How I Started Being Kinder to Myself in Grief

Grief didn’t make me better at self-care.
It made me forget to eat.
It made me stare at the wall for hours.
It made me feel ashamed for crying — and ashamed when I didn’t.

After Gary died, I didn’t wake up wondering, How can I care for myself today?
I woke up wondering, How am I still here?

But over time, something began to surface.

I noticed that every time I judged myself —
for not being productive,
for crying too hard,
for not crying at all,
for still feeling broken —
I didn’t feel motivated.
I just felt worse.

It wasn’t just grief anymore.
It was shame.
And shame is heavy.

So I started to experiment.

What if I let one thing be okay?

What if, instead of saying “I failed,” I said, “That was a lot. No wonder I’m tired.”
What if, instead of calling myself weak, I whispered, “This is hard. And you’re still here.”

At first it felt like I was making excuses.
Like I hadn’t earned the right to be gentle with myself.

But slowly, I saw it differently.

I wasn’t trying to escape grief.
I was trying to survive it.

Kindness wasn’t a reward.
It was a lifeline.

So I kept practicing.

When I couldn’t finish the to-do list, I reminded myself: Grief takes energy.

When I showed up and felt out of place or weepy, I told myself: Trying counts.

When I stayed home instead of going out, I reminded myself: Sometimes rest is the most honest thing I can do.

It wasn’t about pretending I was okay.
It was about telling the truth — with love.

Here’s a moment I remember clearly:

After going to a small art class with a friend, I came home and spiraled.
I don’t know how to be around people anymore.
I’m broken.
I made a fool of myself.

But instead of staying in that place, I paused.

I sat down.
I took a breath.
And I rewrote the story.

You went.
You tried something new.
You spent time with someone who matters.
You showed up.

And I ended that journal entry with one sentence:
I’m proud of myself for trying.

That changed everything.

I still have hard days.
Days I slip into self-judgment.
But now I notice it.
Now I know how to interrupt it.
Now I know that being gentle with myself is part of how I keep going.

If today you’ve been hard on yourself —
if you’ve called yourself lazy or broken or not enough —
please hear this:

You’re not failing.
You’re grieving.

That’s what this is.
This is what love looks like when the person you love is gone.

You don’t have to be better yet.
You don’t have to be strong.

But maybe — just for this moment —
you can be a little softer with yourself.

Even just tonight.