How We STAY with Grief

About How We STAY with Grief

A podcast about STAYing with grief instead of trying to get through it by Dr. Heather Taylor, licensed psychologist and creator of the STAY Framework for Grief Integration. drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com/s/how-we-stay-with-grief?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Dr. Heather Taylor, PsyD

Category

education · health & fitness

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

22 May 2026

Latest episode

18 Jun 2026

Latest episodes

9 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   18 Jun 2026

   Redefining Grief: Accepting Contradictory Emotions

   I want to tell you something that took me an embarrassingly long time to learn, and I say that as someone with a doctorate in psychology. We are allowed to feel more than one thing at a time. I know. It sounds obvious when you say it out loud. And yet most of us were never actually taught this. Not in school, not in our families, not in the cultural scripts we absorbed about how emotions are supposed to work. We were taught that feelings were singular and sequential. You are sad. Then you are angry. Then you are okay. One thing at a time, moving in a direction, ideally toward something more manageable than where you started. It was a supervisor early in my clinical training who first introduced me to the concept of both/and. She was teaching me how to hold complexity with clients, how to help them understand that two seemingly opposite things could be true at the same time, and how to apply that same thinking to myself as I conceptualized the people I was working with. I remember sitting with that idea and realizing that I had never actually been given permission to think that way. Even in my own grief I had assumed I could only feel one way at a time. That the feelings were supposed to take turns. They do not take turns. They show up together. All of them, at once, in the same body, asking to be held simultaneously. And learning to do that, to actually allow the complexity rather than flattening it into something simpler, is some of the most important work there is. Why Emotional Contradiction Is the Norm, Not the Exception Here is what grief actually looks like when it is honest. You love someone and you are also furious at them for leaving. You are devastated by a loss and you are also quietly, guiltily relieved. You miss a relationship and you also know it needed to end. You grieve a job that was also damaging you. You love a person whose death also freed you from something heavy. None of those are unusual grief experiences. They are extraordinarily common. What is unusual is having someone name them out loud, give them language, and tell you that all of it belongs. The either/or framework we were handed tells us that grief should resolve into a single, legible emotion. Sad. Angry. Accepting. It treats contradiction as confusion, as something to be sorted out rather than held. And so grievers spend enormous energy trying to figure out which feeling is the real one, which one they are allowed to have, which one would make sense to the people around them. The both/and framework asks a completely different question. Not which feeling is true, but how do we hold all the feelings that are true at the same time. That shift sounds small. It is not small. It changes the entire experience of being in grief because it stops asking you to edit yourself into something more digestible and starts making room for the full complexity of what is actually happening. Bonanno’s research on grief trajectories helps us understand why this matters clinically. Grievers who are able to hold emotional complexity, who can oscillate between difficult emotions without needing to resolve them prematurely, tend to integrate their losses more fully over time. The pressure to resolve grief into a single clean feeling does not accelerate healing. It delays it, because it asks the griever to abandon parts of their experience before those parts have been fully witnessed. The Pressure to Perform Appropriate Grief Most grievers know, often without being told explicitly, which emotions are acceptable in the room they are in. The widow who laughs at her husband’s funeral because someone told the story about the thing he did that one time and it was genuinely funny, and then spends the rest of the service managing her guilt about having laughed. The adult child who feels relief when a parent with a long illness finally dies, and then cannot say that out loud to anyone because relief is not on the approved list of grief emotions. The person who is angry, really genuinely furious, at the person who died, and who keeps that anger quiet because we do not speak ill of the dead and grief is supposed to look like sadness. These are performances. And they cost something. Every time a griever edits their emotional experience to fit what the room can hold, they are doing the work of managing other people’s discomfort at the expense of their own authentic grief process. That is exhausting. And over time, it teaches the griever that certain parts of their experience are not safe to have, which means those parts go unprocessed, unwitnessed, and underground. The grief that gets performed is the grief that gets acknowledged. The grief that is hidden because it doesn’t fit the script accumulates quietly and surfaces later in ways that are harder to recognize and harder to address. Naming this is not about encouraging grievers to perform their complexity for an audience. It is about removing the internal pressure to edit. About giving permission for all of it to be real, even if only to yourself. What Both/And Actually Looks Like Both/and is not a technique. It is an orientation. A way of approaching your own emotional experience that makes room for contradiction without needing to resolve it. It sounds like: I am devastated that she is gone and I am grateful that her suffering ended. Both are true. It sounds like: I loved this job and it was also slowly breaking me. Both are true. It sounds like: I miss him every day and I am also relieved that the dynamic that hurt me is no longer present in my life. Both are true. It sounds like: I am proud of my child for leaving and I am also grieving who we were to each other when they were here. Both are true. It sounds like: I wanted this relationship to end and I am also grieving the future I imagined inside of it. Both are true. What makes both/and hard is that it requires us to tolerate the discomfort of not resolving the contradiction. We want things to be simple. We want to know which feeling to trust, which one is the right one, which one we should follow. Both/and asks us to sit with the fact that we do not have to choose. That multiple truths can coexist. And if that feels uncomfortable, which it often does, that discomfort is not a sign that something is wrong. It is a sign that there is work to do inside it. I continue to work on this myself. Distress tolerance around holding more than one thing is not a skill you develop once and then have forever. It is a practice. Some days I am better at it than others. Some losses make it harder than others. What helps me is remembering that the discomfort of holding complexity is almost always more bearable than the alternative, which is flattening a real and complicated experience into something simpler than it actually is. What It Looks Like When Complexity Is Honored Versus Shut Down When complexity is shut down, it looks like a grief support group where someone says they feel relieved and the room goes quiet and someone quickly changes the subject. It looks like a therapist who moves too fast past the anger because sadness is easier to hold. It looks like a family system where one person is designated the emotional one and everyone else is expected to be fine. It looks like a friend who responds to every complicated grief feeling with a silver lining because the complexity is activating something in them that they do not have the capacity to sit with. When complexity is honored, it looks like a clinician who says tell me more about the relief without any register of judgment. It looks like a friend who responds to the both/and with yes, both of those things make complete sense. It looks like a family that can sit in a room together and not need everyone to be feeling the same thing at the same time. It looks like a griever who can say out loud, to themselves or to someone else, I feel six things right now and I am not going to make myself choose just one. The difference between those two experiences is not subtle. Grievers feel it immediately. They know when the room can hold them and when it cannot. They know when their complexity is welcome and when it is being managed. And they adjust accordingly, either opening up or closing down, based on what the room communicates it can handle. Building the capacity to honor complexity is one of the most important things we can do, as clinicians, as friends, as partners, as family members. It does not require the right words. It requires the willingness to stay present with something that does not resolve neatly and to resist the urge to make it simpler than it is. The Permission You Might Not Have Been Given Here is what I want you to take from this. You are allowed to feel more than one thing. You are allowed to love someone and be angry at them. To grieve a loss and feel relieved by it. To miss something and also know you are better without it. To be grateful and devastated at the same time. To hold the joy and the grief simultaneously without either one canceling the other out. None of those contradictions mean you are confused or broken or grieving wrong. They mean you are human. They mean your grief is honest. And honest grief, in all its complexity, is the only kind that actually integrates. Both things are true. They always were. You just might not have had someone tell you that until now. References Bonanno, G. A. (2009). The other side of sadness: What the new science of bereavement tells us about life after loss. Basic Books. Stroebe, M., & Schut, H. (1999). The dual process model of coping with bereavement: Rationale and description. Death Studies, 23(3), 197–224. Neimeyer, R. A. (2001). Meaning reconstruction and the experience of loss. American Psychological Association. Worden, J. W. (2009). Grief counseling and grief therapy: A handbook for the mental health practitioner (4th ed.). Springer Publishing. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

2. 

