Navigating Grief + Overwhelming Emotions | episode 05
What if grief wasn’t something we moved past, but something that moved with us?
It’s been nearly a year and a half since my brother, Xavier, passed away, yet some days it feels like yesterday. Other times, it feels like a dream—like he’s just not around right now, but still here somewhere.
Grief doesn’t come all at once. It lingers in the spaces between moments, in the tension I hold in my body, in the guilt I carry for what I didn’t say or do. And lately, it’s been visiting me often.
The Reality of Non-Linear Grief
Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. It isn’t a checklist to complete. Instead, it’s a wave—rising, cresting, and then receding, only to return again.
At the time of recording my latest podcast episode, I had just started listening to Always a Sibling by Annie Sklaver Orenstein and participating in a nervous system healing workshop designed to help release emotions stored in my body. It’s no surprise that all of this is bubbling up right now.
One thing I’ve learned through this process is that grief doesn’t just impact my mind—it lodges itself into my body. I feel it in my jaw, my shoulders, my back, and especially in my chest. And honestly, I’ve been afraid to let it out.
I know the importance of allowing emotions to move through me. I even dedicated an entire episode to dismantling the ‘good vibes only’ mindset. And yet, when it comes to my own grief, I hesitate. Because what if it’s too much? What if it swallows me whole?
The Slow Realization of Absence
One of the hardest parts of grieving my brother is the physical distance we always had between us. Xavier lived in Colorado; I live in South Carolina. We grew up on opposite sides of the country, and as adults, that distance remained. It wasn’t until I stood at his funeral that I had this jarring realization: I could have visited him. I could have gone to see my brother. And yet, the thought never fully registered as a possibility until it was too late.
That realization sits heavy.
It’s why, even now, my grief feels slow. Because not seeing him every day means my mind can sometimes pretend he’s still there. But when I do allow myself to acknowledge the loss, it all comes rushing in—the sadness, the regret, the anger, the ‘what-ifs.’
Why didn’t I reach out more?
Why didn’t I visit?
Why didn’t I save him?
The Weight of Responsibility as the Eldest Sibling
Losing a sibling as the eldest carries an additional burden. It’s the weight of feeling responsible—not just for the one who’s gone, but for the ones who remain.
I’ve always felt a strong sense of responsibility for my siblings, but losing Xavier intensified it. It made me hyper-vigilant about their safety, their choices, their well-being. I found myself wanting to save them in ways I hadn’t before—as if making sure they were okay could somehow undo the fact that I couldn’t save him.
No one placed this expectation on me. No one told me it was my job to protect them all. And yet, I carry it anyway.
Setting Boundaries on Grief
One of the things I’ve had to learn is that while grief is inevitable, I can create boundaries around it. Not to suppress it—but to prevent it from consuming me.
Sometimes that looks like setting a timer—allowing myself to fully feel the grief for five or ten minutes, then shifting to something grounding:
Going for a walk
Listening to calming music
Watching a feel-good movie (preferably not Coco because, let’s be real, I don’t need more tears)
Grief doesn’t go away, but I can make space for it without letting it take over.
Losing Someone More Than Once
The truth about grief is that I don’t just lose someone once. I lose them over and over again—in different ways, at different moments.
I lost my brother the day he passed, but I also lost him again at his funeral, again when I realized I could have visited him, again when I see something that reminds me of him. The loss keeps unfolding, and each time, I have to navigate it all over again.
Giving Myself Permission to Set It Down
If you’re carrying the weight of grief—whether for a sibling, a parent, a friend—ask yourself:
How can I set some of this down, even for just a moment?
What would it feel like to let go of even one piece of it?
When I finally allowed myself to visualize setting down the weight, it felt like dropping a duffel bag off my shoulders. My body relaxed. I exhaled. And for a brief moment, I felt lighter.
Grief is heavy. It changes us. But we don’t have to carry all of it at once. I’m learning to give myself the grace to breathe, to rest, to ask for a hug.
And when you’re ready, know that I’ll be here, sharing this journey alongside you.
💬 Did this resonate with you?
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
How do you navigate grief? What has helped you carry the weight of loss?
Let’s continue the conversation—comment below or connect with me on Instagram @alifedifferently.
Hey there, I’m Ronni
I help people unlearn, heal, and step into a life that’s actually theirs. Around here, we question the rules, embrace the magic, and just see what happens.
When I’m not talking manifestation, you’ll find me lost in a new oracle deck, junk journaling, crocheting, or crafting miniatures for my dollhouse.