When Stepping Away Is Grief Work

How pacing, presence, and permission create space to heal

When someone we love dies, the pain can feel unbearable—raw, unrelenting, and overwhelming. It’s no wonder that sometimes, we find ourselves stepping back from the intensity of it all.

What’s often called avoidance in grief might actually be something more nuanced—pacing. A way our minds and bodies try to keep us safe from what feels too big, too fast, or too consuming.

Pacing grief isn’t about shutting it down. It’s about learning how to let it in slowly, in doses we can actually hold.

Why We Step Away

From a nervous system perspective, stepping back is often a form of protection. When the emotional load is too heavy, the body responds instinctively. In its wisdom, it leads us into present-moment experiences—focused activity, connection with others, or grounding routines—not only to ease the pain, but to remind us that we are still here.

This isn’t wrong. Sometimes, doing the dishes, helping a child with homework, or sharing a quiet meal with a friend is exactly what helps us stay anchored. These aren’t distractions from grief—they’re lifelines to the world that still holds us.

And there’s something else: grief emotions are intense. The nervous system isn’t built to hold that level of activation all the time. Pacing in and out of the pain—allowing waves of feeling, then stepping into stability—is how we regulate. It’s how the body finds its way back to safety.

This is different from numbing out, shutting down, or avoiding everything connected to our loss. That kind of disconnection doesn’t make the grief go away—it simply buries it. And grief, when buried, doesn’t disappear. It waits. It lingers. It asks, in quieter and quieter ways, to be felt.

There’s a difference between taking a breath from the pain and trying to outrun it. One is grounding. The other leaves us feeling even more disconnected.

We’re Meant to Go Back and Forth

Grieving is not a straight line. Our minds and bodies are built to move between turning toward the loss and returning to the present moment—between times of feeling the ache and times of tending to life as it is now.

This isn’t avoidance. It’s engagement with what’s real right now—whether that’s washing the dishes, helping your child with homework, sitting in the sun, or laughing unexpectedly with a friend.

You’re not forgetting. You’re making space to be here, in the present, where life still asks for your attention.

This rhythm—of remembering and being present, of sorrow and living—is not only natural, it’s necessary. It helps us stay connected to what we’ve lost and to what’s still here.

Make Space for Grief (and Life)

Even though we may instinctively step back from grief, it still needs room to breathe. One of the kindest things we can do is create intentional space for grief to be felt—without letting it take over.

This might look like:

• Setting aside 10 minutes to look at photos or keepsakes

• Lighting a candle and sitting with a memory

• Journaling what’s coming up

• Visiting a meaningful place

• Speaking their name aloud in the quiet

  
  

These small rituals allow grief to move through us instead of staying stuck inside. They also help soften the intensity of those “out of nowhere” waves that can feel so destabilizing.

In Community and In Solitude: The Twin Needs of Grief

Grief needs community—a witness, a listener, a companion in the pain. We heal in relationship. Speaking our loved one’s name, sharing a memory, crying in someone’s presence—these are all part of how grief integrates.

But solitude matters too. Being alone with our grief allows us to hear what’s really inside. It gives us permission to feel without needing to explain. Just as community helps us feel supported, solitude helps us feel safe in our own truth.

Both are essential. Let them take turns.

And when joy stirs—unexpected, delicate, and maybe fleeting—let it come. Joy is not a betrayal of grief.It is a sign of love making space for life again.

There’s a Middle Path

There is a path between overwhelm and avoidance. A quiet, compassionate middle. One where we pace the grief. Where we let in only what we can hold, and trust that’s enough for now.

If you notice yourself stepping away from your grief, try not to shame yourself or assume you’re doing it wrong. This, too, may be part of your healing. Trust that your system knows when it needs to feel—and when it needs to rest.

What looks like avoidance may simply be your inner wisdom asking for space, asking for safety, asking for breath. This is how we begin to stand in both places: in grief, and in the present. In pain, and in life.

Grief doesn’t demand everything all at once. But it does need something: A breath. A pause. A return. A little space, held with compassion.