   15 Jun 2026

   Nobody Told You Summer Could Feel Like This

   Someone out there right now is sitting in the sunshine feeling terrible and wondering what is wrong with them. Summer has this particular cultural pressure baked into it. The assumption that longer days and warmer weather translate directly into better moods, more energy, more presence, more joy. Especially if you live somewhere that is grey and wet for most of the year and summer arrives like a collective exhale, suddenly everyone is outside and glowing and making plans and the unspoken message is: you should be happy right now. This is the good part. And if you are grieving, if you are in the middle of a transition or a diagnosis or a loss or just the quiet exhaustion of a life that is asking more of you than you have right now, that message does not land as an invitation. It lands as pressure. As one more thing you are failing to do correctly. You are not failing. Summer is just not a grief pause button. And nobody seems to want to talk about that. Summer Is Actually Full of Loss Here is the thing about this season that we do not say out loud enough. Summer is packed with endings. The school year ends and with it the structure, the routine, the version of your days that you had finally figured out. Your kid graduates and leaves for college and takes a whole chapter of your family’s life with them. Your own child moves from elementary school to middle school and you are grieving a version of them, and of yourself as their parent, that is quietly disappearing. The summer job ends. The internship ends. The lease ends. The relationship ends. The chapter ends. Endings are losses. Even the ones we chose, even the ones we are proud of, even the ones that are objectively good. They still ask something of us. They still reorganize our sense of who we are and what our days look like and what comes next. And when they pile up in the same three-month window, which summer has a way of doing, the accumulated weight of all that transition can feel genuinely overwhelming. Add to that the grief that doesn’t pause for the season. The death that happened in April that you have been holding together through end-of-year recitals and graduation ceremonies and the last day of school, and now it is summer and the structure is gone and the grief is right there. The diagnosis you got in May that you have been managing logistically without fully feeling. The relationship that ended and that you have been too busy to actually grieve because the kids needed you and the school year needed you and now it is June and you are standing in your kitchen at ten in the morning with nowhere to be and everything to feel. Summer does not cause the grief. It just removes the structure that was keeping it at arm’s length. The Overscheduled Summer and What It Costs One of the most common responses to the pressure of summer is to fill it. Camp registrations, activities, road trips, social plans, projects, the list of everything you were going to do when you finally had more time. The overscheduled summer is its own form of grief-rushing. Keep moving, stay busy, take advantage of the season, do not stop long enough to notice what is actually happening underneath all of it. This is the Slow Down pillar showing up in seasonal form. The urgency to optimize summer, to make it count, to not waste a single sunny day, is the same urgency that drives grief-rushing in every other context. It makes complete sense. The discomfort of slowing down is real. The weight of what might surface if you stop is real. And the cultural message that summer should feel a certain way makes it even harder to give yourself permission to just be in it without performing enjoyment. For parents, the guilt layer adds enormous weight. Screen time guilt. Not-enough-outside guilt. Not-making-enough-memories guilt. Too-much-work guilt. The sense that you are somehow squandering the season for your children by not being sufficiently present or sufficiently fun or sufficiently unburdened by whatever you are actually carrying. That guilt is heavy. And it lives right on top of the grief. A brief note here for anyone whose body makes summer harder rather than easier. Extreme heat is not neutral for everyone. For people managing chronic illness, heart conditions, autoimmune issues, or nervous system dysregulation, high temperatures can meaningfully impact capacity, irritability, and the ability to keep pace with the season’s demands. If summer leaves you more depleted rather than more energized, that is not a personal failing. It is physiology. And it deserves to be named as part of what makes this season complicated for you, not hidden or apologized for. Slowing down in summer looks like being honest about what you actually have capacity for. It looks like letting some of the plans be smaller than you imagined. It looks like giving yourself permission to have a quiet day in the middle of a season that insists on being loud. Tracking the Losses That Summer Surfaces Summer is a particularly rich season for secondary losses, the ones hiding inside the transitions. When a child leaves for college, the primary loss is obvious. They are gone. But underneath that is the loss of your daily role as their active, present parent. The loss of the routines that organized your household around their schedule. The loss of the version of yourself that existed in relationship to who they were at this stage. The loss of the future you imagined for the years ahead that is now reorganizing itself into something different. None of those get a ceremony. They just quietly arrive alongside the pride and the excitement and the love. When school ends for the summer, what also ends is the structure that gave your days meaning and predictability. For children and adults alike, routine is not just logistical. It is psychological. It tells us who we are and where we belong and what happens next. When summer dissolves that structure, the disorientation is real, even when the freedom is welcome. The economic grief of summer is real too and almost never named as grief. The pressure of feeding kids three meals a day instead of relying on school lunches. The cost of camps and activities and the guilt if you cannot afford them. The food scarcity that summer creates for families who depend on school meal programs. These are losses of security, of predictability, of the ability to provide in the way you want to. They deserve to be tracked and named and held with as much care as any other loss. And then there is the identity grief of summer transitions. The person who just retired and is facing their first summer without the structure of work. The new graduate who is in between chapters and not sure who they are outside of the student identity they have held for years. The parent whose last child just left home and who is standing in a suddenly quiet house in July wondering what this season means now. All of this is grief. All of it deserves space. Holding Complexity When the Season Says Choose Summer is particularly bad at allowing complexity. The cultural script is binary. You are either having a great summer or you are wasting it. You are present with your kids or you are on your phone. You are enjoying the weather or you are ungrateful. You are over your grief or you are stuck. Allow Complexity is the pillar that pushes back on all of that. You can love summer and find it exhausting. You can be genuinely grateful for the sunshine and also struggling in ways that have nothing to do with the weather. You can be proud of your child for leaving and also devastated that they are gone. You can be relieved school is out and also completely depleted by the loss of structure. You can be present with your family and also carrying something heavy that has nothing to do with them. You can be grieving a death in the middle of a season that insists on being festive. All of those things can be true at the same time and none of them cancel any of the others out. The grief of someone who is in the middle of bereavement does not take a summer vacation. It just has to compete with everyone else’s good moods and outdoor plans and the collective cultural pressure to match the energy of the season. That is genuinely hard. And the most grief-informed thing the people around a grieving person can do in summer is the same thing they should do in any season, stop assuming the good weather means things are easier, and ask how it is actually going. For those of you carrying grief right now in the middle of what is supposed to be the good part of the year, I want you to know something. Your grief is not a failure to appreciate the season. It is not ingratitude. It is not a bad attitude. It is a real and significant human experience that deserves space even when the sun is out. Especially when the sun is out and everyone around you seems to be doing fine. Yielding to What Summer Actually Needs From You The fourth pillar, Yield to the Moment, is maybe the most important one for navigating a season this loaded with expectation and transition and grief. Yielding to the moment in summer might look like canceling the beach day because someone in the family is having a hard time and needs presence more than an outing. It might look like sitting with your kid who just moved into their dorm on FaceTime for an hour instead of checking things off the post-drop-off to-do list. It might look like letting the summer plans be smaller and quieter than you imagined because that is what this particular summer actually needs. It might also look like giving yourself permission to grieve the summer you wanted and are not having. The one where everyone was healthy and present and the season felt light. The one where the loss hadn’t happened yet or the diagnosis wasn’t part of the picture or the finances weren’t this tight. That summer exists somewhere and it is okay to grieve its absence while still finding moments of real goodness in the one you are actually in. Yielding to the moment means following what the season is actually asking of you rather than the season you planned for. It means being willing to let summer be what it is, complicated and beautiful and full of endings and sometimes really hard, rather than forcing it into the shape of what it was supposed to be. Some summers are hard. That is allowed. You are allowed to have a hard summer. You are allowed to grieve in June and July and August. You are allowed to let the season hold all of it, the joy and the loss and the pressure and the transitions and the quiet exhaustion of a life that keeps asking you to keep going. You do not have to earn the sunshine. You just have to find your way through the season you are actually in. That is enough. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

3. 

