Am I Going Mad? Why Early Grief Feels So Strange (and Why You’re Not Doing It Wrong)

Grief can be wildly confusing.

One minute you’re functioning (look at you, replying to emails, making tea, doing a suspicious amount of “I’m fine” smiling)… and the next minute you’re crying because you saw a packet of biscuits you didn’t even like that much.

You might feel foggy. Forgetful. On edge. Exhausted but wired. Numb, then furious, then oddly calm, then guilty about being calm. It can honestly feel like your brain has been swapped out for a slightly haunted sponge.

If you’ve found yourself thinking:

• “Is this normal?”

• “Why am I reacting like this?”

• “Am I going mad?”

  
  

You’re not alone. And you’re not going mad.

Early grief can feel strange because it’s not just an emotion. It’s a whole-body experience. It affects your mind, your nervous system, your identity, your routines, and your sense of safety in the world. It’s your system trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense yet.

This post is here to normalise what you might be experiencing and offer a few gentle ways to support yourself—without the usual “have you tried yoga?” energy.

First: grief is not one feeling

People often talk about grief as if it’s just sadness. Like it’s a single, tidy emotion that arrives, hangs about looking mournful, and then politely leaves after an appropriate amount of time.

Grief is not tidy. Grief is a whole range of reactions—emotional, physical, and mental—and they can change from hour to hour.

Grief can include sadness, yes. But it can also include:

• anger

• anxiety

• numbness

• relief

• guilt

• confusion

• loneliness

• shock

• moments of calm or even laughter (which can then trigger guilt—because grief loves a plot twist)

  
  

None of these responses mean you didn’t care. None of them mean you’re doing grief “wrong.”

Why grief feels so weird in the beginning

In early grief, your mind and body are adjusting to a new reality. Something has changed—sometimes suddenly, sometimes after a long build-up—and your system is trying to recalibrate.

A helpful way to think about it is: grief is your system responding to loss and trying to reorganise life around an absence. 

That reorganisation takes time. And while it’s happening, you might feel unlike yourself.

You might feel:

• like the world is slightly unreal

• like you’re watching life through a window

• like you’re operating on autopilot

• like your tolerance for small things has vanished (gone, left the chat, no forwarding address)

This doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means your system is under strain.

“Am I going mad?” Common grief reactions that can feel alarming (but are often normal)

Let’s name a few experiences that people often worry about, because nobody warned them grief can look like this.

1) The grief brain fog

You might struggle to concentrate. You might forget what day it is. You might read the same sentence five times and still not know what it said. You might walk into a room and forget why you’re there (and then have to stand there like an NPC waiting for the next instruction).

This is common. When we’re grieving, our mind is processing a lot—emotionally and cognitively. Add disrupted sleep and stress hormones, and fogginess makes sense.

Gentle reframe: “My brain is overwhelmed, not failing.”

2) Exhaustion that doesn’t match what you’ve “done”

You might feel tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. Grief can be physically draining. Even if you’re “not doing much,” your body is working hard to manage stress, emotion, and change.

Some people notice they feel heavy, slowed down, or like simple tasks take double the effort.

Gentle reframe: “Grief is work, even when it’s invisible.”

3) Sleep changes (too much, too little, or chaotic)

You might struggle to fall asleep, wake early, wake repeatedly, or sleep loads and still feel exhausted. You might have vivid dreams. Or you might dread bedtime because that’s when everything catches up.

Sleep disturbance is very common in grief. Your body may be on high alert, even if you don’t feel “anxious” in a conscious way.

Gentle reframe: “My body is trying to protect me. It just doesn’t know how yet.”

4) Feeling numb (or feeling nothing at all)

Numbness can scare people. It can make you question yourself: “Why don’t I feel more? What’s wrong with me?”

Numbness can be a protective response—your system creating distance from the intensity until you’re able to bear it.

It’s not a sign you don’t care. It’s often a sign your system is pacing the pain.

Gentle reframe: “Numbness is still grief.”

5) Anger, irritation, and a short fuse

Grief can make you angry. You might be furious at the situation, at other people, at unfairness, at the person who died, at yourself, at the entire concept of time.

