When Grief Moved Into My Body

A journey of loss, whispers, and healing through movement

Welcome back to my blog and thank you for walking this journey with me.

Content Note: This post contains sensitive descriptions of loss and grief. Please read gently and take breaks if needed.

When I first shared Movement as Medicine, I wrote about how karate, Pilates, and yoga became lifelines in my healing. What I didn’t share then was how that journey began. This story is the part that came before — the quiet days after Paige’s memorial, the silence that settled into our home, and the unexpected ways grief moved into my body. It is the story of a painted strawberry rock, of finding comfort in small whispers, and of slowly returning to movement when words could no longer carry the weight of loss. If Movement as Medicine was about discovering healing, this is about how I found my way there.

I am happily married to Brad, and together we have two beautiful children. Paige was born on 28 January 2008, we married on 8 November 2009, and Lincoln was born on 12 August 2011. My family was imperfectly perfect. We had a bond built on respect, honesty, dignity, and love. Each of us shared a unique “best friend” connection — Paige wasn’t just my daughter, she was one of my closest friends. Lincoln and I had our own special bond, and Brad shared different pieces of himself with each of us. Our home was filled with conversation, laughter, inside jokes, and support. Watching my children grow into kind, respectful, honest young people has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. Covid affected us terribly. Our business could only operate in level 1 lockdown, and we lost many clients. It was hard, but together we survived. We decided to start over quietly, building a new venture while maintaining what we could. We upskilled, explored new movement practices, designed branding, and searched for premises. Slowly, we began to see light at the end of the tunnel.

And then, without warning, everything changed.

On Sunday, 26 October 2025, Paige and I spent the day shopping and visiting family. It was ordinary, joyful, filled with swimming, chatting, and studying for exams. But by Sunday evening, Paige complained of a headache, sore ears, and exhaustion. She vomited once, and I assumed it was stress or anxiety. Later, she told me she was cold. Her hands and feet felt like ice, but every test I did at home came back normal. I worried, but she fell asleep, and I told myself I’d take her to hospital in the morning. On Monday, 28 October, I walked into her room and immediately knew something was wrong. Her skin looked different. My gut told me to get her to hospital. I carried my 17 year old daughter to the car. At the hospital, she couldn’t walk. I fetched a wheelchair, and we even joked about taking a photo to cross “being in a wheelchair” off her bucket list. Hours of drips and tests followed, but nothing improved. One doctor wanted to discharge her. I refused. I insisted on an MRI. When I tried to wake her for the scan, my world stopped. She didn’t respond. I shook her gently. Nothing. Then suddenly she sat upright, gasped one deep breath, and I watched what looked like a seizure unfold before my eyes. Doctors rushed in. Within moments, she was intubated. I phoned Brad. I phoned family. I stood in the corridor watching medical professionals fight for my daughter. At some point, I called my mother…

“Mom, I’m sorry. She’s gone…”
“Mom, I’m sorry. She’s gone…”

Paige died in my arms on 28 October 2025. Seventeen years old. One headache. And then she was gone. We later learned she had a rare colloidal cyst near her brainstem that caused acute hydrocephalus. There had been no warning signs. Even scans might not have detected it. For three days she remained on life support while we explored organ donation, but in my heart I already knew.

“Grief is the price we pay for love. And when the love is immeasurable, so is the grief.”

The weeks that followed were a blur. Memorial planning, hospital bills, paperwork, and even technical disasters — my computer crashed, my hard drive failed, and thousands of photos disappeared. People assume grief means endless tears, but sometimes grief looks like survival. I wasn’t in denial. I knew exactly what had happened. But I was still a wife, still a mother, still responsible for helping Lincoln navigate his own grief. Eventually, the memorial came. And then everyone went home. The phone calls slowed. The visitors stopped. The world moved forward.
Brad and Lincoln were my greatest support, as well as my family, but there was still an emptiness where Paige should have been.

“Everyone makes an effort until the memorial. Then the days become very quiet.”

It was during that quietness that I found a strawberry rock. At a market in Jeffreys Bay, I heard about a painted strawberry rock hidden as part of a treasure hunt. To most people, it was just a painted stone. To me, it meant everything. Paige and I had an inside joke about strawberries. The kind people at the stall gave me the rock. Somewhere deep inside, I believed it was a glimmer of Paige. That strawberry rock became the beginning of something unexpected. I started painting rocks myself. Not because I wanted a hobby, but because I needed something to do with the silence.

“I wasn’t looking for healing. I was looking for something to do with the silence.”

Painting brought peace, but grief had moved into my body. My body ached from exhaustion, from silent tears, from the weight of loss. For nearly three months, movement wasn’t really movement — sometimes a walk, sometimes stretching, sometimes nothing at all. Healing was never going to be linear. Eventually, I found my way back to karate. At first, I thought I was simply returning to training. But months later I understood something had changed. Every punch, every kick, every breath carried grief.

“I thought I was returning to karate. In truth, karate was helping me return to myself.”

Today, my journey continues. In July, Brad, Lincoln, and I will begin a trauma and grief yoga programme together. We will be guided through another chapter of healing as a family. This is not a story about moving on. Because I never will. It is a story about learning to live alongside grief. About finding glimmers of hope in unexpected places. About strawberry rocks. About movement. About love. And about Paige, whose life continues to shape mine every single day.

“Healing doesn’t mean moving on. Healing means learning how to carry love differently.”

If you’ve connected with my story and would like to explore movement as a path to healing, you’re welcome to reach out. — I’d be honored to share my methods and help you begin your own journey.

My mantra remains: “Movement creates momentum.” Even the smallest step forward is a victory.

And so the story continues. From Movement as Medicine to When Grief Moved Into My Body, each chapter carries its own truth: one about discovery, the other about the journey that led me there. Together, they are not separate stories, but parts of one path — a path of grief, love, and movement that continues to shape me every day.

With love, Gala‑Jean Howes 💗