Grief requires energy. Grief sucks out your energy and drains you, then comes back wanting more. If you are grieving the death of a loved one, you are likely struggling to keep your energy up as it is. Such immense loss pulls you down and wears you out.

My mother died three years ago, and there are still days when I accomplish almost nothing, when I am so low and wrapped in the hard feelings of deeply missing her. On those days it’s easy to slip into a pattern of negative self talk and tell myself I am lazy or incapable or slacking because I’m not checking things off my to-do list. Does this happen to you?

There are times grief hits and we cry until we are “all cried out”. I imagine grief standing next to me, an unseen being siphoning out and feeding off of my feelings. There is that moment, after I’ve had a long, solid cry, when it feels like all I had stored up inside has finally come out. I exhale in a shaky and relieved sort of way. I can look my grief in the eye and say that’s all I have for you right now. Grief took everything, but it is still thirsty. Grief is always hungry and stands by with its hands out, waiting for the moment when it will receive more.

Since grief is so adept at sapping your energy, it’s particularly important that you take care of yourself. You must fuel up your body and your heart for the next time you will grieve until you’re empty again. In the beginning, in the early days of raw grief, these waves can crash down endlessly, one after another, with very little break in between. It can feel impossible to stand up again before the next surge knocks you off balance. Grief can take all of your energy, leaving you feeling as if you have none left for anything else in your life.

Please know that whether you recently lost your mom or dad or whether you’ve been without them for a long time, there are days when grief will simply take all that you have to give. You aren’t lazy or incapable or slacking. Yes, even if it’s been many years. Grief can sting and ache just as much years later as it did when it was fresh, raw, and new.

Grief may consume all of your bandwidth. Grief might take up the whole page and leave only a slim margin for your other responsibilities. Grief may be your main event, leaving you to pencil in the rest of your life in the tiny white space at the bottom of the page.

Just as how you are allowed to bring a piece of luggage of a certain size on an airplane, so does your heart have limits and boundaries. If your checked bag exceeds the weight limit, you will need to pay extra, or take items out. Your suitcase is only so big. If you pack too much in, you won’t have room to bring home souvenirs or the zipper will burst.

Grief may seem invisible and intangible, but it is massive. Grief is dense and heavy. Remember this, dear friend, when you are having a hard day. Be gentle on yourself in these times, and remember that you are carrying a heavy load.

As an adult child grieving the loss of a parent, I’ve realized that I must create more energy in order to acknowledge and fulfill my grief’s requirements and give it the attention that it needs from me. This is on top of everything else that I and you are already doing–work, school, parenting, caring for other family members, or other responsibilities–our grief asks us to create even more energy for it to consume. That is a lot to ask. We find this energy and then let grief drain it away.

Living with grief is an exhausting and unpredictable cycle. It wears you down. It changes you, like how even a trickle of water eventually carves a path through rock. It may take a hundred years or more, but that water finds a way, carves its path, and becomes a river, in much the same way grief makes a permanent mark on our hearts and minds.

As for how to find this energy, sometimes I find it in music. Singing loudly when no one is home. In sleep. While watching stand-up comedy so good that it actually makes me laugh. If I can truly laugh, when something is very funny, the relief and realization that laughing isn’t broken in me almost brings tears of gratitude immediately following. There were certainly days when I thought I’d never laugh again.

I can find energy in comfort food like Thai noodles or sipping tea with a true friend. I used to find it when looking up at the stars, but I live in the city, and the bright lights and winter weather keep the stars hidden.

Try a warm bath. Submerge in the water to your chin and breathe deeply with your eyes closed. Let the water work and take away what you need to let go. Let the warmth bring you what you need to recharge.

I’ve started to often say when in doubt, bake. My mother always said that butter makes everything better, and perhaps that is true, whether it’s on sourdough toast with a cup of tea or mixed into a quick batch of brownies that my kids will be over the moon to smell in the oven.

I find energy outside, even when I am reluctant to leave the house. Just standing in my tiny backyard helps. A walk around the block is even better. There’s something about the sky and the clouds, about looking up and feeling small, that helps. Deep breaths. The smell of damp earth and growing things. Movement. Briskly walking. Breathing the atmosphere in and letting it out. Just try. Give it a go. See what happens.

It helps immensely to walk among large, old trees. The biggest you can find. I am fortunate that my local parks have enormous douglas fir trees, and even an old grove of ancient sequoia. There is one tree so tall and so wide around that in kindergarten the children call it the Grandfather Chestnut. The scent of cedar and pine eases my heart. These trees are so stable and they tower above me.

Many of these trees were here when my mother was born, and they will still be here even after I am gone. They survive and witness the earth. Their branches reach up to the sun and block out the rain. They cover those who are grieving as we walk below, on the soft layered beds of dried needles. Their ridges of thick bark cover old scars. I think of their roots, extending deep into the ground. Hold on, they say. Hold on.