When Grief Lives in Your Skin: Two Dogs, One Divorce, and a Closet Full of Bathing Suits I Can’t Wear

When Grief Lives in Your Skin: Two Dogs, One Divorce, and a Closet Full of Bathing Suits I Can’t Wear

So here’s the truth: I didn’t expect the grief to live in my body. I expected some crying. Maybe some journaling. But what I got was panic attacks while trying to put on a bathing suit and an overwhelming urge to eat carbs at 11 p.m. and call it healing.

It’s not just about losing Henry, though that one ripped me wide open. It’s also about Kay, my heart dog of 15 years, who passed away just a few weeks before. And, let’s be honest, it’s also about my ex-husband, who made my nervous system feel like it was always bracing for a hurricane. So yeah. It’s layered.

Let me back up.

Kay was my steady. My old soul. When she died in June, it broke me — but in a sacred, whole-hearted way. I was there with her. She was ready. I still cry when I think about her, but there's peace in it. It was grief with closure. Grief that made sense.

And then there was Henry. Oh Henry. I adopted him mid-grief, mid-divorce, mid-identity crisis, because sure, that’s a great time to bring home a high-needs dog with separation anxiety and trauma. We tried trainers. We tried meds. I tried to be everything for him, even while I was unraveling myself. And when I finally had to make the decision to let him go, it wasn’t sacred. It was messy. It was guilt and heartbreak and “What have I done?” on repeat.

Losing Kay felt like closing a chapter.

Losing Henry felt like tearing out pages with the pen still in my hand.

I’ve been carrying this grief not just in my heart, but in my nervous system. And it’s been bringing up old patterns like popcorn in a hot pan. My inner people-pleaser, my fear of being “too much,” and surprise! All the body image issues I thought I had healed years ago.

As a kid, I was told I had to be thin to be loved, praised, or allowed in certain rooms (looking at you, skating world). As an adult, I married someone who confirmed that fear without ever needing to say it outright. Subtle digs. Backhanded compliments. That feeling that gaining even five pounds would make me unworthy. So now, when my body naturally changes while grieving and surviving, guess what flares up? All of it.

Here’s the kicker: sometimes the grief looks like panic when I try on clothes. Sometimes it looks like needing to lie down after a five-minute memory. Sometimes it’s just a loop of “I miss Henry” while staring at my phone, hoping for a message that will never come.

But I’ve started to realize something. These old patterns aren’t getting louder because I’m doing something wrong. They’re getting louder because they’re on their way out. The nervous system doesn’t let go of something quietly. It screams a little first.

So what helps?

Soft clothes. Slow walks. Crying in my car with the windows up. Telling my inner critic to kindly shut it. Remembering that I don’t have to rush into the next chapter just because people ask when I’m getting another dog or going on a date. Looking in the mirror — not to judge — but to say, “You didn’t have to shrink to be loved. You never did.”

And, okay, this is important. I bought a 1950s-style one-piece bathing suit on Amazon. The kind that feels like armor but also a wink. It covered everything I needed covered and reminded me that I’m allowed to take up space on the beach without apologizing. That suit became my bathing suit ticket to freedom. I wore it. I didn’t panic. I didn’t disappear. I was there, in my body, and it was enough.

And all those dumb-ass bikinis I bought to please other people? They’re in the Goodwill bag. Every last one.

I’m not ready for another dog. Or another relationship. Or another damn bikini, honestly. But I’m learning that my “no” is sacred. My grief is valid. And my body, in all its exhausted, brilliant messiness, deserves tenderness — not shame.

If you’re in it too, just know this: it’s not just in your head. It’s in your fascia, your belly, your heartbeat. And it’s okay to fall apart. That might be how we put ourselves back together.