   8 Jun 2026

   The Invisible Losses We Never Grieve

   There is a particular kind of grief that arrives without a ritual. No funeral. No casserole. No bereavement leave. No sympathy card. No moment where the people around you pause what they are doing and acknowledge that something significant has happened to you. This grief shows up quietly, often without a name, and it lives in the body alongside everything else you are expected to keep doing. It does not get a container. It just accumulates. This is the grief most people are actually carrying. Not the clean loss with a ceremony attached to it, but the invisible one. The one that happened slowly, or ambiguously, or inside a body, or in the space between who you used to be and who you are now. The one that, when you try to explain it, sounds like something other than grief. It is grief. All of it. And it deserves to be named. What Ambiguous Loss Is and Why It Is So Hard to Grieve Pauline Boss, who spent decades researching loss that doesn’t fit the conventional model, introduced the concept of ambiguous loss to describe exactly this. Loss without closure. Loss without a clear ending. Loss that exists in a kind of permanent in-between where the grieving person cannot fully mourn because the loss itself has never been fully confirmed or resolved. Ambiguous loss comes in two primary forms. The first is when someone is physically absent but psychologically present. The missing person whose fate is unknown. The estranged family member who is still alive but no longer part of your life. The parent with dementia who is in the room but not really there. You cannot grieve them fully because they have not fully gone. And you cannot stop grieving them because they are not really here. The second form is when someone is physically present but psychologically absent. The partner whose depression has taken them somewhere unreachable. The parent who is alive but emotionally unavailable in the ways that matter. The child whose development has shifted in ways that require you to grieve the future you imagined for them while still loving and caring for the child who is right in front of you. The loss is real. The person is not gone. And yet. What makes ambiguous loss so hard to grieve is that it does not trigger the social support systems that conventional loss does. There is no moment that signals to the people around you that you need support. There is no acknowledged ending point. There is no script for what you are supposed to do next. And so most people who are carrying ambiguous loss carry it largely alone, unsure whether what they are feeling even counts as grief, quietly wondering why it is so hard to move forward from something that technically never ended. It counts. It is grief. And the reason it is hard to move forward is that ambiguous loss does not resolve the way death does. It requires a different kind of integration, one that makes peace with the not-knowing rather than waiting for an ending that may never come. The Grief Inside Chronic Illness Chronic illness is one of the most grief-dense experiences a person can have. And it is almost never framed that way. When someone receives a significant diagnosis, the immediate conversation is medical. What is happening, what are the treatment options, what is the prognosis. Those are necessary conversations. And running alongside them, and often going completely unaddressed, is a grief process that is just as significant and just as real. There is the loss of the body you had before. The body that moved differently, that had more energy, that did not require fifteen medications or careful temperature regulation or strategic rest. That body is gone and there is no funeral for it. There is the loss of the future you planned. The things you assumed you would be able to do, the pace at which you assumed you would be able to do them, the version of your life that did not have to account for what your body now requires. Future loss is grief for something that never even happened, and it is completely real. There is the loss of identity. Who am I now that I am no longer the person who could do all of those things? Who am I now that my body has changed the terms on me in ways I did not choose and cannot fully control? Identity loss is one of the most disorienting grief experiences there is, and chronic illness delivers it quietly, continuously, without announcement. And there is the loss of invisibility. The strange grief of having something significant happening inside you that nobody around you can see. Of looking fine while not being fine. Of having good days that make people forget, including sometimes yourself, that the hard days are real and coming. Of worrying that your needs are too much, your limits are inconvenient, your pace is a disappointment. I know this grief personally. I was diagnosed with postpartum cardiomyopathy in 2021. My heart was functioning at ten percent of its normal capacity and I was still putting pressure on myself to perform as though nothing had changed. The medical crisis eventually got treated. The grief took much longer to name. And it is still present, in different forms, on different days, as a part of how I move through my life and my work. The grief of chronic illness does not end when the acute phase does. It integrates. It becomes part of how you understand yourself and what you are navigating. And it deserves the same care and language and witnessing that any other significant loss does. Reproductive Loss and Identity Grief Reproductive loss is one of the most undertreated grief experiences in clinical practice. Not because clinicians don’t care, but because the cultural framework around it is so thin. Miscarriage is still treated, in many medical and social contexts, as a complication rather than a loss. The grief that follows is real and significant, and it often goes largely unwitnessed because the loss happened before anyone outside the immediate family knew about the pregnancy. There is no ceremony. There is often no acknowledgment. And the griever is expected to recover privately and move forward on a timeline that has nothing to do with what they are actually experiencing. Infertility is a different but equally significant form of reproductive grief. It is grief for something that never existed, which makes it one of the hardest losses to hold. You are mourning a future, a family, a version of your life that you wanted and cannot have. And because there is no discrete moment of loss, no clear before and after, the grief often has nowhere to land. It accumulates across every treatment cycle, every negative test, every baby shower invitation that arrives in the mailbox. The identity grief inside reproductive loss is enormous and rarely named. The grief of not becoming a parent when you deeply wanted to. The grief of a pregnancy that changed your identity and then ended before anyone else had fully registered that change. The grief of a body that did not do what you expected it to do, and the complicated feelings that come with that, the anger and the guilt and the sense of betrayal that often go unspoken because they are hard to articulate and harder still to be witnessed. What these losses share is the absence of social permission to grieve them fully. The cultural script says: keep trying, stay positive, it will happen, at least you know you can get pregnant, at least you have other children. All of those sentences, however well-intentioned, are small disenfranchisements. They tell the griever that what they are carrying is not quite the right kind of grief. That it needs to be managed rather than witnessed. It is the right kind of grief. All of it. The Grief of What Never Was There is another category of invisible loss that does not get nearly enough attention. The grief for things that never happened at all. The childhood you deserved and did not have. The relationship with a parent that was never what you needed it to be. The version of your family that existed only in your imagination. The career you wanted and never got to pursue. The version of yourself that might have existed if things had gone differently. This is grief for an absence rather than a presence. And it is some of the most complicated grief there is, because there is nothing concrete to point to. Nothing that existed and was lost. Just the ongoing weight of what never came to be. Neimeyer’s work on meaning reconstruction helps us understand why this kind of grief is so persistent. When we lose something that existed, we can at least hold memories, rituals, objects that anchor the grief to something real. When we grieve something that never existed, we are mourning an absence that was always abstract. The grief is real. The loss is real. But there is nothing to hold onto while you process it, which is part of what makes it so hard to integrate. Identity grief lives here too. The grief of not becoming who you expected to become. Of reaching a point in your life where it becomes clear that certain versions of yourself are no longer possible. Of having to revise your sense of who you are and where you are going in ways you did not choose. This is grief. It deserves to be treated as such. How Naming a Loss Changes the Experience of It Here is what I have seen happen, over and over, in clinical work and in the broader conversation about grief. When someone finally gets a name for what they are carrying, something shifts. Not because the name fixes anything. It does not. The loss is still there. The grief is still real. But the name does something that silence cannot. It makes the loss visible. It tells the nervous system that what happened was real and significant enough to have language. It gives the griever something to point to when someone asks how they are doing and they have never been able to explain it. I am grieving my diagnosis. I am carrying ambiguous loss around my relationship with my father. I am grieving the family I imagined and did not get to have. I am grieving the version of myself that existed before this happened to me. Those sentences do not resolve anything. And they do something profound. They take a diffuse, unnamed weight and give it a shape. And grief that has a shape can be held, can be worked with, can be witnessed by the people around you in a way that unnamed grief cannot. This is what tracking the loss actually means in practice. Not just identifying the primary loss, the obvious one, the one that gets acknowledged. And going all the way down into the constellation of losses that live inside it. The invisible ones. The ones without ceremonies. The ones that never got a name until right now. Name them. All of them. Not to make yourself feel worse, but to finally see the full weight of what you have been carrying and give yourself the dignity of acknowledging it. Grief that is named can be held. Grief that goes unnamed just keeps showing up in ways we don’t recognize and can’t explain. You deserve better than that. References Boss, P. (1999). Ambiguous loss: Learning to live with unresolved grief. Harvard University Press. Doka, K. J. (2002). Disenfranchised grief: New directions, challenges, and strategies for practice. Research Press. Neimeyer, R. A. (2001). Meaning reconstruction and the experience of loss. American Psychological Association. Shear, M. K. (2015). Complicated grief. The New England Journal of Medicine, 372(2), 153–160. Worden, J. W. (2009). Grief counseling and grief therapy: A handbook for the mental health practitioner (4th ed.). Springer Publishing. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

4. 

