Alchemizing Grief Through Writing

In my grief support work with parents and siblings, I will sometimes ask, "Where do you feel your grief in your body today?" If they respond, “I feel it in my throat” or “It feels stuck in me”, I suggest they find a quiet time in their day and write a few words each day in a journal.

Suggestions range from stream-of-consciousness writing upon waking, to letters over morning coffee, or simply jotting down five experiences before sleep.

Research has shown that writing for just a few days about deeply felt experiences can help people feel better emotionally and even lead to lasting health improvements. Simply put, putting our grief into words can help shift it in our bodies and mind, transforming it into a source of healing and resilience.

When James died, my journal was the first place I went. My pen felt heavy in the twilight of morning—yet my head felt lightest then. This was the time and place for my complicated feelings to go. It was messy writing; I just let my emotions flow. I didn’t edit myself. I wasn’t trying to create anything perfect. I wanted to feel everything and let go of self-judgment.

I discovered the term alchemizing grief when reading Suleika Jaouad’s The Book of Alchemy this summer. A lifelong journaler, Jaouard wrote and painted her way through her cancer diagnosis, transforming her pain and sorrow by expressing herself honestly on the page.

Grief is the most disruptive force in a life—it demands honest engagement with all that comes with it, and one way to engage is on the page. By writing in and through our grief, we can alchemize it, making it something bearable, maybe understandable, and maybe even beautiful.

Later that summer, at the Grief and Love retreat in Sweden, I witnessed this alchemy in action. One writing prompt I gave invited participants to address grief directly. Kara, Sadie’s mom, responded with a poem that is at once stark and hopeful. In “Grief,” Kara traces the forceful arrival of sorrow, how it invades and remakes reality, and how it demands a permanent place in her life. Faced with the unthinkable, she ultimately chooses to meet grief not with resistance, but with kindness—the one thing her daughter left behind.

Grief

I knew one day I would have to meet you

But you came to my home too soon.

I’d not yet readied myself to greet you.

It was arrogant and rude.

When I opened the door, you shoved me aside

Before I could let you in

You threw my body against the floor

And kicked me with a grin.

You tore her future from my mind

You burned my heart with fiery coal

You rearranged reality

And eviscerated my soul

You advised me you were moving in

That her room was now your own

That I could never oust you

That you would never roam

You handed me pain in a pretty pink bow

And covered it with thorns

You spread your dark around me

And left me here to mourn.

And now you live beside me

Without me and within

And I must choose to end it all

Or start anew again

And all I have is kindness

That she has left behind

It is the only weapon

That lives within my mind

And so I wield kindness

Against your painful cry

And with it carry onward

She, and grief, and I.

Writing won’t erase pain. But it can transmute the rawness of loss into connection, understanding, and into something unexpected.

It’s about letting our memories and stories breathe until what feels impossible to hold becomes, if not lighter, at least differently lit—capable of containing both darkness and some small light.

Kara’s poem stands as a testament to this transformation, from devastation into a gentler, more bearable companion—one that carries both the ache of loss and the enduring presence of kindness.

Writing about our grief is memory work—a kind of hope, and a way to reassemble what’s broken into a vessel that holds both sorrow and possibility.

For this reason, I encourage exploring hybrid writing—blending poetry, lists, letters, and fragments— as it lets us approach grief from many angles.

Here’s a hybrid prompt to try that I call “In this photograph…”: Choose an image—real or remembered. Write a few lines describing what is just outside the frame (what you can’t see but imagine is there). Then create a poem, a short list, or a stanza that captures what the image can’t show.

In Sweden, I encouraged parents to experiment with these forms.

On our first morning—jet-lagged, slightly anxious, and sharing space with strangers—I offered this prompt: "Just ten images." In fifteen minutes, parents wrote ten images from the past twenty-four hours. This prompt, particularly helpful for those who feel uninspired, short on time, or lacking emotional energy, yielded a vivid collection of snapshots. One parent described glimpsing a beautiful young woman on a train from Stockholm, then added that she would have caught his son’s attention. We all smiled—another moment, another image, gently shifting grief’s weight.

If you’re wondering where to begin, remember writing in and through grief requires only a single, curious step.

Notice where grief settles in your body today; let that be your starting point. Sometimes, just moving and noticing—giving shape to your experience in writing—can reveal the quiet alchemy within sorrow.

Here’s a gentle invitation: go for a 15-minute walk with your phone and take photos of anything that catches your eye. When you return, choose one image and spend ten minutes writing about what memories, sensations, or emotions arise.

Write messily. Write honestly. Let the images and words mingle—there’s no right way to begin, only your way.

With each effort to alchemize grief, it may shift—even if only a little—so what once felt impossible to bear becomes less so.

We can learn to carry loss alongside love and kindness, letting our writing honor both memory and hope.

Simple practices like these invite transformation, one word at a time.

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Kristin Seeberger is a Love in the Trenches Grief Group Leader and a certified Peer Grief Counselor who helps parents navigate their grief. Kristin recently completed an MFA at Bennington Writing Seminars. Her work centers on grief and what remains after loss, exploring how writing and the natural world can create an 'elsewhere space' for healing. She co-leads the Grief and Love retreat in Sweden, using creative practices to process and transform grief.