Written by René Fay

One common thread in almost all my interactions with students and colleagues alike is the heaviness of this moment in time. More than ever, my sessions are addressing a kind of existential heaviness and sadness. It can feel so hard, maybe even impossible, to stay openhearted amidst such global hostility, devastation, and heartbreak.

Over the years, as both a meditation teacher and a death doula, it’s become clear to me that we, culturally, lack the skills to grieve. As meditators and/or Buddhists, we may be intellectually familiar with impermanence. Everything is impermanent; we’ve heard it, said it, maybe hundreds of times. But how often are we actually touching that reality in our daily lives?

With my meditation and doula clients alike, I often recommend a practice of microdosing grief. It’s not unlike how we set up a sitting or walking meditation practice. It’s a habit of spending a little time, regularly, getting familiar with one’s grief — just as we become familiar with our bodies and minds in practice. But our tender, open, broken hearts can get left out, ignored.

Grief can feel like a bottomless ocean. Emotions come in waves, often unexpected. A practice of microdosing grief is like training to swim; it doesn’t stop the waves or prevent us from being knocked down. But it builds the skills to navigate them, because we’ve become familiar with the waters, bit by bit.

I love the phrase “tender heart” or “tenderhearted.” Not just because that’s how I typically experience things when I’m not armoring up, but because the word “tend” is in there. How do we tend to our hearts, in small losses as well as devastation? When your heart is heavy or scared, what does it want? Not because that pain needs to be fixed or go away — it may be a perfectly reasonable response. But how can we acknowledge it and, without invalidating it, offer ease or comfort?

There are formal meditation practices like metta or tonglen. But tending the heart can also be less formal.

I try to mourn any loss that impacts me, no matter how small. I grieve when a beloved coffee shop or bookstore closes. I don’t minimize it with a shrug and “everything is impermanent.” I feel the loss. It’s time dedicated to becoming familiar with how I grieve. Everything is impermanent. I let myself feel that.

So when Big Grief comes, it may still knock me down. But I’ll have practiced swimming. I’ll know how to witness it, care for myself, and accept care. We can’t prepare for what grief will come — but we can train our hearts to stay open.

Is there a way you can gently touch your grief today, with reverence and curiosity?