   4 Jun 2026

   What My Heart Taught Me About Grief

   I want to tell you something I don’t talk about very often. I am living in heart failure. Right now, today, as I write this. My ejection fraction sits around 38%. I take fifteen pills a day. I struggle to regulate my body temperature in the heat. By the end of most days I am genuinely exhausted in a way that doesn’t fully resolve with sleep. And if you passed me on the street, you would have absolutely no idea. That invisibility is its own particular grief. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The Night I Thought It Was Anxiety I was ten weeks postpartum when I stopped being able to sleep. Not new-baby-not-sleeping. Something different. Two nights in a row where I could feel my entire heartbeat vibrating through my body. I was a psychologist. I knew what anxiety felt like. I told myself that was what this was. After the second night, I told my partner I needed to go to the ER. Something was off in a way I couldn’t talk myself out of. I still remember sitting in a semi-private curtained area, trying to pump while waiting to find out why breathing had started to feel like work. They ran some tests. They gave me morphine. They sent me home. I watched the show The Pitt(absolutely obsessed with it), there is a scene near the end of season two, where EMS folks place EKG leads incorrectly because of breast tissue and miss what is actually happening to a woman who is right there in front of them. I watched that scene and felt it in my whole body. Because I have lived that. They ER people sent me home. The morphine let me sleep and made me throw up. The symptoms were still there. “It was probably just postpartum.” They told me to follow up with an internal medicine doctor. My partner scheduled that appointment for Thursday. And I want to take a moment to say something about Dr. Rahmen, because she deserves it. She had seen these symptoms before. She looked at my EKG, told me it was abnormal, told me I might be in heart failure, and said I needed an echocardiogram as soon as possible. I remember sitting in the car in the parking lot of a Jamba Juice after that appointment (because it was the only thing that sounded good) calling to schedule the echo. When the scheduler asked how soon I’d like to come in, I told her, “as soon as you can tell me if I’m dying or not”. She had a cancellation for Saturday at one. I took it. My partner drove me to the same hospital that had sent me home the weekend before. He had to wait in the car because of COVID. I walked in alone. My ejection fraction was at 10%. For context, a healthy heart pumps at somewhere between 60 and 65 percent. The echocardiogram technician asked if I was planning to stay to talk to the doctor. Something in his tone made me say yes. The doctor told me I needed to go to the emergency room immediately, that I didn’t have two to four weeks to wait for a cardiology appointment. I asked if I would have to walk or if I could get a wheelchair, because I was so short of breath and I had already walked the entire length of the building to get there because the elevator was broken. I was admitted for five days. No visitors, again because of COVID. A four year old and an eleven week old at home. I lost twenty pounds of fluid over those five days because my heart had not been able to remove it on its own. I was also in the middle of a thyroid storm. My body was in crisis in almost every measurable way. And then I was discharged. And thus began my education in what it actually means to live inside a grief that has no name and no finish line. The Person I Used to Be I have always been someone who gives everything. One hundred and fifty percent, minimum. I overcommit because for most of my life I genuinely had the capacity to handle it. Multiple projects, multiple groups, multiple responsibilities running simultaneously. I was tired sometimes, stretched thin sometimes, but I could manage it. I always could. The first time that changed was when my brother died. My brain felt jumbled in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I couldn’t move at the same speed. Things that had always come easily suddenly required more from me than I had. Grief did that. My brother’s death is also the reason I became a psychologist, the reason grief became not just my specialty but my life’s focus, the reason the STAY framework exists at all. Eventually, I found my footing again after his death. I picked the pace back up. Then came my diagnosis. And this time the change was not temporary. I had to learn, slowly and against every instinct I had, how to say no to things that previously would have been an automatic yes. I had to learn to ask for help in a way that felt completely foreign to someone who had spent her whole life being hyperindependent. I had a partner and a family who showed up in ways I will be forever grateful for. And I had to let them. Which, for me, was its own kind of loss. The grief of a chronic illness diagnosis is not a single moment. It is a continuous recalibration. Who am I now that I can’t operate the way I used to? What does it mean that my body has changed the terms on me, not temporarily but permanently? How do I hold the person I was alongside the person I am now, knowing they are not the same and never fully will be again? I think about this a lot. I live in it every day. S: Slow Down This is the pillar I have the hardest relationship with. Personally, professionally, all of it. I love to go. Movement feels productive. When I am moving I am not sitting with the daily awareness of what is happening inside my body, the reality of a heart that is working harder than it should to do things that used to cost nothing. If I just keep going, I can outpace the discomfort. I can focus on the project, the client, the next thing, the thing after that. What I have learned, in my body more than anywhere else, is that outpacing the discomfort does not make it go away. It just means it accumulates until my body stops letting me ignore it. And my body has gotten very good at making sure I cannot ignore it. Slowing down for me is an act of surrender that I have to choose over and over again. It is closing the laptop when I have more in me to give because I know what tomorrow will cost if I don’t. It is canceling something I wanted to do because my body needs rest more than I need to show up. It is letting the discomfort of being slower, less productive, less present than I want to be actually land instead of running past it. It is also an invitation I try to extend to the people around me. When someone shares something hard, a diagnosis, a loss, a thing they are carrying, we do not have to rush to fix it for them. We can slow down, be in the discomfort together, and let that be enough. Most of the time it is more than enough. T: Track the Loss The secondary losses of a chronic illness diagnosis are enormous and they accumulate quietly and daily. There is the stamina I don’t have anymore. The projects I have to pace differently than I want to. The relationships I cannot maintain at the frequency I would choose because I simply do not have enough energy left at the end of a day that has already taken everything. There are the pit stops my family has learned to build into every outing because of my medications and their side effects, a small logistics adjustment that is also a constant, quiet reminder that things are different now. And then there is the thing I don’t say out loud very much. I know I will need a heart transplant at some point. I have done the research. I have sat with the question of whether I will be there for my kids’ graduations and I have had to find a way to live inside that uncertainty without letting it swallow everything else. Tracking the loss means naming all of it. Not just the diagnosis but everything it has reorganized, everything it has taken, everything it asks of me and the people I love every single day. When I actually look at the full weight of what I am carrying, two things happen. It feels heavier for a moment. And then I stop wondering why I am tired. You are not carrying too much. You are carrying a lot. And you have probably never counted all of it. A: Allow Complexity This is the pillar I feel most at home in, maybe because chronic illness has forced me to live there whether I wanted to or not. I am angry about this diagnosis and I am grateful they eventually figured out what was wrong. I have good days and hard days and sometimes both within the same hour. I have this strange, specific window into what it means to live with invisible suffering, and I would not trade the insight it has given me for my work, and I would also give it back in a heartbeat if I could. I have a cousin who also lives with a chronic illness. We have a running text thread and sometimes, out of nowhere, one of us will send the other just two words: “tits up”. It means today is a rough symptom day. It means I’m in it. It means you don’t have to explain anything. And every single time it makes me smile and reminds me that I am not alone in something that can feel profoundly isolating. The complexity I sit with most, if I’m being honest, is the invisibility of it. Because my symptoms are not loud, because I look fine, it is easy for the people around me to forget that this is happening inside me all the time. And so when I have a hard day after a stretch of good days, there is this pull to apologize for it, to feel like I am being a bother, to minimize what is real because the contrast is confusing to others. I am working on that. Reminding myself, the same way I remind my clients, that complexity does not require an explanation. Both things can be true. The good days and the hard days. The gratitude and the grief. You do not have to choose one to justify the other. Y: Yield to the Moment This is the muscle I feel most confident in and I think it came directly from loss. When grief shows up, in a session, in a conversation, in my own body on a day when I have a full calendar and zero capacity, I have learned to throw the agenda out the window. Not reluctantly. Genuinely. Because I have sat with enough grief, my own and other people’s, to know that the moment in front of you is almost always more important than the plan you made for it. When someone starts to cry in the middle of a conversation that was supposed to be about something else, I want to be the person who says, we have time, this matters, you don’t have to apologize. Because we spend so much of our lives moving through to-do lists that we forget to be human together. Connection over pain is not a detour from the real work. It is the real work. Yielding to the moment also looks like listening to my body when it tells me that what I planned is not what today can hold. That is still hard. But it has become one of the most important things I know how to do. What I Want You to Know I am telling you all of this not because my story is the point. It isn’t. The point is that grief shows up in all kinds of bodies and all kinds of lives in ways that are invisible to almost everyone around us and sometimes even to ourselves. I built the STAY framework because I believed, and still believe, that we need a different way of being with grief. One that does not rush toward resolution or demand that loss make sense on a timeline. One that makes room for the full, complicated, nonlinear reality of what it means to carry something hard and keep living anyway. I also built it because I needed it. I still need it. Every single day. There is grief and embarrassment in admitting that things don’t get done at the same speed and frequency and consistency that they used to. I worry sometimes that people think I am a flake, inconsistent, unreliable. When the reality is that I am living in heart failure. It takes everything I have, every day. And some days I have to prioritize rest because my body tells me in no uncertain terms that there is no other option. If you are living with something invisible, something that costs you more than people can see, something that has changed the terms of your life in ways you are still grieving, I want you to know that I see it. Even from here. Especially from here. You are not a flake. You are not inconsistent or lazy or difficult. You are living in something real. And that deserves to be named. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

5. 

