During my divorce I had to stay functional for my children. What I wanted to do was crawl under a rock. Preferably a rock in some distant country where no one knew me, and I would be left alone with my tears.

But while I went through the hardest thing I’d ever endured, my kids did too.

They needed a mom that they could rely on. A mom they could cry on. A mom that took care of their physical needs. A mom that could answer hard questions without bursting into tears or becoming enraged. A mom they could blame for everything they were going through if need be.

For the first time in my adult life, I finally understood what it meant to take care of yourself so you could take care of others. It had to be done. I had no choice. I had a therapist and a handful of incredible, supportive friends and family. But no one was there when I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. Or when I packed up my old life into boxes and wrapped them in extra layers of sturdy tape. No one made dinner for my hungry kids or cleaned my house when I could barely get out of bed. It was up to me and I was determined to be up to the task.

Therefore, I had to stay functional.

I was stubborn about grieving as much as possible in “real time”. I didn’t want to shove it all down and deal with it later. I tried in as many ways as I could think of to get it out. I had recently read The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D. It really resonated with me and changed how I deal with grief and trauma forever.

The book discusses the concept of “completing the trauma cycle”. Basically if you were in a situation that caused you trauma, for example a situation where you were being hit and you were unable to fight back, it is beneficial to find creative ways to relive the event and give yourself a chance to respond the way you wish you could have. Acting out a scene, with a safe person, where you relive the feelings of being hurt but you are able to escape or even to fight back. You take charge of a situation where you felt powerless.

Another therapeutic option mentioned for dealing with trauma was drumming or doing something physical.

I kept both of these ideas in mind, and these are some of the things I did to incorporate them in my own journey of pain and grieving:

1. Music

Music has always been my go-to for processing…anything at all. I tried to remember the last time I felt powerful, or free. In my case it was all the way back to my teenaged years. I remembered fleeting moments of assuredness in a very unsure time of life, but worth channeling nonetheless. I listened to the songs of my youth. Bands like: Rage Against the Machine, Radiohead, Jimmy Eat World and Live. They made me feel alive. Singing along and feeling the bass gave my inner thoughts something to ride out on. They brought forth feelings I didn’t even know I felt.

Shame. Fear. Anger. Vindication. Freedom. Loss.

For me, music played some part in every therapeutic measure I took.

2. Drumming

I had so much aggression and I needed a safe place to put it. I also wanted to engage with music in an even more direct way, I wanted to create it. Be a part of it. So I took up a new hobby.

A few years earlier I had made what I thought would be a savvy financial decision. Both my sons expressed vague interest in playing drums in school band. Instead of spending $20 a month to rent one snare drum, I spent $115 buying an entire drum set on Facebook Marketplace. I had hoped it would lead to a musical hobby for both my boys. I wanted to be the mom that hosted her kids’ garage band. Feeding them Doritos and listening to drumbeats at all hours from safely across the driveway. While one did briefly participate in school band, the full set never did pan out to create the mini rockstars I was hoping to raise. I decided I wanted to learn how to play them.

A friend of ours is a professional drum teacher. I paid him for one lesson. Just to make sure I wasn’t holding the sticks incorrectly and to make sure I had the basic concept down. He was very encouraging. He had the open heart of a great teacher. Just happy to introduce someone to a subject he loved. He didn’t negatively judge my fledgling noise making.

I watched some YouTube videos, donned some ear protection and banged it out.

I have no idea if I was any good. My guess is probably not. No one ever listened to me play. I was tucked away in an upstairs room above the detached garage. But it was never about sounding good. It was about escaping inside of the music and engaging with it physically.

My teacher stopped by for a follow-up lesson at some point. He pointed out that I was hitting the drums so hard I was making deep impressions on the drumheads. I was embarrassed. But he assured me “No! That’s cool. You hit really hard.”

3. Digging

When my dad died, I had a powerful urge to dig. To plant something that would live and grow, but also to get deeper. Dirtier. Closer to the ground.

During the frustrating agony of knowing we were headed for divorce before my spouse could accept it, I began to dig. I dug up 450 square feet of sod, clay and rocks to create a stone patio. I spent hours with my shovel for several days in a row, my arms didn’t even register the pain. My rage kept me going. The repetition, the mess. It felt like my life. But here I could see actual progress and I was in charge of it. I was moving forward.

Once it was dug out, level, and the base layer had been poured, a truck dumped tons of crushed stone on top. I spent days spreading it, covering the ground until it was perfect. Then tamped it down for hours.

I buried my pain in the earth.

4. Walking

I developed a habit of “rage walking”. We had a path in our lower field that we maintained a spiral walking path in. It only took about 10 minutes to walk in and out of the entire path, so I would go over the same steps over and over again. As usual, I had my headphones in and music was blasting into my brain.

Sometimes I’d sing along. Not worrying if I was heard. Or not caring.

Sometimes I’d run.

Sometimes I’d stomp my feet underneath me, crushing invisible foes and naysayers.

Usually I would take my dogs with me and just marvel at the joy they exhibited running at top speed. Leaping over one another. Unleashed and completely free to move their bodies in any direction they wanted or needed to.

5. dancing

Here’s my most embarrassing and yet, most effective way of processing the grief physically. Again, listening to music and just moving my body to it. I call it dancing, but really it’s not anything that would qualify as dancing. Just moving, to music, without restriction of any kind.

If I feel like shaking my head, so be it. Punching the air? Why not? Unskilled pirouettes? No one is watching. No one is judging, do it if it feels right.

Sometimes I feel the need to “fight back”. I start running up to the wall, stopping about 3 feet short and flinging the full weight of my upper body against the wall, landing on the palms of my hands. Then pushing off as hard as I can. In my heart I can feel that I’m simulating pushing people away that have hurt me. People that I still allow in my life. People I’m forced to keep the peace with but wish I could push away.

Typically when I’m dancing, it brings forth deep-seated emotions. Feelings of being judged, ridiculed. Trapped. Unloved. I typically end up sobbing.

6. crying

I’ve always been a crier. I’ve been teased and mocked for being so. But I accept that it’s a huge part of who I am. It’s a big part of how I process pain, and it feels so good, I don’t care what others think. Or at least, I try not to.

I have found nothing more effective to getting it out than letting the tears flow. And flow some more. Even pushing them out and wailing until suddenly…I don’t have any more in me.

When the crying ceases, a fog lifts. It’s like the tears are made of poison and I just have to flush them out of my body so I can see clearly again. Reclaim my sight.

7. writing

I’ve also always been a writer. I’ve journaled for as long as I can remember. I often don’t know how I feel about something until I see it on paper. I write furiously, not caring about grammar or flow. My handwriting is illegible. The words flow out faster than I can write them.

Words are less scary than feelings. Less overwhelming than reality. That big ugly hurt that has settled in the pit of my stomach has less power when it’s reduced to letters and sentences.

My head gets so jumbled, but on paper my thoughts have order and organization. I don’t think, I just write. I just get it out.

Then, there it sits on the page. I no longer have to remember what happened. It’s there, for posterity. It no longer has to live in my head to be honored.

If you’re going through a divorce. Or a loss of any kind. I’m so sorry. So many of us know how you feel and yet have no idea how you feel. Grief is so complicated and messy. It can’t be contained, controlled or put aside for a more convenient time. Be gentle with yourself. I hope you find ways to get it out and function for the ones you love, but most importantly for yourself.