When Grief Moves Through Me

When my mom first passed away, I was in pure shock. I couldn’t move.

I remember my family kept calling me on the way to the hospital, saying they would pick me up from the train. That was unusual; they never offered to pick me up. Mind you, I lied and took a cab.

It was halfway to the hospital that I realized something had gotten worse with my mother. But she was already in hospice, which meant there was only one thing left—her death.

I realized she had died before I could get back to the hospital. When I arrived, my brother and cousin were outside looking for me. My brother was downcast. My cousin Nikki’s sad gaze landed on me, and I could see it in her eyes, “She died, didn’t she?” She nodded. I froze.

I remember thinking: Run! But before I could take off, Nikki grabbed my purse and phone out of my hand and led me inside.

It took me hours to shower because I kept crying. I knew my mother had to go. I spent hours crying by myself in my tiny apartment shower, fully knowing it was time for her to leave.

For months after, my body was stuck. My nervous system was all over the place. I realized that stillness didn’t help me; in fact, the more still I was, the more trapped I felt. My body held onto trauma, stress, and anxiety. Grief had settled into my muscles, my chest, my bones. It was like my body itself was in shock.

Slowly, I started to move. At first, it was small—dancing in my room, walking, going to the gym, and doing Pilates. Then I returned to Carnival in 2025, and that movement became ritual, release, and medicine.

Soca is happy music, and it found me at the saddest point in my life. Trauma can get stuck in your hips, and whining is a dance that focuses on moving them. Shake your bumpa, feel sexy. It’s uplifting. It’s in the music, the lyrics, the spirit.

My mom loved dancing, too. It keeps me connected to her. She loved a party. She loved having a good time. She loved an adventure, too. My Leo Mama.

Carnival in Trinidad, St. Vincent & the Grenadines, and Grenada gave me a space to embody my grief and my joy, in the name of my ancestors and culture. I felt grief and freedom flow through my body on every street, every parade, every beat, surrounded by a community that welcomed me with open arms.

Movement helped me regain control of my body and mind. I realized release doesn’t always come in stillness; sometimes it comes in sweat, music, and rhythm. My body needed to feel, to move, to let grief pass through it.

Grief isn’t linear, and it’s not always quiet. But it is possible to meet it intentionally, with care, and through embodied practice. For me, that meant dancing, walking, Pilates, the gym, and Carnival. It’s not a one-size-fits-all solution. It’s a way to say: I see you, grief. I honor you. I let you move through me.

Movement…
is my release.

Give your body permission to feel.

Give your body permission to move.


Give your body permission to heal.

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