   1 Jun 2026

   You Can't Slow Down If You Don't Know You're Moving Too Fast

   When we talk about slowing down in grief, most people picture the same thing. Someone who is moving too fast. Cleaning out closets three days after a loss. Making major decisions before the shock has even lifted. Staying relentlessly busy because stillness feels unbearable. That is one kind of grief. It is real and it is common. But it is not the only way grief shows up. Some grievers don’t speed up at all. They go quiet. Their inside stops. They move through their days looking functional, maybe even fine, but there is a flatness underneath it, a kind of numbness that isn’t peace. They are not rushing. They are frozen. And frozen grief, because it doesn’t look like distress from the outside, often goes completely unrecognized, even by the person experiencing it. Both of these are grief responses. Both of them are the nervous system doing exactly what it was designed to do in the presence of overwhelming pain. And both of them, in their own very different ways, need the same thing. To slow down and actually be with what is there. The first pillar of the STAY framework is Slow Down. Not as a one-size instruction. As an orientation toward presence that looks different depending on where you are starting from. Two Ways the Nervous System Responds to Loss Stephen Porges’ polyvagal theory gives us a really useful map here. When our nervous system registers threat, which is exactly what loss is, it has two primary protective responses. The first is sympathetic activation. Fight or flight. This is the grief that speeds up. The closet cleaning, the planning, the relentless forward motion, the inability to sit still. The nervous system is mobilized and it is looking for a way out of the pain. The second is dorsal vagal shutdown. Freeze. This is the grief that goes quiet. The numbness, the flatness, the sense of going through the motions without really being inside your own life. The nervous system has assessed the threat as too overwhelming to fight or flee from, so it does what it does under extreme stress. It disconnects. It conserves. It goes somewhere else. Neither of these responses is wrong. Neither of them is a failure of grief. They are both the body trying to protect you from something that feels unsurvivable. The problem is that in both states, the window for actual grief processing is closed. You cannot integrate a loss from inside fight or flight. You cannot integrate it from inside a freeze either. Processing requires a regulated nervous system, one that feels safe enough to actually be present with what is real. This is why slowing down matters. Not to force feeling, and not to perform stillness, but to create the neurological conditions in which grief can actually do what it needs to do. What Rushing Looks Like The rusher is usually easier to spot. They are the one who had the whole house reorganized within a week. Who went back to work immediately because being at home was too hard. Who is already thinking about what comes next because sitting inside what is now feels impossible. Underneath the speed is almost always discomfort that has nowhere safe to land. The grief is real and it is right there, but the nervous system has decided that movement is safer than stillness. And so the person keeps moving. They make decisions that probably shouldn’t be made yet. They stay busy in ways that feel productive but are actually just distance. And six months later, when the busyness finally runs out, they are blindsided by how much is still there waiting for them. George Bonanno’s research on grief trajectories is clear on this. What looks like resilience in the early weeks is not always integration. Sometimes it is velocity. And velocity in grief has a cost that shows up later, when the system finally runs out of road. Slowing down for the rusher means interrupting the motion. It means noticing the urge to do the next thing and pausing, even briefly, before acting on it. It means creating small pockets of stillness where the grief has permission to surface, not all at once, but incrementally, in doses the nervous system can actually tolerate. What Freezing Looks Like The freezer is harder to recognize, including from the inside. They are often described by the people around them as doing really well. They are functioning. They are showing up. They are not falling apart in the ways anyone expected. But ask them what they are feeling and they will often say something like nothing. Or numb. Or like they are watching their own life from behind glass. They know the loss happened. They can talk about it factually. But the emotional reality of it hasn’t fully arrived yet, and a part of them is quietly relieved about that, and quietly terrified of what it will feel like when it does. Dorsal shutdown is the nervous system’s most extreme protective response. It kicks in when a threat feels too big to fight or flee from. And for some losses, that is exactly what it is. The death of a child. A sudden traumatic loss. A grief that lands on top of other griefs that were never fully processed. The system looks at what has happened and says, not yet. And it goes somewhere safer until there is enough support and enough safety for the full weight of it to come through. Slowing down for the freezer does not mean speeding up feeling. It means gently, carefully, with enough relational support around them, beginning to thaw. It means creating enough safety that the nervous system starts to believe it can come back online. It means small steps back toward presence, toward the body, toward connection, rather than pushing through the numbness or waiting for it to lift on its own. When We Rush or Freeze Someone Else’s Grief Here is the part that is hard to sit with. We do this to each other too. When someone we love is grieving, our own nervous system activates alongside theirs. Grief is contagious in that way, not as a pathology but as a function of how deeply we are wired for connection. We feel something of what they are feeling. And depending on our own nervous system’s patterns, our own history with loss, our own capacity for discomfort, we respond in one of those same two ways. We rush, filling the silence with silver linings and solutions. Or we freeze, going a little distant, a little unavailable, not because we don’t care but because we don’t have the capacity to stay present with something this heavy. Discomfort tolerance is one of the most underappreciated skills in grief support. And building it is not about being fearless in the face of someone else’s pain. It is about learning to regulate yourself enough to stay in the room. This is co-regulation in practice. Deb Dana’s work translating polyvagal theory into clinical application describes how our nervous systems are in constant conversation with one another. When you regulate yourself, when you slow your breathing, soften your own urgency, and stay present without rushing toward resolution or going quiet with discomfort, you are offering your nervous system as a resource for theirs. A regulated presence is one of the most genuinely therapeutic things one human being can offer another. It does not require the right words. It requires staying. What Collective Grief-Rushing and Freezing Looks Like Families do both of these things. Some families mobilize after a loss. They handle the logistics with remarkable efficiency and keep moving forward and never quite stop long enough to ask how anyone is actually doing. Other families go quiet. The loss becomes the thing nobody talks about. The grief gets frozen into the relational system itself, showing up years later as distance or disconnection or topics that cannot be touched. Workplaces almost universally rush. Bereavement leave that caps grief at three to five days. An expectation of full capacity within weeks. A cultural premium on resilience that leaves no room for the reality that a grieving employee is carrying something significant that does not resolve on a schedule. Research by Schuurman and Mitchell on grief-informed organizational practice describes how profoundly under-resourced most workplaces are when it comes to supporting people through loss. The cost is not just human. It is organizational. Grief that goes unaddressed does not disappear. It shows up in engagement, in relationships, in the quiet accumulation of people who are functioning but not really present. The 60-Second Pause Here is a simple practice that works for both the rusher and the freezer, just in different directions. When you notice the urge to do the next thing, to fill the silence, to fix something or move toward a solution, pause. Sixty seconds. Notice what is happening in your body. Is there urgency? Tightness? A pull toward action? Just notice it without doing anything about it. That noticing, that moment of awareness before the automatic response kicks in, is already the beginning of slowing down. If you are more likely to freeze, the sixty seconds looks a little different. When you notice the flatness, the numbness, the sense of being behind glass, pause there too. Not to force feeling, but to gently orient toward what is present. Can you feel your feet on the floor? The temperature of the air? A single sensation in your body that is real and here right now? You are not trying to crack yourself open. You are just taking one small step back toward presence. For supporting someone else: after the sixty seconds, instead of offering a solution or going quiet with your own discomfort, try saying simply, I’m here. Tell me more. And then stay. Let the silence be part of the support rather than something to be corrected. Orienting Toward Presence Grief does not show up the same way for everyone. Some people speed up. Some people go still. Most people do both at different times and in different combinations, rushing in some areas of their life while going numb in others, mobilized at work and frozen at home, or the reverse. What the STAY framework asks is not that we slow down in some universal, prescribed way. It asks that we orient toward presence. That we get curious about which direction we have moved away from our grief and start, gently and with enough support, to find our way back. You cannot slow down if you don’t know you’re moving too fast. And you cannot thaw if you don’t know you’re frozen. But once you know, once you can name what your nervous system is doing and why, you have something to work with. That awareness is not a small thing. It is, in many ways, the whole beginning. References Bonanno, G. A. (2009). The other side of sadness: What the new science of bereavement tells us about life after loss. Basic Books. Dana, D. (2018). The polyvagal theory in therapy: Engaging the rhythm of regulation. W. W. Norton & Company. Porges, S. W. (2011). The polyvagal theory: Neurophysiological foundations of emotions, attachment, communication, self-regulation. W. W. Norton & Company. Schuurman, D. L., & Mitchell, M. B. (2020). Becoming grief-informed: A call to action. Dougy Center: The National Grief Center for Children & Families. Stroebe, M., & Schut, H. (1999). The dual process model of coping with bereavement: Rationale and description. Death Studies, 23(3), 197–224 . This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

6. 

