Getting On With Life While Your Heart Breaks

Early morning, early June. Winter in Perth.

I almost didn't go to teach my fitness class.

My brother Adam had died just a few weeks back. The grief was still fresh, still shocking, still the kind that wakes you up with your chest tight and your head reeling.

That morning, I woke up sad and angry; the kind of anger that comes with grief. Angry at how unfair the world can be. How my brother suffered so much in his life, and now he's gone. Angry that some family members were projecting their own pain onto me, adding weight to an already unbearable load.

THE RESISTANCE

I was carrying so much emotion, and I thought, "I can't do this today." I can't teach or pretend to be okay. I can't be there for anyone else right now.

That's resistance, the part of me that wanted to stay home, pull the covers over my head, wait until grief felt more manageable.

But what I've learned is that waiting for grief to feel manageable is waiting forever, so I kept going.

I arrived at the hall to teach my class, and one of the regular members asked if I was okay.

I didn't have the energy to pretend. "No," I said. "It's all too much right now."

MAKING SPACE

The women who were already there—already preparing for class—didn't try to fix it. They didn't say "you'll feel better soon" or "he's in a better place." They just hugged me. A hug that said, "I understand." This is hard and you don't have to be fine.

At that moment, I stopped fighting and made space for the grief. I didn't have to hide it, manage it, or push it away. I just let it exist.

Then I taught the class, and it was great.

Not "I pushed through and pretended to be fine," great. But I stood in front of these women with my heart breaking and found my groove anyway.

Because when you stop fighting the grief, you can actually feel what else is true at the same time.

WHAT BECOMES POSSIBLE

You don't have to be fine. You just have to do what calls you in your life each moment. Your grief doesn't keep you from helping others. When you stop hiding it, you become more real, more capable, more present.

I'm a fitness trainer, and I use my body to communicate. To teach movement, strength, and resilience. When I'm grieving, I wonder: can I still do this?

The answer surprised me: yes. When I'm standing in front of women with genuine grief—not performance, not inspiration, just real—they feel it. They recognise themselves in it.

The women in my class have lost husbands, lost children, lost their sense of meaning, lost their bodies to ageing and illness. They've watched their mothers fade from Alzheimer's. They've buried their siblings.

So when I teach them while experiencing loss, I'm not saying, "mind over matter" or "just stay positive." I'm showing them something true: you can feel devastated AND still move your body. You can be heartbroken AND still be capable. You can grieve AND live.

This is what becomes possible when you stop fighting the grief and start moving with it.

In this Article:

Grief is lonely, but it doesn’t have to be

What surprised me most was discovering how many other women are doing the same thing.

Your grief might look different from mine. You might be grieving a parent, a relationship, a role you've lost, or a side of yourself. Yet the loneliness is the same. The need to keep going while your heart breaks—that's universal.

The cheeky woman to my right, whose husband tragically died three years ago. The one in the back whose daughter moved overseas. The one in the corner who's caring for her mother with dementia while her own body is falling apart. We're all carrying something.

Grief is everywhere, and it's lonely. Desperately, achingly lonely.

But it doesn't have to be. When you stop pretending—when you let others see that you're struggling—connection becomes possible.

When I told my class that morning that I wasn't coping, something changed. The pretence fell away. Suddenly, we weren't a group of women trying to look fine. We were a group of women actually living—with all the mess and heartbreak that comes with it.

The hugs, the nods, the quiet acknowledgement—that's connection. That's what holds us when everything else is falling apart.

How to actually do this: Mindfulness and Self-Compassion

So how do you teach, lead, care, and be out there in life while your heart is breaking? Not by fighting the grief, by working with it.

Mindfulness (noticing what's true):

As I taught that morning, I practised something simple: I noticed my body moving. The way my feet landed on the ground. The way my arms extended. I felt the sensations in my muscles as I guided the women through each movement.

I could feel the grief too as sensations pulsing through my body—tightness inside my chest, weightiness in my legs, exhaustion that lives in your bones. But I didn't drown in it or wallow in it. I just noticed it, felt it, and kept moving.

That's maintaining mindfulness when you're grieving: noticing what you’re experiencing without becoming overloaded by it.

Self-Compassion (speaking to yourself kindly):

I also noticed what my body needed. Some mornings, that means rest; others, it means movement. That morning, it meant teaching.

And I spoke to myself the way I'd speak to a friend in pain. Not harsh or critical, but kindly:

"This is really hard. You're doing this anyway, you can open up to feeling sad and angry and still keep going."

Soothing touch helped. Placing my hand on my heart and sensing the warmth. It's not being selfish. It's what allows you to keep going without breaking completely.

Why This Matters

That morning, standing in front of my class as my heart broke, I remembered that what I do matters.

These women need to know that being connected to their bodies, to movement, to each other—it's not vanity. It's survival, and it’s how we carry loss and stay alive rather than just exist.

That's the real work of ageing, honestly. Not fighting the grief, but working with it so you can keep living fully.

SO IF YOU'RE GRIEVING RIGHT NOW:

Your grief doesn't stop you from going out and living your life.

The women around you are grieving too. When you stop pretending and let them see you carrying loss while still moving forward—that's when honest connections become possible. Healing becomes possible. So, you don't have to hide your grief to stay connected.

You're not carrying this alone.

Women live their lives grieving. Living while hurting, and moving forward with broken hearts. They're in fitness classes, offices, cafes, and living rooms. You might be one of them right now. And if you are, you're exactly who I'm writing for.

Love,
Penelope 🌷

Closing Thoughts

If this blog resonated with you, comment below by sharing your story. Take a moment to express how this message connects with your experience, because true connections begin when we acknowledge our struggles together.

There's more of this work available—free bi-weekly Ageing Honestly letters. And if you want deeper support, accountability, and community while you figure out how to hold it all, I have courses, coaching, and a free private community for exactly this: Going Deeper

If you're reading this and want to connect, comment below with a word or a story, or simply say 'here.' Let the women reading this know they are seen and not alone.

Penelope Lane is a life coach, mindfulness teacher, and fitness and brain health trainer who helps women over 60 build whole strength—body, mind, heart, and soul. At 68 she's learned the hard way that staying alive isn't the same as feeling alive.