Grief and the Medicine That Holds Me
In the medicine we practice, the Summer season is the season of joy. But some days it feels hard to keep up with the pace of the world. The news is heavy. The weight of injustice, cruelty, and suffering presses in. It’s difficult to balance joy with some of the images we see.
Lately, I’ve felt it more in my body - in my chest, my breath, in a kind of quiet fatigue that sits with me even when I’m trying to be still.
This isn’t the kind of grief that comes with a singular loss. It’s something more collective, more ambient. A grief for the world as it is, and the longing for something more whole, more just, more kind.
When I feel this way, I am reminded to return to the roots of the medicine I practice. It doesn’t push grief away or pathologize it. It recognizes grief as a natural part of being alive - as something to move through, not around. It gives it a home in the Lungs, where we breathe in what nourishes and exhale what we’re ready to let go of.
This framework helps me. It reminds me that grief is a process, not a flaw. That it can soften us rather than harden us. That we’re not meant to carry it alone.
TCM speaks to something much deeper than needles or herbs or protocols - it’s about rhythm, relationship, spirit. In Five Element theory, the Metal element teaches us to distill what’s essential. To cut away the excess and return to what is sacred. In times like this, that might mean choosing quiet over noise, presence over performance, breath over busyness.
Sometimes I feel I’m still learning how to let the medicine hold me, not just the people I serve. But in moments like these, I see how much it offers. The seasons remind me: letting go is not failure. Autumn teaches us that release is its own form of beauty. That there is dignity in the falling. And just as the natural world has cooler, rainy days in Summer, we also cycle through the seasons within ourselves.
I don’t have answers for the state of the world. I don’t think we’re meant to solve it all alone. But I do believe there is healing in being able to name our grief, to feel it fully, and to be witnessed in it. This is part of our work, too. This is why I love meeting my patients exactly where they are when they sit on the table.
And so I offer this - not as advice, but simply as something true in my own life. A hand on the heart. A breath through the chest. A quiet bow to the medicine that keeps teaching me how to stay open, even when it hurts.
If you're feeling the weight of things lately, you’re not alone. I hope you find moments of stillness to return to yourself, so your breath comes a little easier. And may the parts of you that feel tender be met with care.
Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t. And if nothing else, may this remind you that even in times of sorrow, there is a quiet kind of strength in simply staying soft.
