The Silence That Holds Your Grief

Grief doesn’t care how spiritual you are.

It doesn’t care how long you’ve meditated or how many books you’ve read.

When it shows up, it doesn’t knock, it kicks the door in.

And suddenly the cushion isn’t calm anymore. It’s wet. Trembling. Raw.

Here’s what nobody told me:

That’s still Zen.

The silence doesn’t reject your grief. It holds it.

In fact, the silence was made for moments like this. Not for when you’re calm. Not for when you’re “ready.” But for when you can’t pretend anymore. For when your heart is too full to speak, and too shattered to shut down.

Applied Zen isn’t about transcending pain.

It’s about turning toward it.

When I sat with my grief, I expected to find peace on the other side.

But what I found wasn’t the other side. It was the center.

The heavy center of everything I’d lost.

And inside it, somehow, was presence.

Not comfort.

Not explanation.

Just… someone staying.

And that someone was me.

Zen teaches you to sit with what is.

Not what should be.

Not what used to be.

What is.

And sometimes what is… is heartbreak.

Sometimes you cry on the cushion.

Sometimes you lie on the floor instead.

Sometimes the silence feels like a scream at first, but then, slowly, it softens.

Not because the grief goes away.

Because the resistance does.

You stop running.

You stop arguing with the pain.

You stop begging time to rewind.

And you just sit.

And breathe.

And let the ache be held by something deeper than understanding.

That’s the work.

That’s the healing.

That’s Applied Zen.

So if grief is knocking, let it in.

Light a candle.

Say nothing.

And know that you don’t need to be okay for the practice to hold you.

The silence doesn’t need you to smile.

It just needs you to stay.