Body Grief Is Real: Here’s Your Roadmap for Healing

Let the leaves fall. Like grief, it’s the cycle of the seasons.

You might not hear the words “body grief” very often, but it’s real. It’s a tender kind of grief that often goes unnamed—a quiet sorrow tied to our relationship with the body.

It’s the ache of realizing the body you hoped for—the one you were promised if you worked hard enough, disciplined yourself enough—may never arrive.

It’s the pain of feeling betrayed by your body after injury, chronic illness, disability, aging, or hormonal shifts. It’s the quiet sorrow of watching your once-strong body fatigue more easily than it used to.

Body grief is often dismissed as vanity, but it’s legitimate.

In my work, I try to hold a lot of space for that pain. But I’m also always looking for the functionality of these processes. On the other side of grief, there is meaning an purpose. 

Even in those difficult moments—when we don’t like the way our bodies look or the way they feel—we can still grow in relationship to them.

We can still trust our bodies. And we can trust that they can handle it.

A gentle note before we begin:
This is tender work. Grieving your relationship with your body can stir up a lot—memories, emotions, resistance, and unexpected truths. You don’t have to do it all at once, and you don’t have to do it alone.

If this resonates, I offer biweekly reflections and body-based support in my newsletter. It’s a space for hope, tools, and encouragement—delivered gently to your inbox.

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(I’d be honored to walk with you.)

What Is Body Grief?

Body grief is the emotional pain we feel when our body doesn’t match what we hoped it would.

It can be the loss of something we once had, or it can be the grief that surfaces when we begin to reckon with the fact that an ideal—even one constructed externally—may never be ours.

For example, if you’ve been chasing thinness for as long as you can remember, imagine what it feels like to consider not chasing it anymore. That can feel terrifying.

Here are some places body grief shows up: 

• Body size
• Chronic pain or illness
• Hormonal changes (perimenopause, postpartum, etc.)
• Disability or injury
• Aging and the passage of time
• Trauma that disconnects us from the body entirely
• Shifting gender identity or dysphoria
• Loss of a sense of vitality, strength, or control

Often, it’s not the body itself that causes the grief—it’s what the body represented: safety, desirability, belonging, youth, power, agency, health, or even a sense of who we thought we were.

But even as I write these things—the things we’re taught our bodies are supposed to represent—I notice a very visceral (bodily) aversion. Because these ways of looking at the body turn it into a tool we use to achieve something in disconnected systems like capitalism, patriarchy, and white supremacy.

Don’t get me wrong—I don’t have this all figured out. I still feel the pull to maintain a relatively intense skincare routine to “slow the aging process.” I love nourishing my body through strength training, functional movement, and lots of walks. But even in those practices, I find that thing creeping in—the motive to do them not just for well-being, but to maintain my position within systems of privilege: youth, size, ability. And of course, I’m white—and that’s a whole other bag of privilege.

In my work, I’ve walked with people who’ve spent most of their lives managing and controlling their bodies. And then—often around perimenopause or menopause—they find those familiar tools no longer work. Their bodies change, and they’re forced to reckon with a truth they’ve been taught to resist: they can’t control their bodies forever.

I’ve also worked with people in larger bodies who’ve been told their entire lives that they must be smaller. When they reach the realization that this might never happen, the grief can be profound. 

When that image cracks—when the body no longer fits the ideal or the narrative—it can feel disorienting.

If this resonates with you, I want to gently invite you into this grief process. I will guide you. There’s something else on the other side.

We won’t rush the process. But having this framework can give us a map in which we can orient ourselves on the journey. It can help us hold ourselves a bit more gently. And I hope my words hold you, too.

The Five Stages of Body Grief

Grief isn’t linear. You might enter one stage, and then revisit the previous stage again. You might skip two stages forward, then back one. You may live in one stage for weeks or move through several in a day. With that in mind, let’s walk the stages.

1. Denial

Denial is interesting, because often we don’t actually know we’re in it. That’s the nature of denial—it protects us by making it feel like reality isn’t happening. It turns down the volume on what we’re not yet ready to see.

It’s important to recognize: most of us don’t consciously choose denial. So let’s take all the shame out of that.

