Grief, the Body, and the Gentle Support of Herbs

Recently, I had the honor of holding space for a grief support workshop at Ginger’s Roots. It was one of those gatherings that reminds me why this work matters so deeply—not because we are trying to “fix” anything, but because we are learning how to be with what is.

Grief is not just emotional—it lives in the body.

It can feel like tightness in the chest, a lump in the throat, shallow breathing, digestive shifts, fatigue, or restlessness. In herbalism, we understand that the body and emotions are not separate. Grief, especially, is often held in the lungs and heart space, influencing how we breathe, how we process, and how we move through the world.

One of the most powerful shifts we explored in the workshop was this: grief doesn’t need to be rushed or resolved. It needs to be supported.

This is where herbs can play a quiet, steady role.

Not as a cure. Not as a way to bypass the experience. But as companions.

We worked with a few gentle plant allies that help soften the edges of grief and support the nervous system:

• Rose — for the heart. Rose holds both tenderness and strength. It supports emotional openness while offering a sense of protection, like a soft boundary around a tender place.

• Hawthorn — known as a heart tonic, hawthorn supports both the physical and emotional heart. It’s especially helpful when grief feels heavy or stuck.

• Lemon Balm — a bright, uplifting herb that gently eases anxiety and brings lightness during moments of overwhelm.

• Oatstraw — deeply nourishing to the nervous system, especially when grief has been long-standing or exhausting.

We also talked about the importance of the nervous system—how grief can keep us in a subtle state of “holding” or tension. When the body is in that space, it’s harder to process, to release, or even to rest.

Herbs, breath, and simple rituals can help guide us back into a more parasympathetic state—what we often call “rest and digest.” This is where healing doesn’t feel forced. It feels possible.

During the workshop, participants created their own tea blends—each one a reflection of what their body and heart needed most in that moment. Some blends leaned toward comfort and warmth. Others toward clarity and lightness.

What stood out most wasn’t the herbs themselves—it was the intention.

The act of slowing down.
Of choosing.
Of creating something supportive with your own hands.

Grief can feel isolating, but it is also deeply human. There is no right timeline, no clean stages, no perfect way through it.

But there are ways to support yourself along the way.

A warm cup of tea.
A few deep breaths.
A moment of stillness.

Small, consistent acts of care.

That’s what herbalism offers in times of grief—not answers, but presence.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.