The Hidden Cost of Saying Goodbye: Grief, Trust, and the Toll on Mind, Body, and Spirit: Grief, Trust, and the Toll on Mind, Body, and Spirit

Saying goodbye isn’t just about walking away. It’s about facing the quiet aftermath—the emotional weight that lingers long after the decision is made. We often talk about the grief that comes with loss when we don’t have a choice, but what about the grief that comes when we do? When we choose to leave a relationship, a job, a community, or a version of ourselves that no longer serves us? That kind of grief can be just as crippling, and yet, it often comes wrapped in shame and confusion.

I learned this lesson the hard way. Over the last year, I navigated a season of grief that I didn’t fully acknowledge until my body forced me to pay attention. The weight of goodbyes—some chosen, some unexpected—took a toll that showed up in ways I couldn’t ignore. Fatigue, chronic pain, digestive issues, disrupted sleep. The stress of unresolved grief had settled deep into my body, and I had to confront the reality that while I had mentally moved on, my nervous system was still in survival mode.

Why Is It So Hard to Grieve When We Choose to Leave?

When we choose to walk away, there’s often an expectation that we should feel better. After all, it was our decision, right? But grief doesn’t care about logic. It doesn’t care that you left for the right reasons. It only knows that something is gone.

And when grief comes with choice, it often brings shame with it:

- Why am I so sad if this was my decision?

- Why do I feel guilty for doing what’s best for me?

- Why can’t I just move on like I planned?

We don’t just grieve the people or situations we leave behind—we grieve the hope that things could have been different. That some people wouldn’t change. That certain dynamics would heal. That a different ending was possible. And when that hope shatters, it’s easy to get stuck in rumination—replaying scenarios, questioning ourselves, holding onto the pain instead of moving through it.

And all the while, life doesn’t stop. Responsibilities don’t pause. The need to care for ourselves remains, but grief has a way of making even basic self-care feel like drudgery. We let things slide—exercise, nourishment, routines that once kept us steady. And before we know it, the weight of what we haven’t processed starts manifesting in our bodies, minds, and spirits.

What I Would Do Differently to Minimize the Impact of Grief

Looking back, I can see the ways I let my grief fester rather than flow. I didn’t give myself the structure or support I needed, and my body paid the price. If I could go back, here’s what I’d do differently:

1. Speak Up About My Experience

I carried too much of my grief in silence. I rationalized my pain instead of naming it. Speaking grief aloud—to trusted friends, a therapist, or even in a journal—validates the experience. It’s a way of saying, this matters, this is real, I am allowed to feel this.

2. Move My Body, Even When I Didn’t Feel Like It

When grief sits in the body, it needs a way out. Movement doesn’t have to be intense—gentle stretching, walking, even dancing in the living room. Anything that keeps energy from stagnating. I let myself stay still for too long, and my body felt the consequences.

3. Do Active Mourning Exercises

Mourning isn’t just about time passing—it’s about intentional release. I wish I had set aside time to grieve actively, whether through rituals, writing letters I’d never send, or symbolically letting go (like burning a note of the things I needed to release). Instead, I ruminated, replaying everything in my mind instead of actually processing it.

4. Seek Social Support Sooner

I isolated myself in ways that weren’t helpful. There’s a difference between solitude and isolation, and I blurred the line too often. When I finally reached out, I realized how much I needed to be witnessed in my grief. I would have leaned on my support system sooner instead of waiting until I was deep in the trenches.

5. Be More Disciplined With My Systems of Care

I knew what worked for me—structured rest, nourishment, breathwork, spiritual grounding—but I let those things slide. I convinced myself that I didn’t have the energy to keep up with them, when in reality, they would have given me energy. Grief doesn’t have to mean abandoning ourselves. If anything, it’s the time we need our care the most.

Honoring the Goodbye Without Losing Yourself

Leaving doesn’t mean we don’t love. It doesn’t mean we don’t care. And it doesn’t mean grief won’t find its way in. But grief doesn’t have to consume us. It can be honored without overtaking our lives, without breaking down our bodies.

Now, I move forward with more awareness. I remind myself that choosing myself doesn’t mean I won’t grieve, but it does mean I get to heal. That the hidden cost of goodbye doesn’t have to be my well-being. And that even when I say goodbye, I am still whole.

If you’re in a season of chosen endings, I see you. Be gentle with yourself. And don’t forget—you are worth the care, even in the goodbye.