Being Better - Anne Moir

Something is coming.

For the past 13 years, I've been walking a path I never chose.

From widow at 37.
To surviving single mum of three.
To Health Coach specialising in grief wellness.

I've learned things along the way that I wish someone had told me.

About what grief does to your body.
About why traditional wellness fails when your world has shattered.
About the foundations that actually help you move from surviving to thriving.

I've been quietly building something.

A framework. A community. Resources that meet grieving people where they actually are.

Not Instagram wellness.
Not toxic positivity.
Not "time heals all wounds."

Something different.

Something that combines:
→ Lived experience (13 years of walking this path)
→ Science and research (what actually works)
→ Practical, gentle strategies (for your worst days AND your better ones)

And it's almost ready.

More details coming soon.

If this resonates, stay tuned. 🖤

You can't lead with an empty heart.

(Forget the cup. Hearts don't pour. They pump.)

There was a time I kept going because stopping felt dangerous.

If I slowed down, the grief might catch me.

So I stayed busy. Stayed "strong" for everyone else. Kept my heart pumping on fumes.

But strength built on exhaustion doesn't bend. It shatters.

And when it did, I finally heard what my body had been whispering all along:

"You're running on empty."

Here's what I wish I'd known sooner:

Rest isn't weakness. Rest is repair.

And that's not self-care fluff — it's science.

Research shows:

→ Sleep is when your brain clears metabolic waste and consolidates emotional memories

→ Rest activates your parasympathetic nervous system — the "repair and restore" mode

→ Chronic stress without recovery keeps cortisol elevated, suppressing immune function and healing

Your body cannot heal in a constant state of fight-or-flight.

It needs permission to stop.

These days, I try:

→ To move slower.

→ To let the quiet do its work.

→ To remember that even the strongest hearts need refilling.

𝗣𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗽:

→ Rest is not giving up.

→ Slowing down is not falling behind.

→ Your heart has been working overtime. It's allowed to refuel.

Rest is repair.

Your body already knows this.

Maybe it's time to listen.

When everything feels impossible, do the next right thing.

Just one thing.

Not the whole day.
Not the whole week.
Not the rest of your life.

Just the NEXT thing.

This became my mantra after Stephen died.

When I couldn't see a future.
When I didn't know how to be a widow.
When parenting three boys alone felt crushing.
When the weight of it all was suffocating.

I'd ask myself: What's the next right thing?

Sometimes it was: Get out of bed.
Sometimes it was: Drink water.
Sometimes it was: Call someone.
Sometimes it was: Just breathe.

The next right thing is never as big as your brain makes it.

It's small. It's manageable. It's the single step in front of you.

And here's the magic:

One next right thing leads to another.
And another.
And slowly, without realising it, you've made it through a day.
Then a week.
Then a month.
Then years.

You don't have to figure out how to survive grief.

You just have to do the next right thing.

Over and over.

Until one day, you look back and realise you've walked further than you ever thought possible.

What's YOUR next right thing today?

I won't tell you it gets easier.

Because that's not quite true.

But it does get different.

Year 1: The grief was a tsunami. Constant. Overwhelming. I couldn't see past it.

Year 3: The waves were still big, but there was space between them. I could catch my breath.

Year 5: The waves came less often. When they hit, they still knocked me down. But I knew I'd get back up.

Year 10: The grief became something I carried WITH me, not something that carried me away.

Year 13: I can talk about Stephen without crying (most days). I can remember with joy, not just pain. I can help others on this path.

The weight hasn't changed.
Stephen is still gone.
That loss is permanent.

But I've changed.

My capacity to carry it has grown.
My legs have become titanium.
My heart has expanded to hold both the grief AND the joy.

If you're in year 1 — or month 1 — I know you can't see this.

I couldn't either.

But I'm standing here, 12 years ahead on the path, telling you:

It gets different.

You won't always feel like this.
The waves won't always be this big.
You WILL learn to carry what feels impossible right now.

I promise.

