I didn't want to cry at Dad's funeral.
I needed to be stoic. To hold everything in because crying in public felt impossible.
My Mum wailed at the cemetery, and I gripped my best pal Shaheena tighter to steady myself.
But still, just quiet sobs I tried to swallow down.
And I kept doing this for years.
The emotions would spike - at my office desk, in the supermarket when I saw the instant noodles he loved - and I'd stuff them deep down. Style out the water leaking from my eyes.
Nothing to see here.
Until one evening when I finally let myself go on the train home from London Bridge.
I sobbed uncontrollably. Tears streaming, snotty nose, gulping breaths. Ugly crying.
And what happened?
Nothing.
No judging stares. No horrified looks. Everyone lost in their own thoughts or planning what they wanted for dinner.
That's when I realised I was making my grief harder than it needed to be.
All because of a fake fear that didn't exist.
We absorb grief rules we never agreed to
There are messages about death and grieving we absorb without realising.
That there's a “right” timeline for bereavement, a “right” way to grieve, a point when you need to be back to “normal”.
There isn't.
And these unconscious or conscious messages seep in, adding pressure to how you cope. Like a harsh Victorian aunt who beats you over the head with:
“People are going to look at you.”
“Why are you still upset about this?”
“Why are you crying when you weren't even that close.“
“You knew it was coming so why are you so affected?“
You're punished for feeling bad and having a heart.
Add to that cultural norms that being stoic is “strong”, and we've got a recipe for numbing out or looking for distraction.
But does suppressing emotions ultimately help?
For me, it was a very clear no.
Because the intensity came back 10x worse that made it hard to function.
And on the train home, sobbing freely at last, I learnt something: that emotions and feelings don't adjust to external “logic” or norms.
They show up to relay information about what's going on, both inside and how we exist in our environment.
They offer data we can choose to listen to or ignore.
And from my personal and professional experience, the more we suppress our emotions, the more they try to grab our attention.
What to do when grief hits mid-day, mid-sentence, mid-life
One of the hardest things about grief is that it doesn’t always arrive politely.
Nope, that would be way too convenient.
It shows up mid-day. Mid-sentence. Mid-life.
When you're about to join a call or your pal shares happy news which makes you remember your loss.
In those moments, trying to “figure out“ what you’re feeling makes things harder.
And sometimes the work isn’t about sense-making just yet. Sometimes it’s simply staying with what’s there without being overwhelmed or shutting down.
That memory. That wave of missing or yearning. That body-level jolt that knocks the air out of you before your brain catches up.
When this happened to me I'd get stuck trying to do one of two things. Shut it down and push through, or get pulled into analysing what it “means” and into thinking-loop purgatory.
Neither helped.
But I learnt to stay with the spike without amplifying it. To feel what I felt and keep going anyway.
I created the STEER Framework by bringing together grief research, neuroscience, acceptance and commitment psychology, and creative practice into something you can actually use in the moment:
S: Stabilise the moment
Start with the body, not the story.
When a spike or wave hits, your system’s already braced. Before you're able to think or understand, you need some physical steadiness.
On that train journey, I noticed my toes in my shoes and my feet on the floor. A small grounding action.
For you, it might be slowing your out-breath slightly or softening your gaze to narrow visual input.
You’re not trying to relax. You're creating just enough safety to stay present.
T: Touch the sensation
Turn your attention to what you can feel, not what it means.
Grief shows up as sensation first. Some body tightness, a heaviness, a buzzing or restlessness, a racing heart.
On the train, I noticed my chest tighten and it was harder to breathe. I was gulping for air as I sobbed.
I sat with it, observed it. Where it was in my body. How long it lingered or shifted.
No interpretation. Just noticing.
The sensation tends to settle when it’s noticed. Stories and judgement tend to intensify.
E: Externalise the energy
Emotions become overwhelming when they stay trapped inside.
Externalising means giving the feeling somewhere to land outside your head, even briefly.
For me on that train, it was letting the tears fall down my cheeks. Breathing out a little louder.
You might write one honest sentence, doodle lines or shapes, or make small, repetitive movements.
Maybe you'll say something out loud when you’re alone (or under your breath if you're not).
This isn’t about expression or insight just yet. It’s to reduce the internal load so your system isn’t carrying everything at once.
E: Evaluate capacity
Tap into what you have the body budget for.
This is the step most people skip.
Instead of asking “why am I feeling this”, or distracting yourself, ask: “what do I have capacity for right now?”
On that train ride, I had zero space to hide. I felt exposed but couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.
So I didn't.
In other situations, it might look like continuing gently, slowing the pace, taking a short pause, asking for support, or stopping for today without judging yourself.
Grief moves in spikes or waves, so respecting your capacity helps stay present and engaged.
You don't force yourself beyond your limits.
R: Re-orient yourself
Bring helpful direction back in.
You don’t get to choose when grief shows up. But you do get to choose how you steer when it hits.
After crying, sobbing on that train, I knew something shifted. I asked myself: “what matters next?”
I knew I had to look after myself differently.
Walk home safely. Eat a nourishing dinner. Sit with my cats and reflect.
Small but real steps.
Ask yourself: “What's the smallest step I can take that feels true to me right now?”
This is how you feel what you feel and keep driving anyway.
Not by pushing emotion away. Not by letting it take over. Not by beating yourself up for being human.
But by letting it ride alongside you as you feel the spike, surf the wave, and move forward as best you can.
An invitation
That evening train journey taught me more than I realised at the time.
Grief doesn't need permission. But I could let the grief spike, sit with it, and keep moving ahead.
If you're ready to practice staying present with what shows up: the grief, the fear, the waves, the noise, I’m hosting a small, in-person creative workshop next Saturday, 17th January, between 2 - 4pm, at BLEUR GALLERY & STUDIOS in Central London.
It's called: I Keep Driving Anyway.
We’ll explore this idea through a bus metaphor using guided mark-making and sensory creative practice.
No art skills needed. No pressure to share. Just space to practice and stay with what’s present.
I’d love to see you there. Select tickets here.