Grief, Love and All the Things No One Sees
Grief is a terrible thing. It tears through your life in ways you could never anticipate. It brings love, rage, tenderness, anger, disbelief, numbness, and despair — sometimes all in a single day. It can make you feel unlike yourself. It can make you tired, scattered, furious, heartbroken, and utterly undone.
This has been my reality through 2025.
In December 2024, my dear husband, Craig Sherwood, was preparing to retire from a lifetime in the music industry as a Production Manager. He was looking forward to rest, space, and the next chapter of our life together. Instead, we were told he had lung cancer.
No one prepares you for what follows — the language, the decisions, the waiting, the fear that sits in your body like a weight. There are over 50 different types of lung cancer, and yet somehow, despite tests and procedures, we never received clarity about which type he had. There were failed biopsies, failed attempts at diagnosis, long waits, and moments where he was simply… forgotten. Each day, the stress gathered momentum. While treatment began in March, by then it was too late. It was spreading.
We were told things that later didn’t seem to match the reality of what we were living. We were reassured and then left without answers. We were offered treatments that did nothing but make him feel worse. There were hospital admissions, infections, endless hours in waiting rooms, and still very little explanation about what was actually happening to his body.
What hurt most wasn’t only the illness — it was the sense that he slipped through the cracks.
Token appointments. Too-late responses. Care that felt fragmented and inconsistent. At times, dismissive attitudes. The profound feeling that the system had already written him off.
And through all of this, Craig remained stoic but deteriorated — fast.
I became his carer, his nurse, his advocate, his voice, his everything. I watched the man I love weaken and struggle and still try to hold on to his dignity. The reality of caring at home was brutal. Support was inconsistent. There was no hospice bed available. We were left to manage the unmanageable.
These are the parts people do not see. The confusion. The fear. The shouting you wish you’d never done because you were exhausted and broken.
I have very vivid images burned into my memory of the deterioration of Craigs body. Some moments return to me again and again — the look in his eyes when words finally failed him. My husband did not deserve to go through that.
He was kind. He was generous. He loved people deeply and without condition. He gave so much of himself to others throughout his life.
And in the end, he struggled for breath, and I sat beside him and watched — powerless and breaking open. I felt the room change. He died at 1:50pm, with me by his side, and a compassionate district nurse present.
And now I am here, in the aftermath. Grief is not tidy. It is not linear. It is not something you “work through” and complete. It is love with nowhere to go. It is the echo of all the moments we should still have had. It is the replaying of scenes I wish I could erase, and the ache of memories I never want to lose.
I am truly heartbroken.
And I am saying this out loud because so much of what happens at the end of life is hidden from view — especially the parts that don’t go the way they should. Because people deserve to know. And because my husband’s life, and the way he died, mattered.
This is grief — messy, fierce, tender, furious, full of love. And I’m still here learning how to breathe without him.
Grief, The Body and why my work exists
And in the middle of all of this — the shock, the exhaustion, the endless decision-making — there was my body.
My nervous system. My breath. My back and its curves. My grief sitting in my chest like a stone. I noticed how my body carried everything: the bracing, the vigilance, the sleeplessness, the collapsing in on myself, the aching in my scoliosis-shaped spine from lifting, caring, crying, waiting.
It became painfully clear that grief doesn’t just live in the mind or in memories. It lives in the tissues, the breath, the spine, the gut, the shoulders, the jaw.
And this is where my work and my life meet.
Why I do the work I do
I am a trauma-informed somatic teacher and coach, working especially with women and people with scoliosis.
My work is about:
coming back into a relationship with your body after pain, illness, loss, or medical trauma
learning nervous system literacy — understanding how stress, shock, and grief shape your physiology
using gentle, intelligent movement and strength work to build stability, confidence, and capacity
supporting people with scoliosis to move, breathe, and live with more ease rather than fighting their bodies
It is not about fixing you. It is not about forcing your spine straight or overriding your emotions.
It is about listening to the body as it is today — a body that has survived things.
What grief taught me about the nervous system
Grief is not just sadness. It is freeze, collapse, fight, flight, numbness, hyper-alertness, bone-deep fatigue
And the body keeps the score, not as a metaphor, but as lived sensation.
Through my own loss, my training, and years of working with the body, I have seen how:
movement can release what words cannot
strength work can be grounding rather than punishing
somatic awareness can bring people back from dissociation
breath and orientation practices can help the nervous system feel a little safer again
Not perfect. Not healed. Just more resourced.
My promise in this work
I will not rush you.
I will not push your body past what feels safe.
I will not tell you to “move on,” “be positive,” or “fix” yourself.
I work slowly, relationally, and with respect for trauma, grief, and complexity.
We might use:
gentle somatic movement
nervous system regulation practices
strength and resistance training
scoliosis-specific awareness and postural support
rest, reflection, and embodiment practices
All of it grounded in consent, curiosity, and compassion.
If you’re here
And if this speaks to you…In April, I am launching The Somatic Strength Method — my new program that combines somatic practice, nervous-system regulation, and strength training. We go gently. We honour the body. We do not leave parts of you behind.
If you’d like to join me or simply find out more, you are welcome to reach out.
You are not late. You are not broken. You are not a problem to be solved. You are a human being having a human experience.
And because coming back to yourself is an act of love.