Nature Heals: Reconciling Grief Through the Natural World

Grief is wild. It takes us on a journey through the wilderness, where we find ourselves in unknown and unfamiliar territory, down unpaved paths, in the wild unknown, and sometimes left feeling like we are downing at sea.

I use nature metaphors a lot when speaking of grief, because the natural world often feels like the only place big and vast enough to understand and to hold the emotional depths of what grief brings.

After my first year on the land I now call home, I reflected on my gratitude to not only this land, but to the forest that held me, the garden that nourished me, the plants that teach me, the home that rebuilt me, the work that moves me, the sunsets and sunrises that inspire me, the friends and family that gather, the community that is being cultivated, and the life that continues to expand me.

This is a more personal share, a love letter to those things. May it serve as a reminder that the seasons that break us, can lead to the seasons that rebuild us. A reflection on how the natural world offers its quiet, steady companionship in the sacred work of grief. And perhaps, in sharing these pieces of my story, you might be reminded of the wild and earthy places that are calling you home, too.

There are seasons in our lives where language fails, where no tidy words can hold the vastness of our sorrow. In these spaces of unraveling, when grief rises like a storm and hollows out the world we once knew, nature becomes more than backdrop—it becomes balm. May this remind you of that.

Grief Is Not a Problem to Fix, but a Place to BE

We live in a culture that rushes us through loss. We're handed timelines and platitudes, encouraged to return to “normal” as quickly as possible. But grief is not a wound to bandage or a phase to complete—it is a tender terrain we must journey through, a sacred space of remembrance, rupture, and renewal.

Nature does not rush. She does not demand we tidy ourselves up before arriving at her threshold. She welcomes us—muddy, broken, tender, and raw.

In the natural world, I found permission to grieve in ways the human world often resists. I sat beside rivers that understood the tears that continuously fell from my face. I lay beneath trees shedding their leaves and remembered that letting go is not failure, but part of the rhythm of life.

Nature teaches us how to die and how to be reborn.

To the Land that Healed Me

When I was in the rawest place of my grief, I turned to nature and the land. Not because I thought she would fix me, but because she didn’t ask me to be fixed. I could show up with her, messy, raw, and unfiltered and thats what my grief needed. No masks, no pretending, no filtering.

I walked trails lined with ancient stones, placed my hands on the cool bark of birch trees, lay belly-down in fields that asked nothing of me. And somewhere, between the ache in my chest and the hum of the earth, I began to soften.

Grief, I’ve learned, is not only the presence of pain—it is also the presence of love with nowhere to go, and the land gave it somewhere to belong.

The Forest that Held Me

In the wilderness, I found solace in the quiet stillness that only nature can provide. The rustling of leaves in the wind, the chirping of birds, and the sound of flowing water all served as a reminder that life moves. As I walked among the trees, I felt a sense of belonging that I had never experienced before. It was as if the entire natural world was holding me, supporting me, and reminding me that I was not alone in my pain or on my path.

Through my connection with nature, I learned to find beauty in the midst of sorrow. I saw the cycles of life and death playing out before me, and I realized that my grief was just one part of a much larger whole.

In nature, I found a sense of perspective and a reminder that everything is connected. Even in my darkest moments, I felt a glimmer of hope and a sense of peace knowing that I was a part of something much bigger than myself.

There is a kind of holding the forest knows how to do. It is not tight or suffocating, but vast and steady. The way tall pines surround without enclosing, how the understory rises up in invitation, how the air hums with life and mystery. I often wandered into the forest with heavy limbs and a heart full of sorrow, and left feeling lighter, held, and with wisdom stories.

The forest taught me how to listen—to the birdsong, to the cracking branches, to my own breath. And in this listening, I began to hear something more ancient than language: the knowing that we are not alone. The unnatural world (social media, endless tech) is often what amplifies our lonliness and isolation.

There are griefs the forest can carry for us—not by taking them away, but by reminding us that grief is not separate from life. Death and decay exist alongside sprouting mushrooms, rising sap, and nesting birds. There is no shame in sorrow here. Only belonging.

The Garden That Nourished Me

In my garden, I got dirty, with tears in my eyes, I pressed seeds into the dark and did not know if they would take root.But I knew this: something in me needed to try. Gardening through grief is an act of faith. It’s a quiet rebellion against despair, a testament that life can rise again from the broken ground.

As I watched kale unfurl its curly leaves, and calendula open golden petals to the sun, I remembered: I, too, am of the earth. I, too, am capable of growth and regeneration.

There is medicine in tending. There is healing in slowness. There is renewal in decay.

My grief became compost, it nourished not only the soil, but my spirit. And as I harvested food and flowers months later, I realized—I was harvesting hope, possibility, woven dreams, and previously spoken prayers.

