Grief isn't something you move past by staying busy. It's something your brain has to work through. And this is where neuroscience becomes really important. Because when we talk about grief, many people think of it as an emotional experience. And here's something I didn't understand at the time. Grief isn't just emotional. It's neurological. It's physiological. It's a full brain, full body experience.
Welcome to RenewHer, a podcast for women over 50 ready to reignite their energy and explore what's next. I'm Genell Lemley, brain fitness coach. Here, you'll hear real stories from women taking on new challenges after 50, along with brain health tips to boost focus, energy, and the mindset to move forward with confidence. Let's dive into today's episode.
Welcome back to RenewHer. This episode is a personal one for me. I recently marked the 15-year anniversary of my husband, John's passing, and it got me thinking not just about grief, but about what's actually happening in our brain when we experience loss. I really had never explored that aspect before.
For so long, I thought of grief as something purely emotional, but I've come to learn there's so much more going on beneath the surface. So in today's episode, I'm exploring what's really going on in the brain when we grieve, how it shapes our thoughts, our memories, and even how we heal. And I'll be sharing my own story along the way, because this isn't just something I've studied, it's something I've lived. So let's get started.
There's something I've come to understand about grief. It doesn't follow a straight line. It moves, it returns, it waits quietly, and then sometimes it arrives all at once. This past week marked 15 years since my husband, John, passed away. And even now, all these years later, there are moments when it still feels incredibly close.
Every year, around this time, I find myself going back. I visit his grave on or near the anniversary of his passing, his birthday, Memorial Day, and our wedding anniversary. I'll sit there, sometimes lay on the grass beside him, and just be. It's become a ritual, a grounding place, a way to stay connected. For a long time, I didn't fully understand why certain times of the year hit me so hard, especially March.
March would come and with it, this intense wave of sadness. Tears that felt uncontrollable, the kind that actually brought me to my knees. And it didn't make sense to me at first until I started connecting the dots. His birthday was March 13th, and he died on April 24th. That stretch of time, it holds a lot.
His health had taken a turn during those months. The hospital visits became more frequent. Middle of the night, 90-minute drives to Mayo's ER. I can still feel that urgency, that uncertainty. We celebrated his 50th birthday in the hospital. He was getting a blood transfusion, and I remember his oncologist came down to the ER with a piece of cake and a candle.
It was such a small, beautiful moment in the middle of something so heavy. And what I've learned since then is that our brain and body remember. Even when we're not consciously thinking about something, our nervous system holds onto the emotional imprint of those experiences. So when March comes around, my brain isn't just recognizing a date, it's remembering how that time felt. The stress, the fear, the anticipatory grief. That's something we don't talk about enough. The grief that begins before loss actually happens.
At the time, I don't think I fully allowed myself to go there. John had fought cancer for six and a half years. He had already outlived what doctors initially expected. And somewhere along the way, I think I held onto the belief that he would keep beating the odds. So when he passed, I don't think I was prepared in the way I thought I was.
And if I'm being honest, I didn't really take time to grieve. I took two weeks off work and then I went back. I thought getting back into life, into routine would help. And in some ways, maybe it did. But looking back, I realized I didn't give myself the space to fully process what had happened. Because grief isn't something you move past by staying busy. It's something your brain has to work through.
And this is where neuroscience becomes really important. Because when we talk about grief, many people think of it as an emotional experience. And here's something I didn't understand at the time. Grief isn't just emotional. It's neurological. It's physiological. It's a full-brain, full-body experience.
There's actually a concept in neuroscience called the attachment system. When you're deeply bonded to someone, a spouse, a partner, a parent, a lifelong friend, your brain doesn't just recognize them as someone you love.
It encodes them as part of your sense of safety, your routines, your identity, your future. So when that person is suddenly gone, the brain doesn't immediately register it as permanent. Instead, it starts searching almost like it's asking, "Where are they?" "Why can't I find them?" Because cognitively, you know they're gone.
But neurologically, part of your brain hasn't caught up yet. That's one of the reasons grief can feel so disorienting. You might find yourself reaching for your phone. "Yep, I did that." Thinking about telling them something, "Yep, I did that too." Expecting them to walk through the door. That's not you being stuck. That's your brain trying to reconcile loss.
There's also something happening with emotional regulation. The amygdala, the part of the brain that detects emotional significance and threat becomes more reactive during grief. At the same time, the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for reasoning, decision making and focus can become less effective under prolonged stress, which helps explain why grief can feel so disorienting.
You might feel foggy, forgetful, unable to communicate the way you normally would. That's not weakness. That's your brain under strain. So what you get is this imbalance in the brain, heightened emotional waves with less capacity at times to steady them. That's why grief can feel so unpredictable. You're okay until suddenly you're not.
And it can feel like it comes out of nowhere, but it's not random. It's often being triggered by memory networks in the brain, sometimes consciously, sometimes not. A date, a smell, a song, a season, even something subtle your brain associates with that time of life. And before you even have a chance to think about it, your body feels it.
