each one reinforced the narrative that I wasn't enough.

Solo Parenting in the Wreckage

The heavy weight of parenting created deep despair. I was a solo-parent to three children and the more they needed, the more I failed and disappointed them. I was overwhelmed shouldering their emotional burdens while holding my own.

And the moments I had nothing left to give were when they needed me the most. They needed reassurance that I was still there and to reaffirm that I loved them.

Simple tasks became functionally impossible.

I'd find myself staring at dried up burned potatoes that I had forgotten in the oven while juggling a work call. Feeding the kids frozen dinners and instant noodles–again–while I scraped charcoal off the pan from what was supposed to be their dinner.

Driving them to their friends' houses required the energy it takes to go on a long road trip. The car felt like a torture chamber, forcing me to stay awake when I desperately needed sleep.

It was a daily battle.

A daily reminder that I was simply not enough and a realization that something needed to change. The old narratives that strengthened from grief were broken. I needed to create new narratives that would support growth and push me in the direction of where I wanted my life to be.

I needed to learn to lower the bar.

Instead of being the perfect parent, I had to be the "good enough" parent. Making sure the kids were fed, clothed, and housed became the new standard. Everything else was extra.

The kitchen would remain dirty, sometimes for days. I said no to most invitations to socialize. Even on holidays I gave myself permission to leave early, go home, lay on the couch, and cry.

Grief had become my teacher on the realities of the human condition. It showed me my limitations and when I railed against them, it was quick to correct me.

When Your North Star Dies

Previously, I outsourced my teaching to Ariana. She was more than my wife, she was my judge and jury. I looked to her to confirm if I was okay or not.

She never apologized for telling me the truth, even if it was sometimes brutal. If I failed, succeeded, or was acting too harshly and twisting reality, she let me know. She was my anchor and safe sanctuary I could run to and hide. A place to ground myself and know that no matter what happened, I would be okay, as long as she remained.

It was unhealthy.

I know.

But it was all I could do at the time.

So, when I lost her, I lost my ability to ground myself and find a balance of okay-ness.

It was time to become my own anchor and to confront the deepest parts of my heart, mind, and spirit. Finding all the cold, shadowy places my brokenness tried to hide.

It was time to make a choice to fight or flee.

Make The Decision

I chose to fight.

If not for me, then for my kids. To cultivate a belief that there was a life waiting for me on the other side of the despair. I had to jump into the unknown and be willing to look inward to the brokenness. I needed to learn to accept and love what I found.

And I learned that the fight was not a solo battle. I needed people in my corner, my community. I had to find spaces where I was allowed to feel and be who I was without judgements.

It took time, effort, and energy, but I slowly pieced together my community and support system. I rebuilt it from the ground up. I found the right combination of being compassionately held and gently pushed that led to the redefined relationship I have with myself and my grief.

The Aftermath

For years I couldn't go a day without the belief I was dying or had some horrible disease. Now when the thoughts come, I can shake them off. Even going days or weeks without them intruding in my mind.

Thoughts of my future have form and color now, instead of a black void. I see the life I want to build with clarity. I can plan a family vacation six months from now and feel excitement, not an underling dread I won't be there for it. I can reflect on my memories of Ariana with gratitude, not agony.

The journey from the distracted man in the cafe to someone who can visualize a full future and life with my grief wasn't quick, or linear. But if you see yourself in my story and you have experienced the same hijacking of your heart and mind, then you need to fight too.

So please–listen carefully–you need to hear this: stop distracting and numbing yourself.

This is Your Fight Too

The weight of the emotions is crushing you. Fleeing from them will only create suffering on top of your grief.

You are exhausted. Defeated. Unsure how to function.

You see what you were and want so desperately to be that person again.

But you know it is impossible.

You are changed.

New.

So how do you proceed forward?

You fight.

Fighting grief isn't about denying it or strong arming your emotions to comply. It's about acknowledging the change and shift in your life, sitting in the discomfort, learning to accept your new reality, and finding the resolve to move forward; taking back control of your life.

The Battle is Not Won Alone

The hardest fought battles are won with a community around you. You need to find people who can pick you back up when you get knocked down, with no judgements.

Community does not mean a crowd. It means finding one friend who is able to sit with you and not try to fix anything. Or finding a grief support group where "I'm not okay" is an acceptable daily status and you are encouraged to grow.

I know reaching out, building this community, is almost impossible. It takes time. It's a slow build, but even starting small with one text, "I'm struggling" is enough.

Isolation will keep you locked in a cycle of self-loathing, fear, and suffering. It will drive you further into the abyss.

Your Brain on Grief

Grief is not only emotional pain; it literally changes your brain. The part responsible for decision-making and focus becomes impaired, and the fear center goes into overdrive. This is not weakness in you, in us. It is neuroscience.

It can last for months or even years. Learning this helped me stop judging myself so harshly. It gave me patience and a belief that one tiny step forward is still progress.

What you feel, the overwhelm and nothingness, is normal. Grief can, and mostly does, feel like a mental illness. Judgements will come from many different places. They will come from people with no desire to ask you how you are doing, or why you took that action. They will be baseless judgements from people with no context or understanding of your life.

You have to ignore them, even when the arrows have punctured the skin and dug deep into the muscle.

Your Community Is Waiting

That day in the cafe, I was drowning in my isolation, convinced I was the only person unable to handle grief "properly," or that I was completely broken, both mentally and physically.

I know you feel alone, because I did. Isolation becomes our best and easiest tactic to avoid our pain.

But your community is out there, waiting for permission to help. They're watching you suffer and don't know what to say. They don't know what to do. And, chances are, all the things they try to do and say are, at best, wrong and at worst, harmful.

So start small. Text one person, "I'm having a hard day," and see what might unfold.

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Grief can feel make you feel utterly alone. That is why I wrote “Torn Pages From A Broken Heart”. A deeply personal look into the first year after losing my wife to cancer.