It can be maddening to witness denial in someone else—especially when you can see the thing they can’t. That often leads to judgment. But what if, instead of blaming, we honored the function of denial?

“Thank you, Denial, for protecting me when I wasn’t ready. You helped me survive.”

Denial often sounds like:

• “I just need to find the right diet.”
• “Once I lose weight, I’ll finally feel confident/secure/loved.”
• “If I could just fix this one part of my body, I’d be happy.”
• “Everyone feels this way—I’m fine.”
• “It’s not that bad.”
• “I’ll deal with this later. I just need to push through.”
• “I don’t need to change anything; I’m just not trying hard enough.”
• “Maybe I’m just lazy/undisciplined/hormonal/unmotivated.”
• “I’m being dramatic—it’s normal to feel this way.”

And in more specific contexts:

• Around gender: “I don’t need to change anything about my gender—I just need to stop being so sensitive.”
• Around illness or injury: “This pain is just temporary, I can power through it.”
• Around aging: “If I buy the right cream/do enough yoga/clean up my diet, I won’t really age.”
• Around trauma: “What happened to me wasn’t that bad. Other people have it worse.”

👉 A quick note: None of these statements are inherently “bad” or “wrong.” Sometimes they contain pieces of truth. Weight loss, gender exploration, skincare, or wellness goals aren’t inherently harmful. It’s the energy underneath—the urge to disconnect, to bypass, to pretend we’re not suffering—that points to denial.

💡 Working with Denial

The best place to start is by simply noticing:

• Where am I avoiding reality?
• Where am I still chasing the fantasy that this next thing will finally fix everything?
• Where does it feel terrifying to stop striving—because I don’t know what’s left if I do?

Let yourself see the signs. Gently. Without forcing change.

Then, give yourself permission to choose. You don’t have to let go right away. Maybe you’re not ready to stop seeking the illusory hope. That’s not anyone else’s choice but yours.

This work isn’t about “catching” yourself in denial and fixing it.
It’s about making space to witness it—and honoring the part of you that needed the protection.

2. Bargaining

Here’s why bargaining is so cool. It’s a bridge between resistance and surrender. Surrender doesn’t mean give up. It means stop fighting what’s not working and find another way.

Bargaining is like standing on the edge of a dock, holding a life jacket in one hand and a bag of old tools in the other.

Bargaining is like standing on the edge of a dock, holding a life jacket in one hand and a bag of old tools in the other.

You’ve been told the lake is healing—that the life jacket can hold you. But you’re not quite ready to jump in.

So you dip your toe in.

Then you bargain:
“I’ll swim, but only if I don’t get my hair wet.”
“I’ll wade in, but I’m not letting go of this bag.”

The thing is… that bag you’re holding?
It’s full of all the rules, diets, beauty standards, and control strategies you’ve carried for years. It’s heavy. But it’s familiar.

Letting it go feels terrifying—because for a long time, it helped you feel safe. Or powerful. Or acceptable.

But eventually, the truth starts to dawn:
You can’t really swim with all that weight.
And more importantly—maybe you don’t want to keep standing on the dock, pretending the water isn’t calling you in.

💡 Working with Bargaining

Start by noticing the trade-offs your mind is trying to make:

• Where am I saying, “Okay, I’ll accept my body… as long as it still changes”?
• Where am I trying to merge healing with control—so I don’t have to fully let go?
• Where am I negotiating with myself or my body to delay discomfort?

Bargaining often means you see the problem—but you’re still clinging to old strategies, hoping you can bring them along into the healing process. 

This part of the process isn’t about forcing surrender.
It’s about getting honest with what you’re still afraid to lose.
And sometimes, we have to say:

“I see that I’m still bargaining. I’m not ready to let go. And that’s okay.”

Eventually, you may notice that the bargains don’t deliver what they promise.
The effort to control starts to feel exhausting.
And slowly—gently—you begin to trust that something more spacious might be possible.

Let the dock hold you for now.

And when you’re ready… you’ll know when it’s time to put on the life jacket and jump in.

3. Anger

Anger is my favorite!!

Imagine anger as your friend on a moving train headed somewhere you actually want to go. They reach out a hand. You’re running alongside the car, breathless but determined. You grab on. They pull you up. Whoosh. You’re in motion. That’s the power of anger in the grief process.

