I felt the unease and heaviness in my body from the start of the day. I just wasn’t quite sure what it was. Anxiety about work? Or the world? Irritation about a situation? Or with myself?

I did something unusual for me. I didn’t try to push it away. I just let it be. I felt waves of frustration that it had intruded on my day, but it carried the weight of something important. So I waited.

Eventually it moved from shadow to light. This was grief. Unbidden, unexpected. You see, I lost my father last April. I moved through the experience, feeling my reactions were somewhat muted for such a life changing loss. But this was the second time I’d lost a parent. I knew that grief moves in its own way and time.

And now here it is. No special anniversary, no precipitating event, that one might want to share with a parent. Just everyday life. A few days ago, on a run, I saw someone from a distance who looked like my dad. Not the image that comes to mind when I think of him, but as he was in the last couple of years. I don’t recall having that experience after my mom’s death. My breath caught. I had to pause, to look out across the water, back turned until this stranger passed.

Was it that single moment that triggered this wave of grief? Or was it grief in the shadows that made me attuned to the similarities of this passerby?

Often I hear us (myself included) speak of grief as a force—hitting us, crashing into us, overwhelming us. In this frame, it’s water, an ocean—uncontrollable, untamable. Threatening to pull us under, drown us, if we can’t escape to the shallows or the shore.

But what if grief is something else entirely? What if it’s that still, small voice trying to bring something important into view?

Yesterday afternoon, as I had pieced together the identity and source of my emotion, I had a preplanned meeting with a peer mentor. My wont is to compartmentalize the personal and the professional, despite knowing how much each can affect the other. But I chose, at my mentor’s invitation, to share more about what was going on. He reminded me that feelings arise from somewhere. They’re calling our attention, maybe for a reason, and maybe we should take a moment (or a few) to be with the emotion and see where it’s pointing.

Early this morning, a part of me wanted to just retreat back into sleep. But another part called me forward to my movement practice. A bit out of character, I felt the need for something that specific for this moment and quickly found that session: yoga for grief. It was a gentle practice, staying close to the ground, bringing focus to breath and the heart space. Today I felt the connection of this practice to my inner stay profoundly. The session progressed then settled into child’s pose. Oh the beautiful resonance that an insight about grief for my father should come at this point. As my forehead rested on the earth, a concrete thought emerged from the abstract emotion: The people who always held unconditional for you are gone. Can you ever be enough for those who remain?

This surprised me. I’d never felt or thought this, at least not so clearly, before. But I knew instantly this wasn’t extracted from overthinking. It had come to mind effortlessly. This had been sitting somewhere deep inside my psyche, unrecognized.

But then an inner voice asked: Is that true?

I understand immediately that it was not. I brought to mind my partner, my brother, dear friends. I know I am enough, as I am. Perhaps this fear comes from the worry and stress of proving myself in different arenas of my life. But I am not alone, and I am enough.

As I completed my practice and put things away, I thought of how we talk of sitting with grief. I am one who needs to move—I thought, at first, through grief, but then saw it’s moving with grief.

I return to this idea that we so often view grief as something to stand against, to endure, to wait out. But maybe there’s another way. What if grief isn’t an enemy, a foe to reckon with? What if grief is a companion, a guide? Not one we invite in, but one that is there at the necessary time, even when we’re not consciously aware of the need. After all, it is within us, a part of us, and to fight against it, to disdain it, is to turn against ourselves. That’s not to say we ought to keep grief close, cling to it. Grief can be heavy and uncomfortable and painful. But maybe we don’t need to shun it when it comes. Because it helps us cope with the hard certainty that someone or something is gone. And it can shine a light on lies and truths we need to see.