   29 May 2026

   Track the Loss: Why the Grief Nobody Names Is Often the One That Stays Longest

   I hear a version of this almost every week, both in my office and out in the world. Someone is struggling, really struggling, and they say something like, “I don’t know why I’m still so sad. It’s been a year.” Or, “I feel like I should be over this by now.” Or my personal favorite, “It’s not like someone died.” Here is what I have come to understand after more than a decade of clinical work in grief and trauma: loss is never just one thing. It is a constellation. And until we start naming all the stars in that constellation, we have no idea what we are actually carrying. That is why the second pillar of the STAY framework is so important. T is for Track the Loss. Today, we are going to get into all of it. What Are Secondary Losses? When something significant happens, we tend to identify the primary loss and stop there. A person dies. A job ends. A diagnosis arrives. A relationship breaks. But underneath that primary loss is an entire ecosystem of other losses that are quietly dismantling your life at the same time. And because nobody names them, because there is no ritual or acknowledgement or language for them, they often go untracked, unwitnessed, and they accumulate. Consider a divorce. On paper, it is one event. In reality, it can be the loss of a partner, the loss of a shared home, the loss of an in-law family you genuinely loved, the loss of financial stability, the loss of weekly routines, the loss of your sense of future, the loss of mutual friendships, and the loss of who you understood yourself to be inside that relationship. That is not one loss. That is seven, at minimum. When we only track the headline loss, we end up confused about why we feel as heavy as we do. We start to pathologize our own grief. We wonder why we cannot get over it. The truth is, we are not stuck. We are carrying far more than we have given ourselves permission to name. The Most Common Secondary Losses Let me walk you through some of the most common categories of secondary loss. I want you to read this slowly, because I want you to hear yourself in this list. Identity Loss When we lose someone or something significant, we often lose a version of ourselves at the same time. These are not just role changes. They are identity earthquakes. Who am I now that I am no longer that person’s person? Who am I now that I no longer do that work? Who am I if I am not the caregiver, the partner, the employee, the patient who was healthy? Role Loss Closely related but distinct, role loss shows up in the caregiver who spent years organizing their entire life around someone else’s needs and suddenly has no one to care for. It shows up in the manager who loses their team in a restructure. It shows up in the friend group that dissolves after a divorce, when you are not sure which friendships were actually yours to begin with. These roles gave our days shape and meaning and purpose. When they disappear, the absence is disorienting in ways that are hard to articulate. Routine and Rhythm Loss Grief absolutely demolishes routine. The morning coffee you made for two. The weekly dinner. The text you sent every day at lunch. The commute you complained about, but that secretly gave you thirty minutes of alone time to listen to your audiobook. Getting in the car and automatically calling your mom. Routines are how we organize time and meaning. When loss disrupts them, the day itself can feel structureless and strange. Future Loss This is one of the most overlooked categories, and one of the most painful. We do not just grieve what was. We grieve what was supposed to be. The retirement you were going to take together. The grandchildren you imagined holding. The version of your career that was already mapped out. The next chapter that no longer exists. Relational Loss Sometimes a loss reshapes every relationship around it. Friends who do not know what to say and disappear. Family dynamics that shift and crack under the weight of shared grief. A partnership that cannot survive what just happened. The social identity that came with a job, a community, or a faith tradition. Loss of the Assumed World This is a big one. Psychologists sometimes call this the shattered assumptions framework. It is the loss of the belief system you had been operating from. The belief that bad things happen to other people. The belief that hard work protects you. The belief that your body is reliable. The belief that the future is something you can plan. When that belief structure cracks, everything underneath it has to be rebuilt. That rebuilding is grief work, even when nothing visible has changed on the outside. What Tracking the Loss Looks Like in Real Life Tracking secondary loss can sound clinical until you see it in your own life. Let me make it concrete. In the Therapy Office A client comes in six months after losing their father. They are frustrated with themselves. They feel stuck. When we start tracking the losses together, what surfaces is that they did not just lose their dad. They lost the person who called every Sunday. They lost the family historian. They lost the role of being someone’s child. They lost the future birthdays, weddings, and small daily updates. They lost the parent they were still hoping to repair things with. Once we named some of those, the stuckness made complete sense. They were not grieving too much. They were grieving a lot of things at once, without knowing it. At Work Someone loses their job. The obvious loss is the paycheck. But underneath that, they lost their daily structure. They lost their work friendships, which were some of their closest relationships. They lost confidence in their own stability and security. They lost the future and the momentum they were building toward. A manager who understands secondary loss does not just offer a severance package. They acknowledge that what just happened is a genuine grief event that deserves real support. A simple shift in language matters here. Instead of stopping at, “I am so sorry, that is really hard,” try asking, “What are you most worried about?” That question opens a door that condolences alone do not reach. In Partnerships and Friendships A miscarriage. An infertility diagnosis. A chronic illness that changes the terms of a relationship. These are losses on their own, but inside of them are secondary losses for each person individually and for the relationship itself. The future family that existed in the imagination. The spontaneity that chronic illness can take away. The equality of health that a diagnosis disrupts. Tracking those losses together, naming them out loud, can be one of the most connecting and validating things two people can do in the middle of shared grief. Cumulative Grief: When Loss Compounds Here is something that does not get talked about enough. Loss accumulates. It compounds. And when it does, we are not just grieving the most recent thing. We are grieving everything. This is why sometimes a seemingly small loss hits harder than anyone around us understands. The death of a pet that reopens a decade of losses. The end of a friendship that carries the weight of every relationship that did not make it. The retirement that surfaces every identity shift that came before it. Cumulative grief is real. It is one of the reasons tracking loss matters so much. When we can see the full picture, we are looking at the whole human. When we can name everything we are actually carrying, we stop pathologizing our own pain. We stop wondering why we cannot get over it. We start to understand that we are not broken. We are just carrying a lot. And we have probably been carrying it for longer than anyone knew. A Practical Exercise: Tracking Your Own Loss Before we close, I want to give you something practical. This is a simple exercise I use with clients that you can do right now, wherever you are. Think about a loss you are carrying. It does not have to be the biggest one. It can be recent or something you have been living with for a while. Now gently ask yourself these questions: * What did I lose directly? This is the primary loss. * What did I lose as a result? * What role did I lose? * What routine? * What version of myself? * What future did I lose? * What relationships shifted or disappeared? * What did I lose in terms of my sense of safety or how I understand the world? Write it down if you can. Not to make yourself feel worse, but to finally give every piece of what you are carrying a name. There is something that happens when we see it on paper. When it is externalized, when we name the grief outside of ourselves, it becomes easier to hold. Grief that goes unnamed just keeps showing up in ways we do not recognize and cannot explain. There is real freedom in putting it on the page. Why This Matters Tracking the loss is how we stop minimizing our own grief. It is how we start seeing the full weight of what we are carrying, and how we offer ourselves and the people we love the dignity of acknowledging it all. This is the heart of the STAY framework. We do not rush. We do not fix. We do not pathologize. We slow down, we track what is actually here, and we make room for the truth that loss is rarely ever just one thing. If today resonated, hit subscribe so you don’t miss it. And if you know someone who is tired of being told to “stay strong,” send this their way. I hope you STAY, Dr. Heather Taylor P.S. In the Washington area and curious about working together? Book a consultation HERE (https://griefisthenewnormal.com/therapeutic-services/). P.P.S. You are receiving this Substack post because you subscribed to my mailing list. If you wish to no longer receive communication from me via Substack, feel free to unsubscribe (and I will miss you). Dr. Heather Taylor is a licensed psychologist, grief expert, and creator of the STAY Framework for Grief Integration. She is the host of the Grief is the New Normal podcast and writes about modern grief, identity, chronic illness, and grief informed leadership. Subscribe to follow the full STAY series. Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Thanks for reading! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

7. 

