Sunday afternoon, the physical symptoms of grief hit me like the flu mixed with. My stomach clenches, a slow and steady pressure that deepens into a sharp, twisting nausea. A full-body rejection, like my insides have officially resigned, packed their bags, and are now standing in the doorway flipping me off. Within minutes, I’m doubled over the toilet, dry heaving so hard my ribs ache. The air is thick and humid with sickness, my skin clammy, my pulse erratic. I assume it’s a virus, or food poisoning, or maybe just my body finally giving out after everything. But something about this feels different—like my body isn’t just sick, it’s reacting. I don’t know it yet, but this is the physical manifestation of grief.
A stomach flu. Or food poisoning. Or maybe some virus creeping through my system, forcing me to purge every last ounce of energy I have left. Whatever it is, it feels violent. Relentless. The kind of sickness that makes me wonder if my body is planning something dramatic—like spontaneous combustion.
By Monday morning, I am barely functioning. My body feels detached, heavy and foreign, like I’m moving through molasses with bricks tied to my ankles. Every limb aches, weak and shaky, unable to support me properly. My stomach has been empty for hours, but the nausea doesn’t care. It swirls and tightens, sending me back to the bathroom again and again, just in case my soul wants to exit through my esophagus.
The idea of food makes my stomach lurch. Even water sits wrong. I can feel my body pulling from reserves it doesn’t have, and yet I still force myself up, still drag myself to work, gripping the bathroom counter like an anchor before stumbling out the door. Because, apparently, I think this is a mind over matter situation, and not a your body is actively rejecting your life choices situation.
By Tuesday morning, it has escalated. The nausea, the dizziness, the violent heaving that leaves my entire body trembling—it has become a ritual, a guaranteed part of waking up. Every morning, the sickness hits like a wave I can’t outrun. Every morning, my body forces itself into a state of panic so complete, it feels like I am actively dying. I’m not nervous. I’m not stressed. I am sick.
Tuesday, I don’t go. Five days into a new job, and I’m already home sick.
At first, that fact barely registers. Because I am too busy trying not to die.
It’s not just the nausea anymore. My heart is skipping, then sprinting, then slamming against my ribs so hard I can hear it in my ears. My vision blurs. My hands go cold, then tingly, then numb. I am shaking uncontrollably, my breath coming fast and shallow. My stomach feels hollowed out, raw, like acid has burned through the lining. My head swims in and out of consciousness, and I find myself gripping the side of the bed just to stay upright.
At one point, I think I might actually pass out. Or worse.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. My body feels like it is actively shutting down, like something is draining the life out of me in real time. I clutch my phone in one hand and Zuma’s arm in the other, barely able to whisper, “You might need to call 911.”
And she laughs.
Not a nervous chuckle, not an I’m trying to lighten the mood giggle. A full, deep-bellied laugh.
“Are you—ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?” I wheeze, gripping my chest like an 18th-century widow fainting onto a chaise lounge.
She nods. She nods.
Then, with the most casual, I’ve-been-waiting-for-this-moment tone, she says, “Yeah, because when you did this when Kingston was here, he would come crying to me, saying he thought you were actually dying.”
Excuse me. WHAT.
So, for years, Kingston was sobbing, thinking I was actively dying, meanwhile Zuma was just like, lol nah, she does this sometimes?! And no one told me?!
So I’m writhing around like I’ve been poisoned by Russian spies, and she’s standing over me like, Damn, mom. Again?
This is the problem with grief. It doesn’t just live in your head—it takes up residence in your body and starts rearranging the furniture. It moves into your muscles, settles into your stomach, and gets real comfortable in your nervous system like an in-law who “just needs a place to crash for a few months.” It doesn’t just make you sad—it makes you sick. And for months, I have been ignoring it, stuffing it down, pretending I’m fine. But my body? Oh, my body knows better.
Grief has a way of calling bullshit.
