Grief is one of those experiences that changes the landscape of life. When someone we love dies, whether a person or an animal, the ordinary structures that once gave our days meaning can suddenly feel completely irrelevant.

Time slows, simple tasks become difficult and the world continues moving when, internally, everything seems to have stopped.

Great barrier grief.

The abyss of grief is a chasm so vast that no compass can navigate its exodus. Time is suspended, daily tasks rendered impossible. It is the only state where time and date are so irrelevant that the segmentation of society’s structure is blindingly apparent. As if in apology, time slowly returns and allegedly can heal all wounds. Coping with grief is a kaleidoscope of knots and kindling scars.

The multifaceted void knows no remedy but rest. Distraction is futile, conversation pointless. While we can put the past behind us, we cannot bury its bones for it rears its eternal head at the whisper of loss and the well of grief draws deep again.

Sadness and sorrow are ingredients of compassion and make up the wheel of life just as happiness, joy and ecstasy do. The incomprehensible emptiness that the loss creates – be it human, animal or mineral – is part of the process, the cycle of life. While we do not simply get over death, we can get back on board with life.

From grief to relief

In traditional Chinese medicine, grief is associated with the Metal element, the lungs and large intestine, and the season of autumn. It is understood as an emotion connected with contraction, letting go and the natural movement between holding on and releasing.

Rather than attempting to paraphrase this traditional framework, I draw on the teachings of Chinese Medicine Master Paul Pitchford, whom I studied and was certified under. His work explores the relationship between grief, the breath and the lungs, and the importance of allowing emotions to be acknowledged and expressed rather than continually held within.

This perspective offers an interesting way to consider the physical experience of grief.

Think about how a child might respond to genuine sadness — perhaps after losing a beloved pet. They may curl inward, draw their knees towards their chest, fold their arms around themselves and weep. There is an instinctive physical contraction, almost as though the body is creating a protective space around the heart and lungs.

Adults experience this too, although we often learn to contain it, hide it or move on before the emotion has had the opportunity to be fully felt.

The breath can become a beautiful bridge between this inward contraction and the gradual process of release. When we are overwhelmed with sadness, the breath may become shallow or restricted. As we begin to feel safe enough to soften, breathe deeply, cry, speak, move or simply acknowledge what has happened, there can be a corresponding sense of expansion.

From a traditional Chinese medicine perspective, this movement — from contraction towards release, from inward to outward — is an important part of processing grief.

This does not mean that grief causes physical illness, nor that emotional expression alone can prevent or resolve disease. Rather, it invites us to notice the intimate relationship between emotional experience, breathing and the body, and to consider how making space for grief may support our overall sense of wellbeing.

Sometimes healing begins very simply: with a breath, a tear, an honest conversation, or the willingness to stop holding everything so tightly.

How to cope with grief through food

When we are grieving, food can become a simple and practical form of nourishment and self-care. Within traditional Chinese medicine, pungent foods are traditionally associated with the lungs and the Metal element. Their warming, aromatic qualities are thought to encourage movement and dispersion.

Think of foods such as ginger, garlic, onion, cloves, cayenne, cinnamon, cardamom, cumin, thyme, sage, turmeric, wasabi, horseradish, mustard seeds and greens, radishes, and black and green peppercorns. They are aromatic, warming and often robust in flavour — qualities traditionally associated with supporting the lungs and helping to disperse what may feel stagnant or congested.

Pitchford writes about the importance of aroma and appetite, observing that the essence of food is received through the sense of smell and that warm, fragrant food can stimulate appetite. This feels particularly relevant when we are unwell or grieving, when appetite can disappear and the simplest meal can feel like an effort.

I also believe there is something deeply comforting about warm, slowly cooked food. During my own three-month convalescence with pneumonia, I mostly ate boiled peas and mashed potato. It was simple, soft, warm and easy to digest — exactly what I needed at the time.

That experience stayed with me. It reinforced my belief that nourishment does not need to be complicated. Sometimes the most appropriate food is the food that feels comforting, familiar and manageable.

This is also why I am cautious about prescribing large amounts of cold or raw food when someone is unwell or has a compromised appetite. Individual needs vary, of course, but warm, gently cooked meals can be a more comforting and practical choice when the body is asking for rest and nourishment.

Food cannot take away grief, but preparing and eating something warm can become a small act of care — a way of tending to ourselves when everything else feels difficult.

For more stories about food, healing and the relationship between nourishment and wellbeing, you can read my book, The Healing Feeling.

Comforting recipes for times of grief

When grief makes cooking feel difficult, I tend to come back to food that is warm, soft, fragrant and uncomplicated. Soups, congee, porridge and gently braised dishes can be particularly comforting when appetite is low or the idea of preparing a complicated meal feels overwhelming.

A few recipes from my kitchen that I return to for their warmth, simplicity and nourishment include:

• Restorative chicken and ginger soup — warming, aromatic and wonderfully comforting.
• Chicken and ginger congee — soft, nourishing food for days when you need something gentle.
• Miso soup with wakame and tofu — light, savoury and simple to prepare.
• Warming Ayurvedic rice porridge — soft, fragrant and gentle on digestion.
• Apple and cinnamon porridge — a comforting breakfast when you need something warm and familiar.
• Braised chicken with thyme and tarragon — a slow-cooked meal for when you have a little more energy to cook.

These recipes are not intended to treat grief. Rather, they are simple ways of nourishing yourself when eating well can feel like one more thing to manage. Sometimes a warm bowl of soup, a soft porridge or a slowly cooked meal is enough to remind us that we still need to care for ourselves, even on the hardest days.

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