When Lungs Hold Grief

The breath we hold, the pain we misname, and the healing that begins when someone finally listens.

“Coffee service has been discontinued. Please support the new café in the lobby. Thank you for your understanding.”

Norah didn’t realize it at first. Just stood there, mug in hand, staring at the empty counter where the coffee pot used to be. All she wanted was the quiet ritual of pouring the first cup. Breathing in steam. Holding warmth.

Her sister had gone quiet again, three months without a text. After two years together, her therapist was retiring. The divorce was final a year ago. The family dog had died in December.

And now her coffee pot was gone.

“It’s just coffee. I’ve been meaning to switch to tea for months. This is probably the time,” Norah said to me on our first zoom call.

“I like your reframe,” I suggested.

“My therapist has taught me well,” she smiled, and then shuddered into tears. And then she took in a forceful gasp.

“I just can’t breathe anymore. It’s like my lungs have gone on strike…Everyone keeps saying it’s anxiety. My doctor has prescribed inhalers, steroids and antihistamines, blaming seasonal allergies. But when I take those I get all jittery. My therapist wants me on anti-anxiety meds, and has gone as far as to say I’m depressed and need anti-depressants. I’m not depressed! I get up every day. I still have goals. I’ve tried a few, but the side effects are always so bad I can’t handle them.”

“I don’t think you’re depressed or anxious,” you said. “I think your lungs are trying to tell you something.”

Norah looked at me questioningly.

“Maybe you’re grieving,” I suggested.

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then shrugged.

“I mean. My divorce. My sister’s… hard to reach. My dog died. But all that was months ago.”

“Losing a dog can be harder than losing a person. Trust me.” I pointed to the picture of me with my dog on the bookshelf behind me before I continued. “Do you know what your lungs do, besides bringing in oxygen? Every inhale brings the world in. Every exhale gives something back. They are an exchange of vibrancy and life-force with everything living around you!”

She nodded.

“They are also a filter that decides what gets to stay and what gets released.”

“And mine aren’t filtering?” she asked.

“Yours are overwhelmed. Like they’ve had to take in too much, and they don’t like what they are taking in—too much pain, too many goodbyes, too many unanswered questions—and they haven’t had space to let any of it move through.”

She sat very still.

“Sometimes,” I added, “we grieve the things we never realized we depended on. And when they’re gone, the lungs hold the weight of it until we’re ready to feel it fully.”

“The coffee pot,” she acknowledged.

The Sacred Biology of the Lungs

The lungs are made of receptive tissue that stretches and folds, receives and releases, filters and forgives. They sit beneath the collarbones like a pair of tree-branch shaped wings, taking in the outside world until the body decides the world no longer feels safe to let in.

When the quiet accumulation of unnoticed losses pile up too high in the corners, grief hits. Usually at its most unexpected times, making the breath uncertain, hesitant, shallow. It tells the lungs to stay small, just in case. It closes the space where trust used to live. It convinces the body that receiving is dangerous, and releasing isn’t allowed.

Grief wears the same garb as its cousins, Depression and Anxiety. But, if you treat Grief like its cousins, only end up in a bigger gang of depressed and anxious thugs bouncing around inside you.

Why the Diagnosis Doesn’t Land

By the time someone books a session with me, they’ve usually already done the medical rounds.

Norah’s inhaler left her hands shaking. She couldn’t sleep. Her nervous system felt like it was trying to leap out of her skin.

Steroids gave her a short burst of maniacal energy followed by insatiable hunger. Ultimately, she felt dry, and even more empty.

The antihistamines knocked her into zombie-head-mode. Her eyes felt dry even when she was crying.

One of the antidepressants put her to sleep for 36hrs. Another wrapped her brain in such a thick fog, she found herself googling “early-onset dementia” at 3 a.m. And the anti-anxiety meds left her so numb that she didn’t care her daughter’s theatre performance.

She was grieving, and her body rejected every pharmaceutical solution because it didn’t want to be numbed or silenced. It wanted to be heard.

Her lungs, which are designed to be in a constant state of giving and receiving, had learned how to hold.

“Grief is a kind of wound,” I told Norah, “but not the kind you stitch closed. It’s a hole. Things that were were once very alive for you, things that rooted themselves deeply into who you are at your core, they are no longer there. And your body still wants to hold them.”

Her eyes watered. She didn’t wipe them.

“When we lose something that supports us—a person, a role, a dream, or even something as simple as a coffee pot that supports a daily ritual—it leaves an imprint. Grief isn’t about replacing it. It’s about finding new ways to grow around the hollow. Not to fill it in, but to honor it.”

I paused. She held her hand to her heart.

“You know how trees grow in groves?” I asked. “When one tree dies, the others don’t abandon the stump. They send their roots to wrap around it, feed it, support it. Even though it’s no longer growing, they keep it connected to the whole network. And the nutrients from its decay become part of what sustains the others. The grove gets stronger because it grieved together.”**

She let that land.

“That’s what you’re doing now,” I said. “Your lungs want to keep the forest alive while waiting for someone to help reroute the roots. Why do you think lungs look like tree branches?!”

She laughed, fully, and it was the first breath she took that reached all the way down. Then, she blinked, like someone waking up from a long sleep.

“I’m not depressed or anxious. I’m grieving,” she said softly, “How do I teach my lungs to behave like the tree branches and roots that they are?”

I nodded, slowly. “There’s an energetic protocol I can teach you. It’s totally unconventional, 100% holistic, and a unique combination of breathwork, mindset work, embodiment work, community work, and ancestor work.”

“Is this why I opened an ancestry.com account?” she laughed.

“You wouldn’t be the first client to ask me that.” I smiled.

“Sign me up.”

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**There is scientific research supporting the phenomenon where living trees support nearby stumps through interconnected root systems. A notable study published in the journal iScience details how researchers discovered a living kauri tree stump in New Zealand that was kept alive by neighboring trees. These trees shared water and nutrients with the stump via grafted root systems, effectively sustaining it despite its lack of foliage and photosynthetic capability. This finding suggests a level of cooperation among trees, viewing the forest as a "superorganism" rather than a collection of individual trees. My Modern Met+3Yale e360+3ScienceDaily+3ScienceDaily

For a more comprehensive understanding of these interconnected relationships in forests, you might also explore the work of forest ecologist Suzanne Simard. Her book, Finding the Mother Tree, delves into the complex networks formed by trees and mycorrhizal fungi, highlighting how trees communicate and support each other underground.WIRED+2Wikipedia+2Wikipedia+2Wikipedia+2WIRED+2Wikipedia+2

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🌬️ Ready to Breathe Again

Next week, for paid subscribers, I’ll share the energetic protocol I gave Norah to release what the lungs are holding. If you’ve been grieving to the point of depression, you won’t want to miss this one. Your breath will thank you. 🫁💗

Your Body Has Its Own Language

If you’ve been told you’re depressed or anxious, but the traditional treatment protocols don’t sit right in your body and feel off in your soul—your body might be asking to be heard on an energetic level. I’ve spent years helping sensitive souls decode the wisdom in their symptoms, especially when no one else seems to understand. If your breath has been tight, if your heart feels heavy, if you’re carrying more than your lungs can hold—I’d be honored to sit with you. You can book an initial session here. 🌬️🫁💗