Have you ever reached for your phone, wanting to call the one person who could make everything feel a little lighter—only to remember they cannot answer? That moment, small as it seems, can hit like a wave of grief, reminding us that some losses leave an ache no one else can fill. Today, I want to explore that experience: what it feels like, how we cope, and the small ways our bodies and minds can carry the presence of someone we miss, even when they’re gone.
You know, there are days in grief work that just hit harder than expected…and completely out of nowhere. Days when the hardest part of grief isn’t the absence itself, but the moment I realize just how much I want to reach for the phone—and can’t.
It’s a strange ache, this longing for one particular voice when so many loving people surround me. I hesitate even to put this into words, because I don’t want those I care for to think they aren’t enough. They are. But grief is not about “enough.” It’s about the way one person can become woven so deeply into the fabric of your everyday that no one else can replace the role they played.
Recently, I went in for what was supposed to be a routine doctor’s appointment, nothing dramatic. But I walked out with more information than I wanted—one of those moments where your body feels heavy before your brain has even caught up. Walking through the parking lot, I did what I always used to do: reached instinctively for my phone. I wanted to make a phone call. And then I remembered. The one person I wanted to call, the one who would know what to say—or even what silence to offer—wasn’t available. Everyone else I love was still there, just a dial away. But they weren’t the one person. And somehow, I physically forgot I couldn’t reach them. And that absence swallowed me for a moment.
It’s difficult to admit this out loud. Do you ever feel guilty admitting that? Like, if I say out loud how much I miss one person, it sounds like I don’t value those who remain. But that’s not it at all. My longing is not a reflection on anyone else’s value – it’s just that grief tells the truth about what we lost. To truly attune to someone who is grieving is to understand this distinction: that when I say I miss them, I’m not saying I don’t need you. It’s not about being excluded from my “first call.” It’s about recognizing the depth of the hole that person left.
And the truth is, there are no neat answers here. There is no substitute number to dial. So, we cope in imperfect ways. Sometimes I speak aloud to the empty air—in the car, in the closet, wherever no one else will hear. Sometimes I imagine what they might say, the kind of encouragement they’d offer, the grounded way they made things less unbearable. Sometimes I cry, because the weight of it all is too much without them.
And when the silence feels unbearable, sometimes I just go back to basics. I’ll put my hand on my chest, or give myself one of those butterfly hugs—if you’ve never tried it, it’s just crossing your arms and tapping gently on your shoulders. It’s simple, but somehow my body remembers that comfort.
I hold my own hand as if I were holding theirs. These small gestures are not solutions, but they are reminders: my body still knows how to seek comfort. My body still remembers what it felt like to be safe with them.
This is how I carry them into my present, even as life insists on moving forward. They are frozen in time, but I am not. And so I bring them with me—in imagination, in memory, in tears, and in the quiet rituals that anchor me when I feel unmoored.
Lately I’ve wondered if it’s even possible to co-regulate with someone who’s gone and there is actually some fascinating research behind this. Stephen Porges, who studies the nervous system, talks about something called neuroception—basically, how our body senses safety. And what’s wild is that just remembering someone who once made us feel safe can shift how our body feels in the present. Isn’t that incredible? When I call to mind the cadence of their voice, the warmth of their hand, or the way they made the world feel bearable, something in me softens. My system, in some small way, settles.
There will never be a replacement for the call I can’t make. That call I do make? Probably won’t get easier. But what I am reminding myself each time I feel this way is that I can still carry them with me—in memory, in imagination, even in the way my body remembers what it was like to feel safe with them. It’s not the same, but for now… it’s enough.
Thank you for listening to episode 204 of Restorative Grief. I hope this story is one that helps you soften toward yourself. It’s too easy to become critical when grief lands in our laps like it did for me in this story. It’s much kinder to let grief open the door, and wait patiently while it finds a safe place to sit.
Grieving isn’t our permanent state. But it is a state of being that deserves attention when it arises, just like every other state we can experience. Being with ourselves in the midst of our own upheaval is the work – and that work might save you.
If this is your first time listening to the show, I want to say thank you, and welcome, and hope that you’ll stick around for more. Be sure to subscribe to keep receiving weekly encouragement and insight about loss, and leave a review if you love what you heard.
Thank you as always to my patrons and financial supporters of the show. The work is heavy but your partnership makes it lighter! And as always before we go, one last thing. Please remember, the only solution for grief is to do the work of grieving. Thank you for listening. I’ll see you next week.