The Plants That Teach Me

Plants are ancient teachers. They hold stories longer than ours, memories of droughts and storms and blooming again. Grieving with plants is like sitting at the feet of elders. Rose softened my broken heart, while I learnt that yarrow could help stitched the places that had been split open.

Plants do not hurry, they grow in cycles, they rest in winter, they bloom when the time is right, and so, alongside them, I learned to do the same.

The Home That Rebuilt Me

Grief unravels what once felt stable. The home I had previously built no longer fit who I was becoming. And so I rebuilt—not always physically, but energetically, emotionally, spiritually. I reimagined home as sanctuary, a sacred holidng ground, a place of peace.

I filled corners with dried herbs and altars of books. I let light in through the windows, and warmed my body with soups made from scratch. I let my home become a place that held my becoming and the prayers of the life I wanted to live.

Home is not only the walls around us, but the rituals we create within them. Morning coffee rituals, afternoon tea, lighting candles at dusk and curling up with a hand knitted blanket. Its also crying on the kitchen floor and still finding beauty in the way the light lands still finds a way to shine in. This is the architecture of healing, and it all belongs.

The Work That Moves Me

Grief reordered my priorities. It stripped away what no longer mattered and sharpened what did. Out of the ashes of loss, I found purpose and meaning—not as a way to bypass the pain, but as a way to carry it with reverence and care. I found a way to be of service and the work I do now—supporting others in their grief, writing words that name the unnamed, holding space for sacred transitions—this emerged from the very marrow of my own mourning.

Nature reminded me that all life has purpose, even in decay. A fallen tree becomes habitat. A withered leaf becomes mulch. Nothing is wasted. And so, neither is our grief. It can become the root of meaningful work, if we let it.

The Sunrises and Sunsets That Inspire Me

There were many days I didn’t think I’d make it, and then, there were sunrises. The world turned gold and soft, and I was reminded that light returns after every dark night. Not in a dismissive way—but in a way that says, “You’re still here, and there is more to see.”

Sunsets brought closure, and completion to stories that never really had clear endings. They brought an exhale, permission to rest, and just be with what is.

In the daily rhythm of light returning and fading again, I found a pattern that mirrored my own inner landscape, joy rising, sorrow falling, and moments of awe that stitched beauty back into the cracks in my broken heart.

Grief slows us down enough to notice the little things, like the sky, and to take in the significance of a brief and fleeting moment and call it magic.

The Friends and Family That Gather

There is a kind of community that forms in the wake of grief. It’s quieter, more intentional. It’s made not only of shared blood, but of shared presence. There were people who sat with me without trying to fix me, whos witness became part of my healing, and their stories helped carry mine.

In the natural world, we see this mirrored. Fungi connecting tree roots. Birds flying in murmuration. Wolves howling not in loneliness, but in song.

We were never meant to grieve alone.

The Community That Is Being Cultivated

From my own healing emerged a deeper desire to create spaces for others, spaces that are sacred, slow, and soul-honoring, where grief is not hidden but held. Where the natural world is part of the process, and where healing is not a race, but a remembering. This is what Weaving Grief is about. A community rooted in earth and ritual. A gathering of kindred hearts. A space where we walk each other home—through loss, through love, through transformation, and every in-between seaons. The community is not separate from the land—it is woven into it.

The Life That Expands Me

Grief will break you, and then it will stretch you. It will ask you to grow bigger than you thought you could.

In the depth of sorrow, I found the seeds of a more expansive life. One where I am more attuned to beauty. More open to love. More rooted in truth.

Nature didn't take away my grief.She walked beside me in it.She reminded me that death is not the end—it is part of the cycle.

And in that remembering, I came back to life.

Final Reflections: Return to the Earth

If you are grieving—whether the death of a loved one, a dream, a version of yourself—Let the land hold you, let the forest witness you, let the garden nourish you, let the sun and moon hold you on your tender days.

There is wisdom in the natural world that no book can teach. A knowing that healing is slow, spiral-shaped, and deeply personal. And still, you are not alone. May you find a patch of earth to kneel on, may you cry beneath an elder tree, and may you remember that you belong here, your grief and all.

If this resonates with you, I invite you to join the Weaving Grief newsletter—a sanctuary of soulful reflection, somatic wisdom, and gentle reminders that you’re not alone in your sorrow. The earth and your community is ready and waiting for your arrival.

About Us:

Weaving Grief specializes in compassionate grief therapy for individuals navigating loss of any kind - death, breakups, relationship transitions, chronic illness, loss of self, and more. By addressing these profound experiences, Weaving Grief empowers clients to grieve freely and live fully. Through somatic practices and meaningful reflection, we’re here to help you navigate these tender moments and rediscover the fullness of life.

Specific areas of focus: death of a loved one (recent or past), life changing transitions, relationship transitions and break ups, pregnancy loss, grief around family planning, chronic illness, loss of Self, and supporting entrepreneurs through the grief that comes with growth.

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