You might not hear the phrase “body grief” very often, but the experience itself is very real. It’s a tender ache that often goes unnamed—a quiet sorrow woven into the way we relate to our bodies.

It’s the heartbreak of realizing that the body you imagined—the one you believed you could earn through discipline, effort, perfectionism—may never appear.

It’s the pain of feeling betrayed by your body after injury, chronic illness, disability, hormonal shifts, or age. It’s the soft grief of noticing your once-capable body fatigue more quickly than before.

Body grief is often dismissed as vanity, but it isn’t.
It’s valid. It’s human.

In my work, I make space for this pain. And I also pay close attention to the purpose beneath it—because there is often meaning and direction waiting on the other side of grief.

Even when we don’t like how our bodies look or feel, we can still deepen our connection to them.

We can still trust our bodies.
And trust that they can hold what we’re feeling.

A gentle note before we continue

This work is tender. Grieving your relationship with your body may stir up memories, emotions, resistance, and old truths. You don’t have to do it all at once, and you don’t have to do it without support.

If this resonates, I offer biweekly reflections and body-based tools in my newsletter—a soft place for encouragement, hope, and steadying practices.

👉 Click here to join my free newsletter.
(I’d be honored to walk with you.)

What Is Body Grief?

Body grief is the emotional pain we feel when our body doesn’t match the version we hoped for.

It can be the loss of a body we once had, or it can be the grief that emerges when we realize that an ideal—especially one shaped by external forces—may never be ours.

For example, if thinness has been your lifelong goal, imagining a life without chasing it can feel terrifying.

Body grief often shows up in places like:

changes in body size
chronic pain or chronic illness
hormonal shifts (perimenopause, postpartum, menopause)
disability or injury
aging and changes in energy or function
trauma that disconnects us from our bodies
gender dysphoria or shifts in identity
loss of strength, vitality, or a sense of control

Often, the grief isn’t about the body itself—it’s about what the body once represented: safety, youth, beauty, belonging, desirability, identity, agency, health.

As I write these words—the very things our culture tells us bodies must symbolize—I feel a visceral resistance. Because these expectations are rooted in systems like capitalism, patriarchy, and white supremacy that turn the body into a tool to maintain status.

And I don’t claim to be immune from these systems. I enjoy skincare and movement. I love strength training, walking, and feeling strong. But even in these routines, I see the familiar motive creep in—the pull to maintain my place in systems that reward youth, thinness, and ability. And I also carry the privilege of being white.

In my practice, I’ve sat with people who’ve spent much of their lives managing, restricting, or controlling their bodies. And then—often around midlife—their bodies begin to change in ways they can’t stop. The tools they relied on no longer work. And they’re forced to face a truth our culture rarely prepares any of us for:

We cannot control our bodies forever.

I’ve also worked with people in larger bodies who have been encouraged (or pressured) their entire lives to shrink. When they reach the point of realizing that shrinking may never happen, the grief can be immense.

When the image of who we believed we should be cracks open, it can feel profoundly destabilizing.

If this resonates, I want to gently invite you into this grief process. I’ll guide you. There is something meaningful on the other side.

We won’t rush. But having a framework can help you orient yourself. It can soften the way you hold your story. And I hope my words offer some holding, too.

The Five Stages of Body Grief

Grief is not linear. You might move through these stages in order, out of order, or return to one multiple times. You might move through several in a single day or stay in one for weeks. With that in mind, let’s walk through them.

1. Denial

Denial is tricky because we rarely know we’re in it. That’s what denial does—it protects us by making reality feel muted or distant, turning down the volume on what we’re not ready to face.

Most of us don’t choose denial. So let’s take the shame out of that.

It can be maddening to witness denial in someone else—especially when you can clearly see what they can’t. But what if, instead of blaming, we honored the function of denial?

“Thank you, Denial, for protecting me when I wasn’t ready. You helped me survive.”

Denial may sound like:

“I just need to find the right diet.”
“Once I lose weight, everything will get better.”
“If I can fix this one part of my body, I’ll be happy.”
“Everyone feels this way—it’s normal.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“I’ll deal with this later.”
“I’m not trying hard enough.”
“I’m overreacting.”

And in specific situations:

Around gender:
“I don’t need to change anything—I’m just sensitive.”

Around illness or injury:
“This pain is temporary. I can power through it.”

Around aging:
“If I work out more or buy the right products, I won’t really age.”

Around trauma:
“It wasn’t that bad. Other people had it worse.”

Working with Denial

Start by noticing:

Where am I avoiding reality?
Where am I still chasing the fantasy that this next thing will fix everything?
Where does stopping feel terrifying—because I don’t know what exists beyond the striving?

Let yourself witness the signs softly. Without forcing change.

Give yourself permission to choose. You don’t have to let go yet. Maybe you’re not ready. That’s okay.

This isn’t about catching yourself in denial.
It’s about gently seeing it—and honoring the part of you that needed protection.

