Finding Strength to Carry our Collective Grief in an Uncertain World
The air feels heavy. It’s not just the endless stream of news, it’s the silence between notifications, the ache that lingers in your chest when you try to fall asleep. This is collective grief. It’s not just yours, and it’s not just mine; it’s the world’s mourning threaded into us. Grief is proof that we are deeply, irrevocably connected to each other and to the earth.
Let’s sit with this heaviness, not to drown in it, but to learn from it, to let it soften us, and maybe even to transform it into something that carries us forward.
Grief is a wild river that runs through us. It is personal, yes, but it also spills over. When we witness the collapse of ecosystems, the anguish of war, or the persistent grind of injustice, we grieve not only for others but for the world we are a part of. This grief is as natural as breathing, a reminder that we are bound to one another and the planet.
"I didn’t lose someone," you might think. But the loss is still there, isn’t it? In the extinction of species, in the empty spaces left by toppled forests, in the faces of displaced people. It’s there. And it’s real."
Naming this grief, calling it out into the light, is the first step. We grieve because we love. Because we care. And that is something worth honoring.
We’re often told to push past our pain, to stay hopeful, to be strong. But grief’s alchemy begins when we name it. When you sit down with your sorrow, it softens. Speak your grief aloud: This hurts. Write it down: I am overwhelmed by this pain. Feel its texture. Don’t wallow, but be its witness.
Francis Weller writes, "Grief is subversive, undermining our society’s quiet agreement that we will behave and be in control of our emotions. It is an act of protest that declares our refusal to live numb and small."
This act is transformative. It’s how you start to heal.
Take five minutes to write about what is weighing on you. Don’t edit. Don’t overthink. Just let it spill out. What hurts? What frightens you? Let it be seen.
Sometimes the grief feels bottomless. The weight is unbearable. You might wonder, How do I carry this? The answer is, you don’t have to carry it all. You just have to find a way to stay grounded in the storm.
Here are some ways to anchor yourself:
Breathe with intention: Slow down. Inhale deeply. Exhale even slower. Feel the rhythm of your body’s resilience.
Find a thread of nature: A tree, a flower, a patch of sky. Let it remind you that life continues, even in chaos.
Build a grounding kit: Gather small comforts, a song that soothes you, a scent that reminds you of home, a photo that makes you smile. Keep these close for when the heaviness returns.
Start your grounding kit today. Write a list of three things that calm or comfort you. Gather them into a space that feels sacred to you.
Grief is demanding. It will break you open, but in that breaking, there is room to grow. Many of the most powerful movements for justice began in sorrow, the loss of lives, the destruction of lands, the erosion of rights. People gathered their grief and turned it into fuel for change.
Think of the water protectors who mourned the damming of sacred rivers and fought to restore their flow. Or communities grieving gun violence who transformed their anguish into advocacy. Grief doesn’t only paralyze; it can ignite.
Today, we face fazCism, which seeks to fragment the interconnected web of life. It thrives on division and fear, silencing dissent and numbing us to the suffering of others. To resist, we must first process the grief it brings: the grief of eroded freedoms, the end of safety, of harm done to marginalized communities, of a world seemingly spinning away from compassion.
By facing this grief, by letting it move through us, we refuse to turn away. Instead, we hold space for something deeper, the kind of clarity that lets us act from love rather than fear.
What could your grief teach you if you listened? What would it inspire you to protect or create?
Grief’s darkness doesn’t mean there’s no light. In the midst of sorrow, you can find glimmers of hope, small moments that remind you life is still beautiful.
Celebrate tiny victories: The warmth of tea in your hands. The sound of laughter. A plant pushing through cracked pavement.
Act from your grief: Plant a tree, write a letter, help a neighbor. Small actions can ripple out in ways you can’t imagine.
Rest unapologetically: Grief is exhausting. Sleep. Breathe. Sit still. You are allowed to pause.
Grief is a death. A letting go. And in that letting go, something new can emerge. As you sit with the heaviness, as you feel its weight, know that you are also making space for a rebirth. The old ways of being fall away, and you are left with the tender shoots of something more resilient, more alive.
This is the cycle we are part of, grief, death, and rebirth. It is painful. It is beautiful. It is life. And you are not alone in this. Together, we can carry the weight of the world’s sorrow and still create something beautiful.
Share this with someone who might need it today. If you’re ready for deeper support, let’s walk through this together in a grief session. You are not alone.
Michelle Carrera is a death doula, grief educator, and animal chaplain dedicated to helping individuals and families navigate the sacred transitions of life and death. Through her work at Grief and Liberation, she offers guidance, support, and resources for those facing loss and transformation. Learn more about her services, download free resources, sign up for weekly Monday Mournings missives, or schedule a consultation at www.griefandliberation.com.