   27 May 2026

   What If We Stopped Trying to Make Grief Better

   Someone tells you they are grieving. Maybe they say it directly. Maybe it comes out sideways, in a comment about not sleeping well or feeling off or just not being themselves lately. And something in you immediately wants to help. So you say something. You offer the reframe, the silver lining, the name of a therapist, the reminder that they are strong. You say things like “at least” and “they would have wanted you to be happy” and “have you tried getting back to your routine.” You mean every word of it. You are doing the best you can with what you were given. And most of us were given very little when it comes to grief. That is not a personal failure. It is a cultural one. We live in a society that has almost no framework for sitting with loss. We were handed a model that promised grief had stages, that it moved in a direction, that there was an arrival point somewhere on the other side called acceptance. And we absorbed that model so deeply that most of us genuinely believe the goal is to help people move through grief faster. To be useful. To make it better. The problem is that grief does not get better in the way we mean when we say that. It integrates. It changes shape. It asks something of us that our instinct to fix is almost perfectly designed to avoid. And in the gap between what grievers actually need and what we have been taught to offer, a quiet and very common kind of harm gets done. Not because we don’t care. Because we do. We just never learned how to stay with grief. The Fix-It Reflex and Where It Comes From The stages of grief are probably the most widely known psychological framework in the world. Most people can name them. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. What most people don’t know is that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross developed them to describe the emotional experience of people who were dying, not the people left behind. Somewhere along the way, the model got applied to bereavement, flattened into a roadmap, and handed to grievers as though it were a prescription for how loss was supposed to go. Researcher George Bonanno spent decades studying how people actually grieve, and what he found looked almost nothing like the stage model. Grief is far more variable, far more resilient, and far less predictable than the stages suggest. People don’t move through loss in sequence. They oscillate. They have good days inside terrible weeks. They feel fine and then a song comes on and they are completely undone. The model we were given doesn’t account for any of that. But the deeper problem isn’t just that the model is inaccurate. It’s that it created a standard. And when grievers don’t meet that standard, when they are still not okay six months later or they feel relieved instead of devastated or they can’t locate themselves inside the stages at all, they don’t conclude that the model is wrong. They conclude that they are. That they are grieving badly. That something is broken in them. That conclusion is one of the most consistent things I see in clinical work. People don’t come in because grief is destroying them. They come in because they believe they are doing grief wrong. When Helping Becomes Isolating There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from grieving in a room full of people who are trying to help. The griever can feel the discomfort around them. They can see the silver linings being deployed. They understand, often without being able to name it, that their pain is activating something in the people who love them, and that the fastest way to ease the tension is to perform recovery. To say they are doing better. To make their grief a little more manageable for the room. Grief researcher Kenneth Doka introduced the concept of disenfranchised grief to describe losses that society doesn’t openly acknowledge or validate. A miscarriage. The end of a friendship. Losing a job that was wrapped up in your identity. Grieving someone whose death was complicated. These losses don’t get rituals or casseroles or bereavement leave. They often don’t even get named as grief. But disenfranchisement doesn’t only happen at the cultural level. It happens in living rooms and therapy offices and workplaces every time someone’s grief is met with a reframe instead of a witness. Every “at least” is a small act of disenfranchisement. Every “you seem to be doing so well” when someone is not doing well at all. The griever hears the message underneath: your pain is too much. Make it smaller. And they do. Because what other option do they have. What the research on nervous system regulation tells us is that this isn’t just emotionally painful. It is physiologically significant. When we are anxious or uncomfortable, as most people are when sitting with someone in acute grief, our capacity for genuine attunement narrows. We become less able to tolerate silence, less able to hold ambiguity, more driven toward action and resolution. A dysregulated supporter cannot offer a regulated presence. And a griever in the room with someone who is anxious to fix them learns very quickly that this is not a safe place to grieve. What We Lose When Grief Goes Unwitnessed Unprocessed grief has a long tail. Not as a moral failing or a clinical diagnosis, but as a simple reality of what happens when a significant human experience goes consistently unseen. In clinical settings, it shows up in the person who presents with anxiety or low-grade depression years after a loss, with no clear connection made between the two. It shows up in the somatic complaints, the relational difficulties, the chronic sense of something being off without knowing why. When grief doesn’t get witnessed, it doesn’t disappear. It goes sideways. It surfaces in ways that are harder to recognize and harder to address because nobody ever named what started it. In workplaces, the cost is significant and largely invisible. We are, as grief educator Donna Schuurman has argued, profoundly grief-illiterate as organizations. An employee returns from bereavement leave and is expected back at full capacity. A team loses a colleague and gets an email from HR. A restructure wipes out an entire department and the surviving employees are told to focus on moving forward. The grief is real. The organizational response is, almost universally, to treat it as a logistics problem rather than a human one. In relationships, what gets lost is intimacy. When partners, friends, and family members consistently respond to grief with fixing rather than witnessing, the griever learns to grieve alone. And lonely grief is harder grief. Researcher Robert Neimeyer describes grief as a process of meaning reconstruction, the slow work of rebuilding a sense of self and world after significant loss. That work requires relational support. It cannot happen in isolation, and it cannot happen when the people offering support are too uncomfortable to stay present with what is real. What This Actually Looks Like A client came into session eight months after losing her mother. Details changed for privacy, but the shape of her experience is one I have seen many times. She was functioning well by every external measure. She had gone back to work, was showing up for her family, had stopped crying in the ways she expected to be crying. Almost everyone in her life had told her she was handling it so well. She had started to wonder if something was wrong with her. What she hadn’t been able to say to anyone, including herself, was that she was relieved. Her mother’s death had ended a relationship that was complicated and painful, one she had been grieving in various ways for years before her mother actually died. And she was carrying that relief like a shameful secret, because nothing in the cultural script for grief had given her permission to hold both things at once. The loss and the relief. The love and the anger. The sadness and the quiet, guilty sense of release. The fix-it framework had no container for any of that. And so she had been sitting alone with it for eight months, performing the grief that felt acceptable while the actual grief went unnamed and completely unwitnessed. Grief as a Doorway The STAY framework was developed in response to exactly this gap. Not as a replacement for existing grief models, but as an orienting stance. A way of being with grief rather than trying to move people through it. STAY stands for four things. Slow Down, which means reducing urgency and creating space rather than rushing toward solutions. Track the Loss, which means identifying the full weight of what has been lost, including all the secondary losses that live quietly inside the primary one. Allow Complexity, which means holding contradiction and mixed emotion without forcing resolution. And Yield to the Moment, which means responding to what grief is actually asking for right now, not what the plan says should happen. What makes STAY different is not just its content but its underlying premise. Grief is not a detour from a normal life. It is a doorway into a deeper understanding of what mattered, what changed, and who we are becoming in the aftermath of loss. When we rush people through it, we are not helping them heal faster. We are asking them to skip the very process through which integration happens. Psychologist Carl Rogers identified unconditional positive regard and genuine empathic understanding as the conditions that make therapeutic change possible. Decades of grief research have only deepened that finding. What grievers need, above almost everything else, is to feel genuinely witnessed. Not coached. Not reframed. Not managed toward acceptance. Witnessed. That is what STAY is built around. The radical, quietly countercultural idea that the most helpful thing we can do for a grieving person is to stop trying to fix them and learn, instead, how to stay. A Different Kind of Support Another client, a manager, came in struggling in ways he couldn’t quite name. His company had gone through a significant round of layoffs. He had kept his job. He felt embarrassed about struggling because technically, he hadn’t lost anything. When we started tracking the losses together, a whole landscape emerged. The colleagues who had become close friends, gone overnight. The team culture he had spent years building, dismantled in a single afternoon. His own sense of safety inside an organization he had trusted. The leader he thought he was, because he hadn’t been able to protect the people he was responsible for. What he was carrying was grief, real and significant grief, for a loss that had no funeral and no casserole and no language in his workplace for what it actually was. The fix-it response would have been to help him build a plan. To reframe the layoffs as an opportunity, focus on what remained, make meaning out of what had happened. All of that might eventually be useful. But none of it was what he needed in that session. What he needed was for someone to slow down, name everything that had actually been lost, hold the complexity of being both the survivor and the griever, and stay present with the reality that there was no quick path through this. That is what a grief-informed response looks like. Not passive. Not without hope. Just honest enough to start with what is actually true. What We Can Do Differently Grief literacy is not a clinical specialty. It is a human one. And building it doesn’t require a degree or a training program. It starts with a single shift in orientation. Stop asking how to make grief better. Start asking how to be present with it. That means learning to tolerate silence instead of filling it. It means asking “what has this been like for you” instead of immediately offering solutions. It means recognizing that grief shows up in places we don’t expect, in a layoff, a diagnosis, an identity shift, the end of something that never got a name, and responding to all of it with the same care we would offer a loss that comes with a funeral. It means understanding that when someone is grieving, your presence is more valuable than your advice. That sitting with someone in their pain, without trying to fix it or shorten it or make it more comfortable for everyone in the room, is one of the most profound things one human being can offer another. Grief is not a problem. It is not a detour or a malfunction or a phase to be managed toward its conclusion. It is a doorway. And what is on the other side of it, for the griever who has been genuinely witnessed and supported, is not who they were before the loss. It is who they are becoming because of it. We just have to be willing to stay. Dr. Heather Taylor Dr. Heather Taylor is a licensed psychologist, grief expert, and creator of the STAY Framework for Grief Integration. She is the host of the Grief is the New Normal podcast and writes about modern grief, identity, chronic illness, and grief informed leadership. Subscribe to follow the full STAY series. Thanks for reading! This post is public so feel free to share it. Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. References Bonanno, G. A. (2009). The other side of sadness: What the new science of bereavement tells us about life after loss. Basic Books. Doka, K. J. (2002). Disenfranchised grief: New directions, challenges, and strategies for practice. Research Press. Geller, S. M., & Greenberg, L. S. (2012). Therapeutic presence: A mindful approach to effective therapy. American Psychological Association. Neimeyer, R. A. (2001). Meaning reconstruction and the experience of loss. American Psychological Association. Porges, S. W. (2011). The polyvagal theory: Neurophysiological foundations of emotions, attachment, communication, self-regulation. W. W. Norton & Company. Rogers, C. R. (1957). The necessary and sufficient conditions of therapeutic personality change. Journal of Consulting Psychology, 21(2), 95–103. Schuurman, D. L., & Mitchell, M. B. (2020). Becoming grief-informed: A call to action. Dougy Center: The National Grief Center for Children & Families. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

8. 

   25 May 2026

   Why Slowing Down Is the First Skill of Grief (And What Most People Get Wrong)