Today I want to celebrate the wins nobody else sees:

🏆 You got out of bed. (Even though it felt impossible.)

🏆 You ate something. (Even if it was just toast at 4pm.)

🏆 You drank water. (Your grief brain needed that.)

🏆 You took a shower. (Self-care when you don't care is HARD.)

🏆 You answered a text. (Connection when you want to isolate.)

🏆 You went outside. (Even for 2 minutes.)

🏆 You didn't cancel that appointment. (Showing up counts.)

🏆 You asked for help. (That takes courage.)

🏆 You let yourself cry. (Feeling is healing.)

🏆 You let yourself laugh. (Without guilt.)

🏆 You made it through another day. (That's everything.)

The world celebrates big achievements.

But when you're grieving, the small stuff IS the big stuff.

Every single one of these wins is your nervous system choosing to keep going. Your body deciding to survive. Your spirit refusing to give up.

Don't minimise them.

You're doing harder things than most people will ever understand.

And you're still here.

That's not small.
That's extraordinary.

What's YOUR small win today?

The things that actually helped me survive grief:

(Not the things people told me to do)

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱:
"Time heals all wounds."

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗲𝗱:
Time + intentional support for my body, brain, and nervous system.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱:
"Stay busy! Distraction helps!"

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗲𝗱:
Allowing myself to feel it — in private, in pieces, in my own messy way.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱:
"You need to move on."

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗲𝗱:
Moving FORWARD (not on) — carrying Stephen with me, not leaving him behind.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱:
"Be strong for your kids."

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗲𝗱:
Letting my kids see me cry. Showing them grief is human.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱:
"Have you tried yoga/meditation/journaling?"

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗲𝗱:
Sleep. Water. Food. The absolute basics — before anything else.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱:
"Everything happens for a reason."

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗲𝗱:
People who said "This is s**t and I'm so sorry" — and meant it.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱:
"Let me know if you need anything."

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗲𝗱:
People who just showed up. With food. With presence. Without being asked.

Grief taught me that most well-meaning advice misses the mark.

What actually helps is simpler. Rawer. More human.

What actually helped YOU?

FOUNDATION 10: SOMATIC PRACTICES
(Your body holds the key)

You can't think your way out of grief.

I tried. For months I read every book. Analysed every feeling. Tried to logic my way through the pain.

It didn't work.

Because grief doesn't just live in your mind.
It lives in your body.

The tension in your shoulders. The knot in your stomach. The heaviness in your chest. The exhaustion in your bones.

Your body is holding what your mind can't process.

Somatic practices help release it.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀?

Body-based techniques that help regulate your nervous system and release stored stress and trauma. They work with your body, not just your thoughts.

𝗚𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗳-𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀:

→ 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝘅𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗶𝘀𝗲𝘀 — slow exhales activate your parasympathetic nervous system (the "rest and digest" mode)
→ 𝗦𝗵𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 — animals literally shake off stress; humans can too
→ 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 — stimulates the vagus nerve, calming your system
→ 𝗖𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲/𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀 — activates the dive reflex, slowing heart rate
→ 𝗚𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 — releases muscle tension where grief is stored
→ 𝗚𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 — bare feet on earth, hands on a tree, feeling textures
→ 𝗧𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴 (𝗘𝗙𝗧) — combines acupressure with focused attention

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲:

Research shows somatic practices can reduce cortisol, lower heart rate, decrease inflammation, and help process traumatic memories stored in the body.

𝗣𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗽:
→ You don't need to understand WHY it works.
→ Start with one practice. See how your body responds.
→ Your body knows how to heal. Sometimes it just needs help.
"Where do you hold your grief?"

FOUNDATION 9: BRAIN HEALTH
(Protecting your grieving brain)

After my husband died, I couldn't remember basic things. My brain felt broken.
It wasn't. It was overwhelmed

Your brain is working overtime right now.

Processing loss. Managing emotions. Trying to function with disrupted sleep, poor nutrition, and chronic stress.

It needs support.

Research shows prolonged grief can actually change brain structure — reduced volume in areas responsible for memory and cognitive function. But thanks to neuroplasticity, your brain can also heal and rebuild.

