One of the things we don’t talk about enough publicly, regularly, is the physical taxation of grief. And no, I’m not talking about my emotions or the exhaustion from crying or whatever.

My body is literally tired.

My muscles are sore, and I feel like I should be taking an NSAID or something. It hurts to move. It reminds me of the pain I felt after having been in a car collision.

So today, I want to get up and get moving. My mind is alert and not too bogged down; yet here I am, dreading the taxing nature of physical movement.

I keep asking myself, “Is this depression—am I depressed?” Because I know that my body does this thing too when I am depressed. Things and thoughts become heavy, my limbs go limp as my thoughts swirl.

But here, in the valley of the shadow of death? I am not swirling. I am clear. I am just in physical pain. I’m going to take some ibuprofen and see if that helps. I have things that I’d like to accomplish and that require me to move around a bit.