The Grief I Still Feel Today

The Grief I Still Feel Today is a deeply personal spoken word piece that explores the reality of grief as something that does not end—it changes, it lives, and it continues to move through the body over time.

This song speaks to the kind of grief that remains present long after loss—the kind that is carried in memory, in physical sensation, and in moments that arrive without warning. It reflects the lived experience of witnessing a loved one’s final days and the lasting imprint that experience leaves behind.

Rather than presenting grief as something to “move on” from, this piece honors it as something that is lived with—sometimes quietly, sometimes sharply, and often without a clear beginning or end.

At its core, this is not just sadness.
 It is memory.
 It is the body remembering what the mind cannot always hold.
 It is the truth that healing does not erase what was experienced.

The Grief I Still Feel Today creates space for grief to exist without pressure to resolve it—offering presence instead of answers, and allowing the listener to meet their own experience without expectation.

Nothing is required.

The opening moments of this episode include a short excerpt from Regulation Before Release.

This excerpt is offered as orientation and stabilization before the main content begins. It is not an exercise and does not ask the listener to relax, process, or change anything. The sound is shared as structure—something steady that can be present while the nervous system settles at its own pace.

Regulation Before Release was created for moments when grounding and co

The opening minutes of this episode feature an excerpt from Nothing Is Required of You, a listening piece that anchors the tone and ethics of this podcast.

This excerpt is offered as orientation—not instruction. There is no exercise to follow, no breath to control, and no expectation to relax, heal, or change. The sound is shared as presence—something that can be nearby without asking anything of the listener.

Nothing Is Required of You was created for nervou

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 1:36

It didn't end when she did. That's the part, no one tells you. They think grief has a timeline, a season, a quiet place it goes, once enough days pass. But mine didn't leave. It stayed. It stayed in the way my body remembers before my mind does. In the way a word, a hospice can still open a door. I never agreed to walk through again. In the way my chest tightens without asking permission. In the way my knee locks like it's bracing for something that already happened. Grief is not always tears. Sometimes it is anger that arrives first because it knows how to protect me from what sits underneath. Sometimes it is silence. A full heavy silence that says, I cannot carry one more thing right now. I still see it. The room, the waiting, the moments that stretched until time didn't make sense anymore. I still feel the weight shift when her body began to let go. That moment, that exact moment does not leave you. It doesn't fade, it doesn't soften, it just lies somewhere inside you that no one else can reach. People talk about moving on. I don't. I move with it. I live with it, I carry it in ways that are quiet until they are not. Some days it sits beside me like something familiar. Other days it rises up sharp, immediate, like it just happened. Like I am still there holding on when there is nothing left to hold. And the truth is, I am still healing from what I saw, from what I carried, from what I stayed for. Healing doesn't mean it disappears. It means I am learning how to live with something that changed me. So when it comes, this grief I still feel today. I don't push it away. I name it. I feel it as much as I can without losing myself in it. I remind my body. It was then. This is now. I am still here. And maybe that is what healing is. Not forgetting, not letting go, but standing here in this body, in this moment, knowing I survived it. And I am still learning how to carry it without it. Carrying me.