   Can I tell you what grief panic looks like in real life? It looks like cleaning out a closet three days after a loss because you cannot stand to look at it anymore. It looks like researching “how long does grief last” at two in the morning, doom scrolling on your phone. It looks like making decisions about relationships, jobs, and living situations in the first weeks of a loss because doing something, anything, feels better than sitting inside the weight of what just happened. It looks like trying to calculate exactly how many seconds of silence is supportive versus uncomfortable, at what point you should change the subject, and whether changing the subject means you’re being dismissive. By the time you’ve figured it out, you’ve already started talking about something else, and now you feel terrible about it. It looks like a therapist jumping straight into coping skills because the silence feels too heavy, and they’re not sure what to do either. And honestly, that internal spiral is one of the most human things I’ve ever witnessed. Why We Panic Around Other People’s Grief Most of us were never taught how to be with someone in grief. We were taught to fix things. To make people feel better. To find the silver lining, or the right words, or the perfect thing to say that will somehow make it okay. Grief doesn’t have a right thing to say. There isn’t one. So when someone shares a loss with us, something happens internally. We freeze. We panic a little. We start running through the mental checklist: * Do I ask them to talk about it more? * Do I change the subject? * Do I hug them? * Do I cry? * What if I say the wrong thing? * What if I make it worse? * What if my discomfort makes this about me? In that moment of internal scrambling, we’re actually doing the same thing the grieving person is doing. What Grieving People Actually Need Here’s the thing. Grief isn’t something we can rescue people from. There is no fix. And the moment we release ourselves from the pressure of finding one, something shifts. We can take a breath. We can regulate. We can stop performing helpfulness and just show up. What a grieving person actually needs, more than the right words, more than the perfect response, is to feel like their grief is not too much. Like it doesn’t need to be managed, or minimized, or moved past. Pain needs to be witnessed. It needs to be acknowledged. When we rush through it, or avoid it, or pivot too quickly, the griever feels it. They feel dismissed. They feel like their loss is inconvenient. Like they’re inconvenient. Grief gets a bad reputation because it’s painful and disruptive, and it shows up uninvited, and it doesn’t leave on anyone’s schedule. But when we learn how to slow down first, to regulate ourselves, to take the pressure off, we become capable of something really powerful. We can help the people we love feel seen in their pain. That is not a small thing. That is everything. Why Rushing Grief Backfires Speed is one of grief’s most reliable companions, and it makes complete sense why. When we’re in pain, our whole system orients toward relief, toward resolution, toward making it stop. Moving fast feels like doing something about it. Here’s what I’ve learned, both clinically and personally. Speed in grief almost never takes us where we think it’s going to. When we rush grief, we’re not actually processing it. We’re outrunning it. And grief is patient. She will wait. What tends to happen is that people move really fast in the early acute stages. They make a lot of decisions. They stay busy. They hold it together impressively. Then six months or a year later, something small happens, and the grief that was waiting in the background finally arrives. There is a difference between someone who has genuinely integrated a loss and someone who has just gotten really good at not stopping long enough to feel it. Part of what I do clinically is help people figure out which one they’re actually doing. Speed also cuts off information. Grief carries data. It is trying to tell you something about what mattered, what changed, what you’re navigating now. When we rush past it, we miss that. We miss the meaning. We miss the integration. The Science: Why Your Nervous System Needs You to Slow Down Here is the part where I get a little nerdy. Bear with me. When we’re in a state of urgency, our nervous system is activated. We’re in some version of fight or flight, even if it doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. In that state, the parts of our brain responsible for emotional processing, meaning making, and integration are essentially offline. We’re in survival mode. Which means when we’re moving fast through grief, we’re literally not in a neurological state where processing can happen. So slowing down is not a luxury. It is a biological requirement for grief to do what it needs to do. You cannot integrate something your nervous system has not had the capacity to actually feel. This is why rest matters in grief. It is why people often feel worse when they finally stop being busy. The slowing down did not cause the pain. The pain was always there. The slowing down finally created enough space for it to surface. That is not a breakdown. That is the process working. Co-Regulation: Why Your Calm Is a Gift to Someone in Grief Deb Dana, who has done incredible work translating polyvagal theory into accessible clinical language, talks about this as co-regulation. The idea that our nervous systems do not just operate in isolation. They respond to each other. They influence each other. When you walk into a room with someone in acute grief, your own system gets activated. That activation is real and it matters. It is also exactly why slowing down first is so powerful. When we regulate ourselves, when we slow our breathing, soften our urgency, and settle into presence rather than problem solving, we are offering our nervous system as a resource to the person in front of us. We become a regulating presence rather than an activating one. We match their need rather than amplifying the chaos of grief. This is why the therapist who sits in silence, the friend who just breathes and stays, the colleague who does not immediately pivot to solutions, lands so differently than the person who rushes in with advice. It is not just emotional. It is neurological. Calm is contagious too. What Slowing Down Actually Looks Like (It Is Not Falling Apart) I want to be really clear about something because I think this pillar has the potential to get misunderstood. Slowing down is not the same as falling apart. It is not passivity. It is not giving up, or giving in, or wallowing. It is a deliberate act of presence. In practice, it can look really small: * Pausing before you respond to the question “how are you doing?” instead of automatically saying fine * Sitting with a feeling for two minutes before you pick up your phone * Saying to yourself, “I don’t have to figure this out today” * A therapist sitting in silence with a client instead of filling the space, because sometimes the most therapeutic thing in the room is not the intervention. It is the willingness to not rush toward one. This applies well beyond the therapy room. Slowing down in those moments looks like: * Taking a breath before you respond * Resisting the urge to immediately problem solve or silver line the situation * Saying “I’m really glad you told me” instead of “everything happens for a reason” * Simply noticing, “I am moving really fast right now. I am trying to solve something. I am trying to outrun something.” That noticing, that pause, is already the beginning of slowing down. A Story From the Therapy Room I’ll share something from my clinical experience. Details are changed for privacy, but the moment is real and actually common. It has happened more than once. I had a client early in my career who came in after a significant loss and immediately started listing everything they needed to figure out. Practical things. Logistics. What to tell people. Whether to take time off work. They were moving so fast, even inside the session. My instinct, my trained instinct, was to help them problem solve. To be useful. To meet the urgency with productivity. Instead, I slowed down. I got quieter. I let the silence sit. Eventually, they stopped listing things, looked at me, and said, “I don’t actually know how to do this.” That was the moment. Not the list. Not the logistics. That moment of not knowing was where the real work started. When the therapist slows down first, it gives the client permission to stop performing okayness. It changes the whole texture of the room. Slowing Down Is the First Act of Staying Slowing down does not fix anything. It is not supposed to. It creates the conditions where something real can actually happen. This is the first pillar of the STAY framework: a model I created for grief integration that helps individuals, clinicians, and organizations stay with grief instead of rushing to fix it. STAY stands for: * S Slow Down * T Track the Loss * A Allow Complexity * Y Yield to the Moment Next week, we move into the second pillar, Track the Loss. We’re going to talk about why grief is almost always about more than the thing we think it is about. If today resonated, hit subscribe so you don’t miss it. And if you know someone who is tired of being told to “stay strong,” send this their way. I hope you STAY, Dr. Heather Taylor P.S. I will be sending a few of these posts/episodes out each week and look forward to helping you and the people in your life STAY with grief. P.P.S. You are receiving this Substack post because you subscribed to my mailing list. If you wish to no longer receive communication from me via Substack, feel free to unsubscribe (and I will miss you). Dr. Heather Taylor is a licensed psychologist, grief expert, and creator of the STAY Framework for Grief Integration. She is the host of the Grief is the New Normal podcast and writes about modern grief, identity, chronic illness, and grief informed leadership. Subscribe to follow the full STAY series. Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Thanks for reading! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

9. 

   22 May 2026

   Why I Stopped Telling Clients Grief Gets Better

   Early in my clinical work, I used to tell clients that grief gets better. I stopped saying it. Not because it is never true, but because it was setting people up to measure their grief against a finish line that does not actually exist. Most grief frameworks we have inherited, the stages, the tasks of mourning, the neatly mapped timelines, are built around the idea that grief has a destination. That if you do the work, you arrive somewhere healed, resolved, accepting. For some people in some losses, that language can be helpful. For many others, it is not. It creates pressure, shame, and the quiet fear that something is wrong with you when grief refuses to behave on schedule. Grief does not actually work that way for most of us. It is not linear. It does not resolve cleanly. And the losses we carry do not disappear. They change shape. They integrate into who we are. So I started thinking about what it would look like to build something around staying with grief instead of trying to get through it. Not as resignation. Not the okay, fine, I am stuck with this forever kind of staying. But as an act of presence, of intentionality, of being with what is real instead of rushing toward what we wish were true. That is the orienting idea behind STAY. What STAY is, and what it is not STAY is not a technique. It is not a checklist. It is not another protocol promising five steps to a tidier version of your grief. It is a stance. An invitation. A way of being with grief that is relational, nonlinear, and cumulative. Here is what the acronym holds: S is for Slow Down. Reduce the urgency. Create space instead of rushing toward solutions. T is for Track the Loss. Identify what has actually been lost. Roles, identities, relationships, futures you were counting on. A is for Allow Complexity. Hold contradictions. Two opposite emotions can be true at the same time. Y is for Yield to the Moment. Respond to what is needed now, not what the plan said should be happening by now. You do not move through these in order. You come back to them, again and again, in different seasons, different contexts, different relationships. Grief asks different things of you at different times. STAY is designed to travel with you through all of those states. Where this framework actually came from STAY came out of two things working together. The first is my clinical experience. Sitting with people across hundreds of sessions and watching what actually helped them versus what sounded good in a textbook. The textbook answers and the lived answers are often not the same thing. The second is my own grief. I am fluent in the language of loss, for myself and for my story. I am not going to fully unpack that here. But that grief taught me something I could not have learned any other way. Knowing the theory and living inside the loss are two very different experiences. STAY is what I wish I had earlier. As a clinician. As a daughter. As a mother. As a person trying to figure out how to keep showing up while carrying things that were not going to go away. Who this is for I am writing this Substack for a few different people. If you are grieving and you are tired of being handed a roadmap that does not match your actual experience, this is for you. If you are a clinician looking for a framework that meets clients where they actually are instead of where a model says they should be, this is for you. If you work in an organization, a school, or a leadership role, and you are starting to notice that grief is everywhere and nobody is talking about it, this is very much for you. Grief is showing up in coffee shop conversations, at work, in our communities, in hospital rooms and boardrooms and classrooms. Most of us were never taught how to stay with it when it does. We were taught to fix it, soften it, or wait it out. STAY is an alternative. What is coming next Next week I am opening up the first pillar, Slow Down, and what it actually looks like when grief shows up and you are afraid you will say the wrong thing, so you say nothing at all. If you want to go deeper today, the companion essay on why I stopped telling clients grief gets better, and what I say instead, is on Substack. The link is in the show notes. I am so glad you are here. I hope you STAY, Dr. Heather Taylor P.S. I will be sending a few of these posts/episodes out each week and look forward to helping you and the people in your life STAY with grief. P.P.S. You are receiving this Substack post because you subscribed to my mailing list. If you wish to no longer receive communication from me via Substack, feel free to unsubscribe (and I will miss you). Dr. Heather Taylor is a licensed psychologist, grief expert, and creator of the STAY Framework for Grief Integration. She is the host of the Grief is the New Normal podcast and writes about modern grief, identity, chronic illness, and grief informed leadership. Subscribe to follow the full STAY series. Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit drheathertaylor.substack.com (https://drheathertaylor.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

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