Because the truth is, I don’t accept this life. I don’t accept that Kingston is gone. I don’t accept that after a decade of being home, caring for my kids, fighting for Kingston, building my entire existence around my family—I’m suddenly supposed to just clock in somewhere, paste on a smile, and pretend like my entire world didn’t just collapse. My body knows I’m lying.
And it is not having it.
This isn’t stress. This isn’t some normal adjustment period. This is my entire nervous system rejecting reality. This is my subconscious standing up, flipping over the table, and yelling, Absolutely the fuck not.
And now, because my body is extra dramatic, I am literally throwing up my own existence.
And now it’s Wednesday morning. Today.
It happens again. The nausea. The shaking. The waves of unbearable sickness crashing over me, forcing me to the bathroom before I am even awake enough to process what is happening. My body, once again, revolting against the day ahead before I even have a chance to make a decision.
And here I am. Driving to work.
Yes, you read that correctly. I am writing this while driving. Because, apparently, my commitment to bad decisions is just as strong as my body’s commitment to rejecting capitalism.
Because if I’m gonna die anyway, I might as well do it telling my story.
That’s when it hits me. Oh my god. This isn’t a virus. This isn’t the flu. I didn’t realize it at first, but these were all physical symptoms of grief.
This is grief. This is anxiety. This is what happens when the physical symptoms of grief take over. This is my body screaming at me that this is bullshit.
It’s not nerves. It’s not stress. It’s my subconscious, my nervous system, my entire being refusing to participate in this charade. No. I can’t do this. I don’t want this. Stop forcing me.
I haven’t accepted the life I am living, but I have kept moving forward anyway, forcing myself through the motions, through jobs, through responsibilities, through the unbearable silence of a world without Kingston. But my body knows the truth before I do. It has reached its limit.
Because how do you wake up every morning and live a life that doesn’t feel like yours? How do you push through when every cell in your body is screaming that this isn’t right?
I try. I keep trying. But grief doesn’t just sit quietly in the background. It takes up space. It shouts. It refuses to be ignored. It buries itself into your muscles, clenches at your throat, twists your stomach, steals the air from your lungs. And after months of shoving it down, of pretending I am okay enough to function, my body finally has enough.
And suddenly, I understand.
I am not sick. I am rejecting my own life. My body is physically protesting the reality I have been trying to force it into. Every dry heave, every wave of nausea, every dizzy spell is my subconscious saying, I do not consent to this existence.
And now that I see it, I can’t unsee it.
So what now? How do you make it stop when it’s your own body screaming at you? How do you wake up and not immediately start spiraling into sickness because you know what’s waiting for you on the other side of that alarm clock?
I don’t know. But I know this isn’t sustainable.
I know I can’t keep forcing myself into a life that makes me sick.
And I know something has to change. Because I refuse to keep waking up in a body that is begging me to listen.
Related Posts and Resources:
Finding Relief Through Meditation and Automatic Writing
I’ve realized that when grief starts hijacking my body, I need something to ground me—something that helps me move through the physical symptoms instead of being steamrolled by them. One of the only things that actually helps? Meditation and automatic writing.
Lately, I’ve been using guided meditations that help me connect with Kingston and release the tension that grief traps in my body. If you’re feeling the weight of it too, you might find some relief in these:
🌀 Self-Havening Meditation for Traumatic Loss by Dr. Kate Truitt – This one has been a go-to when I need to calm my nervous system and get out of panic mode.
Watch now
🔮 Spiritually Guided Grief Meditation by Gabby Bernstein – If you’re looking for something more soul-connected, this meditation offers space to connect with lost loved ones.
Watch now…
After meditating, I like to sit with my journal and just write—whatever comes through, no filter, no overthinking. Sometimes, it feels like Kingston is there, guiding my words. Sometimes, it just helps me unload the chaos in my head.
If your grief is showing up in your body like mine, maybe give one of these a try. It won’t fix everything, but maybe it’ll make breathing feel a little easier.