The Grief That Waited

I’m usually quite good at listening to my body.

In fact, I’d been looking forward to the slower rhythm of winter. I imagined myself moving more gently, sipping warm soups (I love soup), wrapped in thick blankets (I love being warm). I’d mentally carved out space to snuggle, to reflect, to be still.

But I hadn’t done it yet.

There were things to be done. I was in the full flow of doing, not being — so much so that I didn’t expect such an abrupt halt.

And I didn’t expect it to be so messy.

Just over a week ago, a heavy, sticky cold arrived — the kind that demands complete stillness.

And so, I stopped.

Not by choice, but by necessity.

And this one required bed rest.

In that pause, something stirred.

A quiet witnessing — no fear, just observing. It felt like I was watching a dark sky roll in over the ocean. Powerful. Necessary. Fierce.

Almost counter intuitively, as the fog of cold rolled in, I started to gain clarity.

It’s been almost a year since my mum passed.

Whilst I’ve grieved, deeply and honestly, I began to sense — more wanted to be released.

Grief flows when there is space for it to soften.

And that space, I realised, is exactly what winter had been trying to offer me — I just hadn’t paused enough.

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In Chinese Medicine, Grief Belongs to the Lungs

Grief is the emotion of the metal element — and the Lungs are the organ most affected by unprocessed grief.

Though this emotion is most active in autumn, it doesn’t vanish with the turning of the season. If grief hasn’t been fully expressed, it lingers — stored in the body, waiting for a time when it feels safe to rise again.

Often, winter provides that safety.

It makes sense that this cold hit my lungs.

It arrived with a message:

“Slow down. Let this go deeper. Let something move.”

Last year, when Mum wound down her life force energy, it stirred deep emotion in those around her.

And I found myself distracted.

The graceful grieving I’d intended gave way to other emotions, other people, other needs.

Rather than going within, I stayed focussed on the external and the doing.

Even when I tried to reclaim my space, the natural flow of grief had already been stilted.

And now, a year later… here are those feelings, finally beginning to move.

And when I realised that — I surrendered.

It’s been almost two weeks of marinating, healing, and getting comfortable with the stillness.

But it hasn’t been glossy and beautiful.

It’s been messy and painful.

Physically, I was wiped out — aching, coughing, completely depleted.

And when my energy rose slightly and I tried to jump back in, winter pulled me back into her embrace…

…by placing a chair in the path of my second toe.

Which led to a dislocated joint, swelling, bruising, and more pain.

But most of all — stillness.

A few days ago, I realised I was still fighting the quiet.

So I became my own healer.

I mapped out a week of stillness. My own personal Inner Retreat. (I took this seriously - I even have a run sheet.)

One that allowed space for life — because I’m still a mum, a cook, a cleaner, and I run a business.

So here we are today. I’m only on day three. And it’s working.

It feels so nourishing — like I’ve turned down the speed on Claire to x0.25… maybe even x0.5.

My Inner Retreat includes free-flow qigong, quiet moments with tea and a diary, intentional prayers…

I've even created a crystal elixir specifically for this time and turned it into a mist.

It’s called Wings of Stillness.

Stillness is where winter wants us right now.

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Winter Belongs to Water. To the Kidneys. To Stillness. To Wisdom.

In the seasonal cycle of Chinese Medicine, winter is the time of the water element.

Water governs the kidneys — our foundational energy, our Jing, our vital essence, our lifeforce.

When we ignore the body’s call for rest during this season, it’s our kidneys that suffer.

But when we honour the pause, the rest, the deep not doing — we replenish what modern life constantly drains.

Winter is not a time to force forward motion.

It’s a time to allow things to surface from below — like a spring thaw. Slow and wise.

Fear is the emotion of Water. But so is inner wisdom.

When we give ourselves permission to pause, we may notice emotions or memories rise.

They’re not setbacks.

They’re invitations.

For me, this illness cracked open space to feel a deeper layer of grief.

To let the waves come more gently.

Not all at once — but like erosion.

Natural. Beautiful.

Leaving warmth and remembrance in its place.

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Stillness Is Healing Too

So often, we think healing has to be active.

But I believe healing also lives in moments like these:

• In the pause.

• In the exhale.

• In the realisation: “I need nothing but time and warmth right now.”

If you’ve felt the urge to slow down this season… please listen.

If something in you is surfacing again… please let it.

Grief can be honoured more than once.

Stillness can be healing.

And winter?

Winter is permission to just be.

Let yourself be dreamed, not just the dreamer.

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With love from the quiet,

Claire