Not because I love how it feels—being in it can be scary and destabilizing—but because anger is active. It’s strong. It’s fierce. It has the power to keep us from going backward. It helps us move forward.

Anger is hot. Alive. Righteous.
And it’s often a vital boundary-restorer—especially if your body has been shamed, pathologized, or violated.

Sometimes the anger is directed at the culture that taught you your body was wrong.
Sometimes it’s at a caregiver or partner who reinforced those messages.
Sometimes—painfully—it’s aimed at your own body.

Wherever it lands, the energy underneath it usually says:

“This hurts. And I didn’t deserve this.”

💡 Working with Anger
Don’t be afraid to feel it.
Listen to it. Let it rise. Let it move you.

Discharging anger in behaviors—yelling, blaming, punching walls—isn’t the same as feeling anger.
Feeling it means noticing where it lives in your body.
Letting it heat you up without burning you down.
Letting it clarify what matters.

Imagine anger as your friend on a moving train headed somewhere you actually want to go.
They reach out a hand.
You’re running alongside the car, breathless but determined. You grab on. They pull you up.
Whoosh.
You’re in motion.

To go backward now? You’d have to jump off the moving train. And honestly… you might break a leg doing that.
And then we’d have more body grief.
So let’s stay on the train.

You ready to move forward with me?

Your anger mantra: Something about this really matters to me. 

4. Depression

Where bargaining let you negotiate, depression almost forces you to surrender.
It has the energy of:

“I just… can’t.”

This part is hard.
You don’t really have the energy to fight anymore.

But I want you to know: I’m here with you.
This sucks—but you’re not alone.
And I promise, there is something on the other side of this forced surrender.

This stage feels like:

• “I’m exhausted.”
• “Nothing will ever feel good in this body.”
• “I’ve spent years chasing a body that was never going to come.”

This isn’t clinical depression (though the two can overlap).
This is more like the grief hangover. The collapse.
The heavy realization of what’s been lost—and how much energy has been spent.

It’s okay to rest here.
It’s okay to cry here.
It’s okay to feel disillusioned, numb, hopeless, or raw.

This is the place where grief becomes real.
It’s also the place where something new can start to take root.
 

When you’re ready, you might begin asking—very gently:

What now?

💡 Working with Depression

Tend to yourself with such love here. This is the time for soft blankets, warm food, low lights, and slow breaths.

You don’t need motivation.
You need comfort.

Start with the tiniest acts of care.
A hand on your chest. A short walk. Letting yourself cry without rushing to “fix” it.

If you’d like tools to anchor and care for yourself in this space, I wrote a blog on building inner resilience—you might find something helpful there.

And if you need support, reach out to someone who’s really good at this. Not someone who will try to push you forward, but someone who can sit with you in the hard. Who knows how to hold space without rushing the process.

Rest here, love.
Something is quietly growing underneath the sadness.

5. Acceptance

There’s a lot of misunderstanding about acceptance. People often think it means you’re happy about your injury, your changing body, your gender dysphoria, or your chronic condition.

That’s not it at all.

Acceptance is about adapting to a new normal.
It doesn’t mean the past isn’t still sad. It doesn’t mean you don’t still wish some things were different. It means you’re not living in constant war with what is.

Maybe you go ahead and wear the swimsuit.
Maybe you dance in the kitchen or spin in your wheel chair.

Maybe you use the cane or learn the braille.
You advocate for your needs. You rest when you’re tired.
You stop apologizing for taking up space.

You’re not obsessed with fixing anymore.
You’re more interested in connecting—with yourself, your people, your aliveness, the world around you.

You don’t always feel beautiful. But you feel here.

💡 Body-based support:
Ask your body:

“What do you need today?”

Then listen.

Next Steps in Working With Body Grief

If this resonated, here are some ways to continue the work:

Here are some other blogs that might be helpful:

• Build Inner Resilience: A Research-Backed Method That Works
• Feeling “Gross” In Your Body? My Exact Guide for What To Do
• Learn What Belly Tension Is Telling Your Nervous System

🌿 If you want more support, I offer a free biweekly newsletter with body-based healing tools and reflections.
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