You Only (a)Live Once...

Making Sense of Collective Grief with a Nervous System That’s Doing Its Best

Lately, the world has felt like one long exhale you never quite finish releasing. One heartbreak. Then another. And then—because the internet loves a plot twist—another. And if you’ve been feeling foggy, spun-out, weirdly exhausted, or like you’re supposed to be functioning while your insides are quietly melting… you might be grieving.

But not necessarily grieving someone. You might be grieving something.

Because that’s what grief is, really: the moment where love crashes into loss and asks, “Okay… now what?”

You can grieve a home.
A community.
A sense of safety.
The way things used to feel.
Your belief that people—collectively—will choose kindness.
Even the idea that things can change.

Grief is about love meeting its limits in the world. And right now, many of us are doing that at the exact same time.

Welcome to collective grief.

The World Keeps Spinning, Even When You’re Crumpled on the Floor

That’s the wild part, isn’t it? Life doesn’t pause just because your soul does.

Kids need dinner.
The dog wants to go out.
Someone expects you on a Zoom call.
Rent is still due.

And so you end up holding two realities:

The world feels like it's falling apart.
I still have to answer emails.

That feeling of “How am I supposed to do all of this?” is not a personal flaw. It’s a nervous system trying to process global-scale loss with a biology built for small villages and saber-toothed tigers.

The Weight of Witnessing

Take a one-minute scroll through your feeds and—depending on the algorithm’s mood—you’ll go from a cute dog video to:

A murder caught on camera
Live war footage
People fleeing their homes
More shootings
More fear
More grief

All in 60 seconds.

We weren’t built for this. Our nervous systems evolved to deal with immediate danger, not an endless reel of suffering delivered in bite-sized, high-definition chunks between ads for discount mattresses. So people cope in one of three ways:

1) Doomscrolling

You know the one.

You meant to “just check something” and suddenly it’s been 40 minutes and your nervous system is playing the drums inside your ribs. Doomscrolling gives the illusion of control, or connection, or “If I keep looking, I’m proving I care.” But eventually the cycle becomes: overwhelmed → numb → ashamed → scroll more → repeat.

It’s exhausting. And it’s human.

2) Outrage

Sometimes grief looks like fury—especially when what’s being lost feels preventable. That anger can explode in the comment section… or it can turn into action: vigils, donations, meetings, protests, neighbors gathering in the cold. Anger isn’t the enemy. Anger is often love dressed in armor.

The question is simply: Where will you direct it?

3) Total Shutdown

Going offline isn’t apathy.

It’s self-preservation. And yet the guilt creeps in:

“If I look away, am I abandoning people?”
“If I rest, am I complicit?”

But numbness is a biological safety switch, not a moral failing. Your body pulls a lever marked dorsal vagal shutdown because the amount of pain you’re witnessing is too much to process in real time. You’re not broken.

You’re overloaded.

We’re Trying to Metabolize a Planet’s Worth of Grief

Marshall McLuhan predicted something like this in the 1960s with his “global village”—a world where technology becomes an electronic nervous system, collapsing distance and amplifying everything. Whether you think he nailed it or not, the experience is familiar:

Open an app → laugh → cry → outrage → numbness → confusion → repeat.

We are carrying more than we’re wired to hold.

So… what now?

Start by Naming It

Call it what it is: collective grief.

Then give it somewhere to go so it doesn’t calcify into despair or cynicism. And here’s the part people forget:

Your grief is love.
It hurts because you care.
It hurts because you want safety, dignity, and humanity for everyone.

As poet Andrea Gibson said, “Everything that you are feeling, name it love.”

Fear? Love protecting what it cherishes.
Anger? Love pushing against harm.
Sadness? Love longing for a world that could be kinder.

A Few Ways to Stay Human in an Inhuman Moment
Limit your scroll. Your nervous system will thank you.
Move your body, even briefly. Shake out the static.
Do something local. Small impact ≠ insignificant impact.
Rest like it’s a responsibility. Because it is.
Rest is not disengagement.
Rest is what lets you stay present without shattering.

A Little Inspiration, If You Need It
A group of monks is currently walking 2,300 miles—yes, walking—from Texas to Washington, D.C., in a “Walk for Peace.” Through bitter weather. With tents. Depending on strangers. Even after tragedy on the road.
Their message isn’t “look away” or “pretend nothing’s happening.”
It’s meet reality together.
Grief may be heavy, but it becomes a little more carryable when shared.
And maybe—just maybe—your grief is not a sign that something is wrong with you.
Maybe it’s a sign that something is still beautifully, stubbornly right.
Your heart is working.
Your love is awake.
And your body—sweet, confused, overworked thing—is just trying to keep up in a world it was never built for.

Marc D Malamud

Transitioning Doula