You know that specific, heavy fatigue that settles into your shoulders after a good cry that wasn’t even yours? It’s not just emotional; it’s a physical weight your body is literally trying to carry.

I want you to pause for a second and check in with your body. Where are you holding tension right now? Is it in your jaw? Your lower back? Maybe there’s a knot between your shoulder blades that feels like you’re carrying a brick. We often talk about stress as something mental, something in the head. But I want to talk about grief as a physical load. Because here is the truth that science is finally catching up to: when we absorb someone else’s pain, our nervous system doesn’t just empathize intellectually. It reacts physiologically. You might be sitting on your couch, scrolling through your phone, feeling completely exhausted, but you didn’t lift anything heavy today. So why does it feel like you’ve been running a marathon? It’s because you’ve been carrying the weight of someone else’s sorrow. And your body doesn’t know the difference between a threat to your own safety and a threat to your loved one’s heart.

Let’s ground this in biology, because understanding the mechanism helps us stop blaming ourselves for being tired. When you listen to a friend detail their divorce, or watch the news about a tragedy, or sit with a family member who is grieving a loss, your brain activates what neuroscientists call mirror neurons. These are cells that fire both when you act and when you observe someone else acting. In simpler terms, your brain simulates their experience. If they are distressed, your amygdala—the alarm bell of your brain—lights up as if you are the one in danger. This triggers a release of cortisol and adrenaline. Your heart rate might spike slightly. Your muscles tense. You enter a state of sympathetic arousal, ready to fight or flee. But here’s the catch: you can’t fight or flee from someone else’s sadness. You have to sit with it. So that energy has nowhere to go. It stays trapped in your body. Over time, this chronic low-level activation leads to what researchers call 'compassion fatigue.' It’s not a character flaw. It’s a physiological response to prolonged exposure to high-stress emotions without an outlet.

Now, I have to bring in the context of womanhood, because we cannot ignore how society trains us to be the emotional sponges of our communities. From a young age, many of us are taught that being a good friend, a good partner, or a good daughter means being available. It means being the listener. It means absorbing the chaos so others can remain stable. I see this constantly in my work. Women will come to me saying, 'I don’t know why I’m so drained, Kelli. I didn’t do anything today except help my sister through her breakup.' And I tell them: you did everything. You held space. You regulated your own nervous system while trying to co-regulate theirs. That is hard labor. It is invisible labor. And it is exhausting. We often mistake this exhaustion for laziness or lack of motivation. But it’s actually depletion. You are running on empty because you’ve been pouring out your emotional reserves to keep someone else afloat. And unlike physical labor, where you can rest your muscles after a day of moving boxes, emotional absorption leaves no clear endpoint. The grief doesn’t stop when you clock out.

So, where does this weight actually show up in your physiology? I hear from women who report digestive issues when they’ve been supporting a sick friend. They feel tightness in their chest, shallow breathing, and a persistent sense of heaviness in their limbs. This makes perfect sense when you look at the gut-brain axis. Remember, stress hits the gut first. When your nervous system is stuck in overdrive because you’re carrying someone else’s trauma, your body diverts blood flow away from digestion and toward your major muscle groups, preparing for action that never happens. This can lead to bloating, nausea, or changes in appetite. You might find yourself craving sugar or comfort foods because your body is seeking quick dopamine hits to counteract the cortisol surge. Or you might lose your appetite entirely because your stomach is essentially shut down. This isn’t just 'in your head.' It’s in your cells. Your inflammatory markers can rise. Your sleep quality can plummet. You might wake up feeling unrefreshed, as if your brain never truly switched off from the role of protector or witness. Recognizing these physical signs is the first step in separating your health from their pain.

This brings me to the most practical, actionable advice I can give you today. Boundaries are not mean. They are not selfish. They are physical protection for your nervous system. Think of a boundary like a filter on a water intake pipe. If the source water is contaminated, the filter protects the rest of your house. In relationships, saying 'I can’t talk about this right now' or 'I need to step away for ten minutes' is not rejecting the person. It is preserving your capacity to be present later. You cannot pour from an empty cup, but more importantly, you cannot regulate another human being if your own regulatory system is overwhelmed. Science says so, but your body decides. If you feel that familiar tightening in your chest when you start thinking about your friend’s situation, that is your body sending you a signal. It is asking for a break. Honor that signal. Step away. Go for a walk. Splash cold water on your face. Engage in a task that requires focus but no emotional input. This helps discharge the excess sympathetic energy that has built up. It resets your baseline. You are allowed to put the backpack down.

So, how do we lighten the load without shutting down our compassion? Small tweaks, big ripple effects. Start with somatic practices. Because the grief is stored in the body, the release must also be somatic. Deep breathing alone won’t always cut it, but movement can help metabolize those stress hormones. Try shaking your hands and arms vigorously for thirty seconds. It sounds silly, but it mimics the natural way animals discharge shock after a threat passes. Or try progressive muscle relaxation, tensing and releasing each muscle group from toe to head. These simple acts tell your nervous system, 'The threat is over. We are safe.' Also, practice cognitive defusion. When you notice thoughts like 'I need to fix this' or 'If I don’t listen, they’ll be alone,' label them. Say to yourself, 'I am having the thought that I am responsible for their healing.' This creates distance. It reminds you that you are a witness, not the savior. You can hold space without taking the burden. You can love someone fiercely without carrying their entire world on your back. Your worth is not tied to your utility as an emotional dumpster. You are valuable simply because you exist, not because you absorb.

I hope you’re giving yourself permission to set the backpack down today. You’ve done enough. You are enough. Take care of yourself, because you are precious. This episode is general information, not medical advice — please talk with your own doctor about your health. See you next time.