The moment I heard the words “Cameron is dead” my body reacted before my mind could. When I heard my husband force those three words from his lips, my heart slammed against my chest so violently it felt electrically charged. My mouth dried instantly, like coarse sandpaper. My knees weakened. The room tilted. Somewhere deep inside, my brain was trying to make sense of words that made no sense at all. “No!” it screamed.
Cameron, so full of strength, laughter, plans, creativity, love and movement. In the prime of living, building a life, creating a future. Then suddenly in the middle of an ordinary Sunday afternoon, he was gone, dead.
The drive to our son’s home was mostly silent. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Then suddenly the car speaker pierced with the shrill ring of a phone call, a family member simply reaching out for a Sunday afternoon chat. Our sobbing, shaking voices told them how our Cameron had just been killed and the guttural scream that came through the hands-free system sounded almost primal. That is what grief does to the nervous system.
Most people think grief is an emotion. But it is far more than that. Grief is physical, neurological and biological. It invades every system of the body.
Perhaps you are not walking this road right now. Perhaps loss of this kind feels distant—something that has not yet arrived at your door. But at some point, most of us will find ourselves standing close to someone who is living it. A friend, a sibling, a colleague down the hall. And in those moments, understanding what they are carrying may matter more than anything else you could offer.
what our bodies do with loss
The moment we hear devastating news, the brain shifts into survival mode. Deep within the brain, the amygdala—our threat detector—sends an alarm through the hypothalamus, pituitary gland and adrenal system, releasing a cascade of stress chemicals designed to help us survive danger. Heart rate increases. Breathing changes. Muscles tense. Blood glucose rises to prepare the body for action.
This response is lifesaving when escaping a snake or swerving away from a speeding car. But death is different. The body prepares to fight or flee, yet there is nowhere to run, no solution to fix, no enemy to defeat. The threat remains because the person you love is still gone even when the adrenaline settles. The nervous system keeps firing, never fully powering down.
One of the cruellest realities of grief is that life continues almost normally for everyone else. Traffic lights still change. Supermarkets still restock shelves. People still laugh in cafés. The radio still plays its advertising ditties and latest tunes. Life is still normal—just not for you.
The early days were a blur for me. The emotional pain was blinding as the intensity of the trauma of his death played over and over in my mind. There were sleepless nights, night terrors, horrific imaginings. No answers, no comfort, just memories. Memories that were triggering and produced the same physiological reaction as the day I was told he had died.
the long ache
Grief and memory are deeply connected and sometimes the brain needs help forming pathways that do not continually retraumatise us.
This is something grieving people rarely understand in the beginning: healing does not always arrive through dramatic breakthroughs. Often it begins quietly, through small acts of nervous system care. A walk. Fresh air. Music. Movement. A changed room. A safe person. A meal delivered without conversation being demanded. People showing up with flowers, meals, messages and sympathy—and those gestures matter deeply. When the brain is overloaded, tiny things really matter.
But a particularly painful reality of grief is that support often fades long before the grief does. Eventually the world moves on. Calls become less frequent. People stop asking how you are because they hope, or maybe assume, you must be doing better now. But often the ache intensifies after the shock fades.
Soon after Cameron was killed, a colleague sent me a message that read, “Holding you close after the goodbye and the long ache begins.”
I’ve never forgotten those words because they have proven to be accurately true. The long ache begins when silence returns.
Grieving people quickly discover that others are often more comfortable with shock than sorrow. People can manage funerals and practicalities. What unsettles them are the ongoing emotions, especially anger.
Loss changes emotional tolerance. Little frustrations suddenly feel enormous. The nervous system is already carrying unbearable weight, so even minor disappointments can trigger disproportionate reactions. Many grieving people then feel ashamed of themselves for becoming irritable, reactive or emotionally exhausted.
But grief rides heavily on the limbic system, the emotional centres of the brain. We are not thinking, feeling and regulating the way we normally would. That doesn’t excuse harmful behaviour, but it does explain why grieving people often feel and act unlike themselves.
reaching for seeds of happiness
One afternoon I sat watching a dove trying to reach birdseed in a hanging feeder outside my window. The bird awkwardly balanced itself, struggling to work out how to reach the food below. Finally, just as it managed to settle near the seed, a small possum scampered down, nipped the dove’s tail feathers and sent it flying away again. I remember thinking that this is exactly what grief feels like.
After loss, we reach desperately for small seeds of happiness—a smile, a moment of laughter, a brief sense of peace—only to have something knock us backwards again. A careless comment, an expectation, a memory, an anniversary, a wave of sadness that arrives without warning. Progress in grief is rarely straight. Perhaps this is one of the most important things grieving people need to hear: that there is nothing wrong with you because you are struggling. Your brain is trying to adapt to a world it no longer recognises.
what helps?
First, understand that grief is exhausting because your nervous system is working constantly. Rest where you can. Reduce unnecessary stress. Accept practical help.
Second, be careful whose voices you allow close. Some people rush to explain loss, fix pain or offer spiritual answers too quickly. Others unknowingly take control during vulnerable moments. Grieving people need gentleness far more than advice.
Third, do not measure your grief against someone else’s timeline. Some days you may function well. Other days you may barely get out of bed. Both can exist in the same week.
Finally, remember that healing does not mean forgetting. It means learning, slowly and painfully, how to carry both love and loss together. Grief never fully disappears because love never fully disappears either. But over time, the nervous system does begin to settle. Not because the loss matters less, but because the brain slowly learns that survival is still possible, even after devastation. And sometimes in grief, that is simply enough for today.
