My Grief & Chronic Pain Journey

It was 2 o’clock on a weekday afternoon, and I was halfway through a bottle of red wine. It wasn’t the first, and it wouldn’t be the last. My dad—my hero, my person—was dead after a brutal battle with cancer. And I was in hell.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. I was between freelance gigs with way too much time on my hands. Everyone around me was busy living their happy, “normal” lives—getting married, having kids, climbing the ladder in their careers. Some were winning Emmys, Tonys, Oscars for the work they’d been doing while I was focused on taking care of my dying dad. I couldn’t have felt more estranged, isolated, and alone.

What made it worse was that most people I knew hadn’t experienced a loss like mine. Friends tried to help, but they just DID. NOT. GET. IT.

And how could they? You can’t fully understand until you’re unwillingly dragged into this unenviable “Dead Loved Ones” club (that we all join eventually—like it or not.)

I didn’t make it easy on anyone, either. Because I didn’t make it easy on myself.  I couldn’t just  “get over it” like we’re told we’re supposed to. Move on. They’d want you to live your life!  Yada Yada Yada. 

I was quick to tears and quicker to anger. Parties and events became terrifying because people didn’t know I was a walking shell of a human being. The simple question, “How are you?” was impossible to answer.

How am I? Not Good. Awful. Pretty Bad, actually.  I am unmoored, untethered, lost in space. I honestly don’t know who the hell I am anymore. My anchor and north star are gone. So that’s how I am.

I wasn’t much fun at parties…

Then, within that same year, I went through a soul-crushing breakup. And it didn’t stop there. More people started dying—first, another family member, then a friend lost their life to suicide. It was unreal, surreal, and devastating. The waves of grief kept pounding me, dragging me under. I was drowning.

What few people saw was how my body began breaking down alongside my spirit. The grief didn’t just live in my heart—it manifested physically. Debilitating back pain became my constant companion, making even the simplest movements a challenge. I developed panic attacks that would strike without warning. My hair began falling out in alarming amounts. My digestive system revolted with horrible GI issues that doctors struggled to diagnose or treat effectively.

This was my introduction to chronic pain—the kind that doesn’t just visit but moves in and rearranges your life without permission. Some mornings, the physical symptoms were so overwhelming that getting out of bed felt like scaling a mountain. The shooting pain down my back made sitting through meetings nearly impossible. The emotional pain of grief and the physical pain in my body became intertwined, each one triggering and amplifying the other in a vicious cycle.

Friends would suggest yoga or physical therapy, not understanding that when your nervous system is in this state of constant alarm and your back is screaming in pain, even “healing” activities can feel impossible. The isolation deepened—not only was I grieving losses that others couldn’t comprehend, but I was also fighting an invisible battle with my own body that few could see or understand.

I reached a point where I had no choice but to find a practice to make peace with the emotional and physical pain and to create some space from this gaping wound that was eating me alive.

Because at the end of the day, grief, as overwhelming as it is, is just love that knows no bounds… And I didn’t want to lose that connection to my loved ones. I just needed it to stop hurting so damn much. 

I learned that I needed to stop fighting it because my struggle against it caused at least as much misery as the loss itself.  I had to learn to befriend my grief and stop trying to hide from it, outrun it, outdrink it, or outdrug it. Because it was always there, waiting for me anyway.  I couldn’t win in a battle of wills. Grief will have her day. 

So, I forged a new path where both my grief and my physical pain, which were now parts of me, didn’t have to be denied. I began a practice of sending love not just to my emotional suffering but also to my rebellious body. Slowly but surely, I was no longer drowning but surfing the waves—waves of grief, waves of pain, waves of panic. Big waves and small became familiar friends that I welcomed with compassion. 

Sometimes, I gently touch my grief to say hello to those I’ve lost. I smile at the soft tears when I transport myself inside my dad’s huge embrace, and I can feel his love alive in every cell of my being. 

Similarly, I’ve learned to make peace with my chronic pain. Rather than battling against the signals my back and body send me, I’ve come to listen to them as messengers, recognizing my body speaking its own grief language—reminding me to slow down, to honor my limits, and to treat myself with the same compassion I would offer anyone else who’s suffering.

My grief and my pain are both part of my DNA now. Within my grief lives my dad, my mom, and all the many loved ones I’ve lost. Within my pain lives wisdom about what my body needs to heal and thrive. 

I carry all of it with me, always. 

And I am more than ok with that.