2. Bargaining

Bargaining is fascinating because it acts like a bridge between resistance and surrender. Surrender doesn’t mean giving up—it means acknowledging what isn’t working and opening to something new.

Bargaining is like standing on the edge of a dock with a life jacket in one hand and a bag of old tools in the other.

You’ve been told the water is healing, that the life jacket will hold you. But you’re not ready to jump.

So you dip a toe in.

Then the bargaining begins:

“I’ll go in, but I can’t get my hair wet.”
“I’ll wade a little, but I’m not letting go of this bag.”

That bag?
It’s full of the diets, rules, beauty standards, and control strategies you’ve carried for years. Heavy, familiar, protective.

Letting it go feels terrifying because it once kept you safe or acceptable.

But eventually, a truth begins to emerge:

You can’t swim while carrying all that weight.
And maybe—you don’t want to stand on the dock forever.

Working with Bargaining

Notice the negotiations you’re making:

Where am I saying, “I’ll accept myself… as long as something still changes”?
Where am I blending healing with control?
Where am I trying to delay discomfort by holding onto old tools?

Bargaining is usually a sign that you see the problem—but aren’t ready to release the old strategies.

This is not the moment to force surrender.
It’s the moment to tell yourself:

“I see that I’m bargaining. I’m not ready to let go. And that’s okay.”

As time passes, you may notice those bargains failing you. The exhaustion grows. And slowly, you start to trust that something more spacious is possible.

For now, let the dock hold you.
When you’re ready, you’ll know when to jump.

3. Anger

Anger is my favorite stage.

Not because it feels good—anger can be overwhelming—but because it’s active, powerful, forward-moving. Anger is the train that pulls you out of stuckness.

Imagine anger as a friend on a moving train headed somewhere you want to go. They reach out. You grab their hand. And suddenly—you’re in motion.

Anger is hot, fierce, clarifying.
It restores boundaries that were violated.

Sometimes anger points toward the culture that taught you your body was wrong.
Sometimes toward a parent or partner who reinforced those messages.
Sometimes—painfully—it turns inward, toward the body itself.

Underneath all of it is the same message:

“This hurts. And I didn’t deserve this.”

Working with Anger

Don’t fear your anger.
Listen to it.
Let it guide you.

To “feel” anger is not the same as discharging it outward.
Anger doesn’t need to explode—it needs to be witnessed.

Notice where it lives in your body. Let it heat you up without burning you down.

Let it tell you what matters.

Now picture yourself on that moving train—anger pulling you forward.
Jumping off would send you backwards. And honestly… you might get hurt.

Let’s stay in motion.

Your anger mantra:
Something about this deeply matters to me.

4. Depression

Where bargaining gives you wiggle room, depression leaves you with almost none. It has the energy of:

“I just… can’t.”

This part can feel heavy.
You may have no energy left to fight.

And I want you to know: you’re not alone.
This stage is hard—but it’s also sacred. There is something on the other side.

Depression in body grief can feel like:

“I’m exhausted.”
“Nothing will ever feel good in this body.”
“I’ve spent years chasing a body I was never going to have.”

This isn’t necessarily clinical depression (though it can overlap).
This is the collapse, the grief hangover, the realization of how much has been lost—and how much energy has been spent.

It’s okay to rest.
It’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to feel hopeless or numb.

This is the moment grief becomes real.
And the moment where new life quietly begins.

When you’re ready, ask yourself—very softly:

What now?

Working with Depression

Care for yourself gently.
Soft blankets. Warm meals. Dim lights. Slow breaths.

You don’t need motivation right now.
You need comfort.

Begin with the smallest acts of care:
A hand on your heart.
A short walk.
Letting yourself cry without rushing to fix anything.

If you’d like tools for this stage, here’s a blog on building inner resilience.

And reach out to someone who can sit with you—someone who holds space without pushing you forward.

Rest here.
Something tender is growing underneath the heaviness.

5. Acceptance

Acceptance is often misunderstood.
People think it means you’re at peace with your injury, your changing body, your dysphoria, or your diagnosis.

That’s not what acceptance is.

Acceptance is adapting to what’s here now.
It doesn’t mean the past stops hurting. It doesn’t mean you don’t wish some things were different. It means you’re no longer fighting the reality of your body.

Maybe you wear the swimsuit.
Maybe you dance in the kitchen or spin in your wheelchair.
Maybe you use the cane without apology.
Maybe you learn braille, advocate for accessibility, or honor your fatigue by resting.

You’re not obsessing over fixing anymore.
You’re more interested in connecting—with yourself, with your people, with your aliveness.

You may not always feel beautiful.
But you feel present.
You feel here.

Body-based support

Ask your body:

“What do you need today?”

Then listen.

Next Steps in Working With Body Grief

If this spoke to you, here are a few ways to continue the process:

You might find these blogs supportive:

🌿 And if you’d like deeper support, I share a free biweekly newsletter with body-based healing practices and gentle reflections. 💌 Join here.

Body Grief: How to Navigate the Pain of a Changing Body