A Note on Grief & Myofascial Release
How recent losses have shaped my body, my practice, and my relationship with MFR.
One thing that I often share with my clients is this:
Sometimes pain and fascial tightness have an emotional component.
For those of you who have experienced the loss of a loved one and have moved through the grief, this may feel familiar. For others, it may be come as a surprise to learn that grief isn’t only just an emotional process—it’s a physical one, too.
It can show up as a lump in your throat, tightness in your chest, a pit in your stomach, shallow breathing, deep fatigue, or pain that seems to come out of nowhere.
Our bodies hold what the mind doesn’t yet have language for.
This was something I was reminded of when I lost my soul cat, DJ, the day after Christmas. The holidays were already tender because my husband and I were missing our dads who passed away just two months apart in 2023. Sadness was already close to the surface for both of us.
Losing my father was the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. Grief reshaped me in ways I didn’t anticipate.
I was also sitting with the profound loss of losing John F. Barnes in December—my teacher and mentor, and someone who has been deeply instrumental in my healing and in shaping my journey from patient to therapist with Myofascial Release.
Grief has a way of stacking itself like that, with one loss opening the door to another, each one touching what was already tender.
When my father passed away, just four days later I was scheduled to attend a Myofascial Release seminar. In the midst of my grief, I considered canceling because what could I possibly learn when my brain felt like it was operating on an entirely different frequency? I couldn’t even make a pot of coffee without feeling like I was taxing my brain.
But I went anyway and it ended up being one of the best decisions I could have made. Being immersed in a space of loving, supportive energy allowed me to physically release the pain I was holding inside my body. Not to erase it, but to let it move, soften, and breathe.
While Myofascial Release doesn’t take away the pain of grieving, it has given me a foundation to feel my emotions, rather than bypass them.
When my sweet soul kitty passed away I was devastated. I still am. He was a source of unconditional love and such a sweet companion. Greeting me at the door when I came home and patiently waiting by my side for attention and affection. I approach grief from my myofascial perspective I was able to notice and allow those feelings to move through me fully. I felt a burning in my throat, a pit in my stomach and had two days of unexplained back pain as if my body was mourning in it’s own way. My body hurt just as my heart did.
I allowed myself to express all of the emotions I was feeling. Even if that meant wailing as I cry, or crying in a public place at the risk of making other people uncomfortable.
As I’ve been moving through grief after losing DJ, my myofascial release practice has taken on a deeper meaning. MFR puts me into a zone—almost like a deep meditation. And just as in meditation, while I’m waiting for the fascia to release, thoughts and feelings drift into my awareness.
Lately, those thoughts have been of DJ.
And yes, for many of you, I quietly shed a tear or two during your treatments. But I was also grateful—grateful to be in a space where I could connect with his energy: his endless patience, unconditional love, and gentle curiosity. In so many ways, he felt like the perfect addition to my treatments, reminding me to slow down, stay present, and listen deeply.
With my recent losses, I’ve learned that grief is a force all its own—and that I need more space, more rest, and more intentional care for myself. My self-care routine is already more robust than most, and still, grief has asked for more.
John F. Barnes says, “You can only take your clients as far as you’ve gone yourself.” Because MFR is physically taxing on my body, receiving regular treatment is essential for me—both to prevent additional fascial restrictions and to ensure I’m not working on a client while I’m in pain myself. Since my loss, I’ve intentionally ramped up my own healing sessions.
When I receive MFR, I am fully supported—held in a space where I feel safe to express whatever arises. Safe to release emotion. Safe to feel the uncomfortable, hollow ache of sadness as it moves through my body. Afterward, the grief feels softer, less sharp, more integrated.
As we release restrictions and listen deeply to the tissue during Myofascial Release, memories and emotions can surface. Sometimes that’s fear, anger, helplessness, betrayal, or grief. And sometimes, it’s the deep love and tender memories of those we’ve lost.
And that can feel scary.
But feeling is instrumental in the healing process.
Many people might think, “I’ve already dealt with that. I don’t want to be re-traumatized”. But on a subconscious level, unresolved emotions are often replaying continuously.
The body is still bracing. Muscles stay tight. Fascia hardens. Symptoms spread. Coping becomes exhausting.
Talking about our experiences is important, but it’s only one part of healing. Myofascial Release allows the body to process what words alone can’t.
Healing happens in layers just like fascia.
You don’t have to feel everything all at once. Each time you allow yourself to feel, another layer releases. You are always in control. You get to choose how much or how little you’re ready for in each session.
A Gentle Resource for You
I’m including my Feelings Wheel PDF with this blog. It is a simple but powerful tool to help you notice and name what you’re feeling, during sessions and in the days between them. If you would like a copy, they are available in my office.
If you’re moving through grief—recent or long past—please know you don’t have to do it alone, and you don’t have to rush it. Your body knows the pace. My role is simply to offer a safe space for whatever needs to unfold.