Along with grief can come overwhelm. There is so much to do and it all feels simultaneously urgent and pointless. I remember staring at the forms I needed to file to take my husband’s estate through the probate process and being unable to comprehend how to complete them. Every blank space on the form seemed impossible to fill. Name? Whose name? Mine or his? Personal representative? Was that me? Date of appointment? What?!  The date I was appointed his personal representative? Would that be when we got married? Or when he died? Or was I supposed to go through another process to get appointed? It was mind boggling.

The form came with instructions, but they were written for someone who understands forms and legal procedures, not for someone with Widow Brain who even under the best of circumstances struggles with bureaucracy.

At the same time that the probate forms needed to be completed, I also needed to make decisions about memorials, my husband’s belongings, the wheelchair ramp his friends had built, how to take care of the dogs, and what to have for dinner. And I had to cancel his insurance but still argue with the company about outstanding bills, find the keys to his vehicles so the people who inherited them could take them, and deal with the angry messages I was getting from the sleep apnea clinic because he didn’t show up for an appointment.

All while coming to terms with the fact that the man I loved to the moon and back was dead.

It all felt equally urgent and impossible. And at the same time, I felt like none of it mattered because even if I did all the things, he would still be dead and I would still be alone.

This overwhelm is why all the people who meant well when they said, “Let me know how I can help” were not nearly as helpful as they thought. (To learn what you should say instead, read this.)

When I am overwhelmed, I feel like I need to move fast, but what I’ve learned is that I need to move slow. Moving fast just encourages my brain to think I’m in danger and it responds by pumping out adrenaline and setting off an anxiety attack. What I need to do instead is to force myself to slow down by

• Breathing deeply, filling my lungs completely, and slowly letting the breath out,
• Taking a short nap and then resetting when I wake up, kind of giving myself a do-over, or
• Sipping a glass of water, ideally while sitting down and taking my time, noticing each swallow.

All of these things slow my brain down and signal my body that there is no need to panic.

And there isn’t. Most things that feel urgent aren’t really. I felt a lot of urgency around every aspect of the probate process, but in fact, there was absolutely no urgency. Yes, there was a deadline, but the penalty for missing it was that I’d have to fill out another form, which was a headache, but not ultimately a big deal.

(I reminded myself regularly that my husband’s estate was small enough that no one would notice late paperwork and I was right. Someone dealing with an estate large enough for missed deadlines to be noticed can probably afford to hire a lawyer to handle it all.)

After slowing my brain down, I could either tackle one of the things that needed to be done or realize none of it truly needed to be done in the moment and free myself to do something else, like cry or go for a walk or look through photos of us together for the six hundredth time, without the nagging feeling that I should be doing something else.

The probate paperwork got done, the insurance argument got resolved, and his belongings got dealt with (mostly—I still have a lot of his things and I feel no rush about getting rid of them).

If you’re feeling overwhelmed in grief, take a deep breath. Slow down. Try a nap. Remember that what seems urgent probably is not.

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