We also can't talk about grief without talking about stress hormones. When you go through loss, your body often enters a prolonged stress response. Cortisol levels can stay elevated. Sleep can be disrupted. Immune function can weaken. This is why people in grief often say things like, " I don't feel like myself." "I can't think clearly." "I'm exhausted all the time." Because grief isn't just emotional exhaustion, it's physiological. Your brain and body are working overtime to process something that fundamentally changed your world.
And in my case, it wasn't just John. In the five years that followed, there was more loss. My lifelong friend, my husband's aunt for whom I was a caregiver, two dogs, both of my parents and my job. It felt like one loss after another. And while I didn't fully understand it at the time, that kind of cumulative grief can have a compounding effect on the brain. When loss is repeated one after another, the system doesn't always get a chance to fully reset. So instead of returning to baseline, it adapts to a new normal of heightened stress. And that can impact everything from memory, to focus, to emotional resilience.
There's one more layer to grief that I think is important, and that's identity. When you lose someone who has been part of your life for decades, you don't just lose them. You lose the version of you that existed with them. Wife, partner, caregiver, daughter, teammate. In my case, at the time, I was no longer a wife, a daughter, a fur mom, or an executive.
And the brain has to adjust to that too, which is why grief can sometimes feel like, "Who am I now?" And that question isn't just philosophical, it's neurological. Because your brain is literally updating its internal map of your life. The routines you had, the roles you played, the future you expected, all of that lived as patterns in your brain. And when that person is gone, those patterns don't just disappear overnight. They have to be rewritten, and that takes time.
But here's where I wanna shift this because this part matters. Your brain is not fixed in grief. It also has an incredible capacity to adapt. This is where neuroplasticity comes in, the brain's ability to rewire, to form new connections, to heal over time. And healing doesn't mean forgetting. The same brain that encoded the loss is also capable of integrating it.
At first, memories are often tied closely to pain, but over time, with safe revisiting, talking about them, reflecting on them, even visiting meaningful places, the brain begins to process them differently and new associations can form. This is when something shifts. The same memory that once brought only tears can begin to also bring warmth, even gratitude, even moments of joy.
Not because the loss hurts less, but because your brain has learned how to hold both. And I've experienced that. When I think about sitting at John's grave, laying on the grass, watching the clouds, that's not just a ritual. What I know now is that it's integration. That's my brain revisiting something painful in a way that also creates peace.
The grief hasn't disappeared, it's changed. And I wanna share something I wrote because it still captures what grief has felt like for me in a way I haven't been able to express differently.
"The ache in my heart remains as vivid as ever. It's a pain I've come to accept as part of my journey. A testament to the love we shared and the life we built together.
I vividly remember his last night in the hospital when he was surrounded by friends and family. I loved hearing the stories and the laughter, stories they had probably told time and time again, stories that bonded them together. He cherished those connections deeply.
In those final moments, the next morning on a beautiful, sunny Easter Sunday, I sensed that his time was drawing near. I climbed into his hospital bed with him and held him close, whispering words of love and comfort. And when the silence fell heavy and profound, I knew he had slipped away. But even in that stillness, there was a feeling of peace, a sense that his spirit would live on in me, in us, always. I continued to hold him because I couldn't let him go, and I cried.
For 33 years, John, my high school sweetheart, was my rock, my cheerleader, my love, my best friend, and my guiding light. He was funny, thoughtful, kind, open-minded, loving, and a man of conviction and high integrity. John's absence left a void I feared could never be filled.
Yet, in the years since, I've discovered that love has a remarkable way of finding us when we least expect it. Dan, my now husband, entered my life, bringing warmth, compassion, and a love that reignited my spirit. And with him, I've stepped into a new chapter, one filled with hope, laughter, and the promise of tomorrow.
But I still pause to honor the past. Each year, I visit John's resting place. I sit beside him beneath the open sky, watching the clouds drive by just as we once did together. And I'm reminded that love transcends time.
Though he may no longer walk beside me, his spirit remains a guiding light." And that's what still lives with me.
Grief isn't something to fix. It's something to understand. Your brain is trying to make sense of an absence while still holding onto a presence. It's not regression, it's memory, and it's love.
We can support our brain through grief. We can create space for it. We can regulate our nervous system. We can talk about it. We can allow the waves without judging ourselves for them. Because when we suppress grief, the brain doesn't resolve it, it stores it. But when we allow it, that's when integration begins.
And if you're someone who has experienced loss and want you to know this, if it still comes in waves, that's normal, at least it has been for me. If certain dates feel heavy, that's your brain remembering. If you feel like you didn't fully grieve, it's not too late. Your brain is always capable of healing, always capable of rewiring, always capable of finding meaning again.
And maybe that's what grief becomes. Not something we move past, but something we carry differently with more space, more understanding, and eventually more love than pain.
I hope this episode gave you a deeper understanding of what you may have experienced and why. I'd love for you to share it with someone who might need it.
And if you're navigating grief right now, know that you're not alone. Your brain, your body, your heart. They're all trying to find their way through, and they will. One wave at a time, and one step forward, when you're ready.
Thank you for joining me for this episode of RenewHer.
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