Grief is not just an emotion—it’s a process. A passage. A necessary unfolding of sadness that moves us from shock and pain back to life. It begins with a loss, real or perceived, and often arrives uninvited, wrapped in anxiety and confusion. Grief is not linear. It is complex, messy, and deeply human.
When something tragic occurs—a death, a breakup, a rupture of identity—we are immediately struck by a fight-or-flight response. The nervous system activates, preparing us to survive. Only when the initial anxiety softens can sadness fully emerge. And sadness, in a healthy psyche, is a reflection—it requires awareness. We feel sadness only in contrast to joy. Without a memory of love, connection, or safety, we wouldn’t know what we’ve lost.
There are countless triggers for sadness: being rejected, losing a competition, failing to meet expectations, or simply not getting what we want. We often confuse sadness with depression, but they are not the same. Depression is a layered mental state, built from fragments of emotion—sadness, low self-worth, anxiety, loneliness, boredom, frustration, and helplessness. It can also be intensified by environmental factors like low light, lack of connection, or a lack of purpose.
In the modern world, surrounded by war, famine, environmental destruction, and digital overstimulation, a persistent undercurrent of sadness may actually be chronic anxiety in disguise. Anxiety can mimic grief, but it's not rooted in a specific loss. It’s the ambient tension of modern life pulling us away from peace. Still, grief often lies underneath anxiety—a sadness we haven’t named or processed. Especially for those healing from addiction, grief is ever-present. Addiction is often driven by a desire to escape these unresolved, nameless griefs.
Much of our deepest sadness stems from early childhood experiences—abandonment, separation, rejection, or unmet emotional needs. For example, when our parents separated or failed to attune to us emotionally, we may not have had the language for grief, but we felt it. That unprocessed sadness often becomes anxiety. And anxiety becomes the engine behind addictive behaviors.
In my own case, I’ve found that my adult anxiety in relationships is directly tied to my early attachment wounds. My connection with my mother was fragile, ruptured by her own moment-to-moment emotional instability. I was noisy, needy, difficult—and she was overwhelmed. The result: I developed a heightened sensitivity to disconnection. Today, I still notice myself losing the thread of connection with a partner and spiraling into fear. My work now is to rebuild a sense of safety by imagining a loving, secure mother figure in meditation. I affirm: I am connected. I am safe. I am grateful.
If you’re in the throes of grief or addiction—or both—know this: healing is not only possible, it’s your birthright. You were built to heal. But the path is rarely easy. When we’re consumed by emotional pain, even simple tools like meditation or breathing can feel out of reach. In these moments, don’t aim for spiritual breakthroughs. Use these tools as survival gear. Breathe. Sit. Move. Cry. Write. Let it out.
Here are practices that help anchor you during grief:
- Writing – Journal freely about what you’ve lost and how it shaped you.
- Therapy – Speak to someone trained to hold space for your pain.
- Movement – Walk, stretch, sweat. Let emotion move through your body.
- Breathwork – Regulate your nervous system with conscious breathing.
- Connection – Talk to friends. Accept help. Don’t isolate.
- Ritual – Create small daily acts of care: lighting a candle, saying a prayer, spring cleaning.
- Meditation – Sit with the feelings, but do so gently. No pressure to “transcend”—just to feel and release.
Pain must be felt to be processed. Suppressed sadness becomes tension, depression, or illness. You may cry. You may shake. You may collapse for a day. Good. Let it come. Then stand up and return to life. Repeat as often as necessary.
Grief, like recovery, is a process of becoming real again.
And above all, do not go through this alone. Whether your grief is sharp and recent or buried in the folds of childhood, let someone in. Sharing your grief lightens it. Others may not fix it, but they can witness it—and sometimes, that’s everything.
You’re not weak for grieving. You’re human. You’re not broken for feeling too much. You’re alive. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the presence of grief means love was there. And love is still possible.