Sitting with the Storm: A Gentle Guide to Processing Emotions
By Grace — The grandmother you always needed. Sourdough, wisdom, and zero judgment. ·
The morning mist is clinging to the rolling hills behind the farmhouse today, the kind of gray, quiet weather that makes the tea taste just a little bit better. I spent the morning kneading a fresh loaf of sourdough—the starter, which I’ve named 'Barnaby,' is particularly bubbly this week—and I found myself thinking about how much like dough our emotions really are. If you try to force them into shape before they’ve had time to rest and rise, they just snap back, stubborn and tough.
We spend so much of our lives trying to outrun our feelings. We treat sadness like a spill on the kitchen floor that needs to be scrubbed away immediately, or anger like a fire that must be extinguished before it singes the curtains. But after sixty-seven years, and four years of living in the quiet, empty space Tom left behind, I’ve learned that emotions aren’t messes to be cleaned. They are messengers. And they don’t care how busy your calendar is; they will wait until you are finally still enough to listen.
The Courage to Pause
When Tom first passed, I thought I had to keep moving. I cleaned the attic, I reorganized the pantry, I volunteered at the library until my feet ached. I was terrified that if I stopped, the grief would catch up to me and pin me to the floor. But the thing about emotions is that they are like tide water. You can build all the sandcastles you want to block them, but the ocean always wins.
Processing isn't about solving your feelings. It isn’t a math equation where you input the trauma and output a solution. It’s about creating a container. When you feel a wave of overwhelm, try this: stop what you’re doing. Put your hand over your heart—not to soothe it away, but to acknowledge it. Say to yourself, 'I am feeling [sadness/anxiety/frustration], and that is allowed to be here.' You aren’t inviting it to move in permanently, but you are offering it a seat at the table. Once it’s heard, it usually stops screaming.
Giving Your Feelings a Name (and a Home)
In my teaching days, I’d see children throw tantrums because they couldn’t quite find the words for what was bubbling up inside them. We lose that skill as adults, don't we? We say we’re 'stressed,' which is a very tidy, safe word. But is it stress? Or is it actually disappointment? Is it fear of the unknown? Is it a longing for something you’ve lost?
I find that naming the feeling takes the sharp edges off. If you’re struggling to identify what’s happening, try the 'Body Scan' method I’ve shared before, but this time, look for the 'weather.' Does your chest feel like a thunderstorm? Is your stomach tied in knots like a tangled ball of yarn? Describe the sensation to yourself without judgment. When we give a feeling a name, we move it from the chaotic, messy part of our brain into the logical, calm part. It’s the difference between being lost in a dark forest and having a map in your hand.
The Movement of Release
Sometimes, talking or thinking isn't enough. Emotions are physical things—they live in our shoulders, our jaw, our lower back. After a particularly hard afternoon of missing Tom, I don't sit on the couch and stew. I go out to the garden. I pull weeds. I don't pull them because I'm a perfectionist; I pull them because the physical act of digging my hands into the damp earth helps move the stagnant energy through my body.
If you don’t have a garden, that’s just fine. Try a 'shake-out.' Stand up, clear a little space in your living room, and literally shake your hands, your arms, and your legs for sixty seconds. It sounds silly—my grandkids think it’s hilarious—but it tells your nervous system that the 'threat' is over and it’s safe to let go of the tension. Or, write it down on a piece of scratch paper and then tear it into tiny confetti. There is something deeply satisfying about turning a heavy thought into a pile of paper scraps.
Letting the Dough Rise
Processing is a slow practice. It is not something you finish by lunchtime. Some days, you will feel processed and light; other days, you will wake up and feel the weight of it all over again. That is not a failure. That is just being human.
When I pull a loaf of bread from the oven, I don’t cut into it while it’s piping hot, or the inside will go gummy and ruin the whole thing. It needs to cool. Your heart is the same. Don't rush to the 'lesson' or the 'silver lining.' Let the emotions cool. Let them exist. You are not a project to be completed; you are a person to be cherished—especially by yourself.
I’m curious, dear one: what’s one thing you’ve been carrying that you might be ready to set down, even just for the afternoon? My kettle is always on, and I’m sitting right here at the kitchen table if you want to pull up a chair and tell me about it. We’re in this together.