Here's how to support it:

𝗥𝗲𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱:
→ Write things down (don't rely on grief brain to remember)
→ Simplify decisions (same breakfast every day = one less choice)
→ Say no to things that drain you
→ Give yourself permission to do less

𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻:
→ Omega-3 fatty acids (salmon, walnuts, flaxseeds) — reduce inflammation
→ B vitamins — support nervous system
→ Magnesium — helps with sleep and stress
→ Reduce alcohol — it impairs brain function and sleep

𝗣𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻:
→ Prioritise sleep (when possible)
→ Limit doomscrolling and news consumption
→ Take breaks from grief (it's okay to watch something funny)
→ Stay hydrated

𝗦𝘁𝗶𝗺𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻 (𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆):
→ Puzzles, reading, learning something new
→ Social connection
→ Novel experiences (even small ones)

𝗣𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗽:
→ Brain fog is temporary.
→ Forgetting things doesn't mean you're losing your mind.
→ Your brain WILL come back online.

Support it. Be patient with it. Trust it.
"What's grief brain stolen from you?"

FOUNDATION 8: PURPOSE
(When your "why" disappears)

After Stephen died, I lost my purpose.
I will STILL a mum, of 3 precious young boys. That was and still is my most important role but beyond that…..

Every plan we'd made — gone.
Every dream we'd shared — ash.
Every reason I'd had for doing things — meaningless.

Why bother?

This is one of grief's cruellest tricks. It doesn't just take your person. It takes your sense of meaning.

But here's what I learned:

Purpose after loss doesn't look like purpose before loss.

It starts smaller. Much smaller.

𝗘𝗮𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗳 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲:
→ Getting through today
→ Being there for your kids
→ Feeding yourself
→ Surviving

That IS purpose. Don't minimise it.

𝗟𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗳 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲:
→ Honouring their memory
→ Helping others on this path
→ Building something new
→ Finding meaning IN the loss (not despite it)

Research shows that finding meaning after loss is one of the strongest predictors of healthy grief outcomes. But meaning can't be rushed. It emerges slowly, in its own time.

For me, purpose became helping others walk this path.

Being BETTER wouldn't exist without Stephen's death.
I hate that. And I've made peace with it.

𝗣𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗽:
→ You don't need a grand purpose right now.
→ Surviving IS purpose.
→ Meaning will find you when you're ready.

Your "why" isn't gone forever.
It's just being rewritten.
"What's keeping you going right now?"

FOUNDATION 7: NATURE
(The free therapy nobody talks about)

Some of my biggest grief breakthroughs happened outside.

Not in therapy rooms.
Not in self-help books.
Not in meditation apps.

Standing on a beach. Walking through trees. Sitting in the garden watching birds.

Nature doesn't ask how you're doing.
It doesn't offer platitudes.
It just... holds you.

The research backs this up:

Studies show that time in nature:
→ Lowers cortisol levels (the stress hormone grief spikes)
→ Reduces blood pressure and heart rate
→ Decreases rumination and negative thought loops
→ Improves mood and reduces symptoms of depression
→ Enhances immune function

Researchers in Japan call it "forest bathing" (shinrin-yoku). Just 20 minutes in nature significantly reduces stress hormones.

For grievers, nature offers something else:

Perspective.

The trees don't care about your to-do list. The ocean doesn't know your world fell apart. Life continues — seasons change, birds sing, flowers bloom.

There's something strangely comforting about that.

𝗚𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗳-𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀:

→ Morning sunlight (even 5 minutes on your face)
→ Bare feet on grass (grounding)
→ Sitting outside with your coffee
→ Walking — anywhere with trees, water, or sky
→ Opening windows to hear birds
→ Tending a single plant

𝗣𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗽:
→ You don't need to hike a mountain.
→ Your backyard counts. A park bench counts.
→ Even looking at nature through a window helps.

Nature is free. It's always there. And it asks nothing of you.
Where does nature hold you?