Why Does Grief Come in Waves?(What a “Grief Burst” Really Is)

You go to the market and you’re buying ingredients for a weekday dinner. You’re not that hungry and you’re thinking you’re going to just have a salad. Maybe even a yogurt. No, you’ll buy gnocchi and make a delicious dish you’ve made a thousand times…

then you hear it.

An old, oft-played sentimental song over the loudspeakers. The song is nice, sure, but it’s not one you ever cared much about. You don’t even remember it clearly. Did your person like the song? Would they have sung along? Maybe they would have made fun of it?

Something is happening.

Suddenly, while holding the gnocchi package, you feel hot. Your hands are a bit shaky. Your face is flush. You’re looking around at all the people doing all the normal things and you’re thinking: I don’t know why this song is hitting like this—you’re not here. All these people have someone to cook for. I have to get out of here.

Your eyes well up. The salty tears sting. People are looking at you. Are they? 

Head down, you walk out the door. The fresh air doesn’t help. Why is the sun so bright? Why is the car so far away?

That’s a grief burst.

A grief burst (sometimes called a grief attack) is a sudden, intense wave of emotion that can come out of nowhere—often long after a loss, and usually when you least expect it. Why does it happen? You can think you’re over something. You can think you lost your person three years ago and it doesn’t—or shouldn’t—matter like this anymore. And yet here you are: alone, crying in a grocery store parking lot. No one gets it. No one understands. They’re all fine. They’re all acting like everything is fine and normal—but it’s not. Nothing is right. Nothing looks right or feels right. 

And then another layer comes in.

You’re grieving like the loss happened today, so now you’re criticizing yourself for grieving like the loss happened today. And the person you would tell—the one who would really understand—is the very person who is gone.

Grief lives inside of us. It becomes part of our psyche, part of our sense memory. A song, a smell, even the feel of a wool sweater can evoke a painful eruption of feeling that you were not prepared for. As Bessel van der Kolk writes, the body keeps the score—and grief lives there too. While he writes about trauma, grief is its own form of it: the physical absence, the severing of a bond that once felt steady and alive.

One thing I often say to clients is this: put down the hammer and take it easy.

Don’t criticize yourself for being human. Don’t tell yourself you shouldn’t feel this way anymore, or that it’s inconvenient, or that you’re doing grief wrong. Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It can pull up to you in the middle of an ordinary day, when nothing seems to be happening, and flatten you.

After the initial shock of the burst, your job is not to judge it—but to acknowledge it. To take care of yourself while the feeling moves through you.

Sometimes that looks like calling a friend, going for a walk, sitting quietly, or even talking out loud to the person you’ve lost. There is no right way to grieve—but there are ways to be kinder to yourself as you do.

Among the many ways grief has been described, one that often resonates is this: grief is a longing to be with someone who is no longer here. A longing that has nowhere to go.

And so, people find ways to stay connected—journaling, writing letters, speaking to the person in their thoughts, holding onto rituals or memories. These are not signs of being “stuck.” They are ways of continuing a bond that mattered.

If nothing else, allowing grief bursts—rather than resisting or criticizing them—can lessen the additional weight we put on ourselves. Because grief itself is already heavy. It doesn’t need our judgment added to it.

The burst is a reminder that your person mattered. That the connection didn’t end just because their life did. And the more you allow those moments—without pushing them away or judging yourself for them—the less alone you may feel inside of them.

If any of this resonates, or you're not sure where to start, feel free to reach out. I'm happy to talk.