Push ups make me cry.

Some days, the shit pours through my mind and chest and deep down into my gut. Today is one of those. Grieving doesn't have a schedule. It shows up whenever. Thank you very much. Today, in the middle of my workout. Push up. Sob. Push up. Sob. Repeat. But, I just let the sobs come, and it sure as hell impacts the rest of my day. I can begin to have more bandwidth and presence for the things I need to do, while at the same time, feeling that release. It gives me some ease. Even inner smiles. Relief. This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. And knowing that later today, I may even get to touch a tree. And hang out with some dogs at the shelter. Which can really help hit the reset button. Also holding gently the knowledge that everyone grieves. That tunnel of grief, can be so isolating, but a world of people will feel it at some point. It's so much bigger than me sobbing while doing push ups. What is the reset button for you? I hope you have at least one. Having a few options always helps me. I can't always run out and find a tree to hug. But I can usually deeply breathe in and out four times, and that brings my feet back on the ground. I can smile at someone on the street. And not in a creepy way. I can listen to the wind, the birds, my breath. I can feel a point of contact, where a part of my body touches something. My butt in the chair right now. I can know I am loved by others. I can spend a moment wishing someone I know or someone I pass by today, to have some ease in their day. I know the sobs will return. I know the gray thick cloud will expand again, taking up space in my chest and my gut. I know I will feel that overwhelm with what's before me. I may even sob again later today. I mean, there's no chart keeping track. No app on my phone that will ping as soon as I hit a certain number. Ding. 'You have exceeded your allowed sob limit for Tuesday, Sept. 8th. Get a fucking grip. You have forfeited your ice cream cone.' There are no grief rules. And if there are, they don't have to apply to me or you. No timeline. You do you. I sobbed this morning. Good and hard. And even cranked out a few push ups and planks at the same time. There's something visceral for me about moving my body that unlatches some of that grief. And right now, I'm grateful I let it out. Because now, I have to get my clothes out of the dryer. Get more quarters at the bank for more laundry. And maybe, I'll do some squats. Okay, no. But I could! I know I can handle a lot when I'm sad. But now that I'm older and possibly a wee bit wiser? I know I don't have to push it, push past my limits. I can allow space to just be. I can just let myself be sad. And know that it will move through me so I can show up for my life, my spouse, my purpose, my friends, my work. And for more ice cream. If you are grieving, please know, there are so many of us doing this together. We may not be in the same place and time, but we're here. I do hope that brings some comfort. And if someone smiles at you as they walk by, just assume it's me. And if it's a dog, that's definitely me. I leave you with a song from Hanson that makes me smile. Yes, that Hanson. Write You A Song This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.