You might also feel more irritable generally—snappy, impatient, intolerant of nonsense. (To be honest, nonsense was never that charming.)

Anger can be part of grief because it holds energy. It’s also sometimes easier to feel than sorrow.

Gentle reframe: “Anger is a grief emotion too.”

6) Guilt (the uninvited guest who thinks it lives here)

Guilt can show up in many forms:

• “I should have…”

• “I shouldn’t have…”

• “If only I had…”

• “Why didn’t I…?”

• “How can I laugh when this happened?”

• “Why do I feel relief?”

  
  

Guilt often appears when we’re trying to regain control or make sense of something. If we can find a reason—something we “should” have done—then maybe the world feels less unpredictable.

But guilt isn’t always truth. Sometimes it’s grief trying to bargain for safety.

Gentle reframe: “Guilt is often a sign of love and responsibility—sometimes taken too far.”

7) Relief (and then guilt about the relief)

This one is common and rarely spoken about.

Relief might appear after a long illness, prolonged stress, caregiving, conflict, or complicated dynamics. You can miss someone deeply and still feel relieved the strain has changed.

Relief does not cancel grief. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.

Gentle reframe: “Two things can be true.”

Why grief comes in waves (and why that doesn’t mean you’re “back to square one”)

A lot of people expect grief to fade in a straight line. Like: terrible → less terrible → manageable → fine.

Grief is not a straight line. Grief is more like weather.

You might have a calm morning and then be hit by a wave in the afternoon. You might feel “okay” for a few days and then suddenly feel like you’re right back at the beginning.

This doesn’t mean you’re failing. It doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means grief is non-linear.

Waves can be triggered by all sorts of things:

• dates and anniversaries

• songs, smells, places

• certain times of day

• tiredness (your tolerance drops when you’re exhausted)

• having space to feel (sometimes the wave comes when you finally stop)

  
  

If you’re riding the waves, you’re not regressing. You’re processing.

What can help (without trying to “fix” grief)

You don’t need to heal on a schedule. You don’t need to “be strong.” You don’t need to be inspirational. You don’t need to make your grief palatable for other people.

Here are some gentle supports that can help you get through the early stages.

1) Name what’s happening

When you feel overwhelmed, see if you can try a simple naming practice:

• “This is grief.”

• “This is a wave.”

• “This is my system responding.”

Naming doesn’t remove the feeling, but it can reduce the fear that you’re “going mad.”

2) Redefine what “100%” means (because it changes daily)

In grief, capacity changes. And that doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you’re human.

This is the bit people miss: your 100% is not the same every day.

Some days your 100% might look like:

• getting up, showering, and doing a few normal-life things

• going to work and holding it together

• replying to messages without feeling like you’re wading through cement

  
  

Other days your 100% might look like:

• changing your pyjamas

• washing your face and doing your teeth

• eating something

• breathing

  
  

And that still counts.

Grief has a way of shrinking the world. So rather than asking, “Why can’t I do what I used to?”, a kinder question can be:

• “What does my 100% look like today?”

• “What’s one small thing that would support me—not fix me?”

• “What would I say to someone I loved if this was their day?”

  
  

There’s nothing weak about survival. It’s a skill.

3) Be careful with comparison

Grief comparison is a trap people fall into because they’re searching for certainty and validation:

• “Other people have had it worse.”

• “Other people are coping better.”

• “I should be over this by now.”

  
  

Your grief is your grief. Your relationship is unique. Your nervous system is your own.

If you catch yourself comparing, try:

• “This is my experience.”

• “I’m allowed to be affected.”

• “There is no correct amount of pain.”

  
  

4) Let support be imperfect

Sometimes people avoid reaching out because they don’t know what to say. Or they worry they’ll be “too much.” Or they don’t want to bring other people down.

A helpful alternative is to make support specific and small.

Examples:

• “Can you sit with me for half an hour?”

• “Can I text you when it hits?”

• “Can you help me with one practical thing (washing, cleaning, bring a meal, do a shop) this week?”

  
  

Support doesn’t have to be profound. It just has to be human.

Reflection questions (for the brave and the tired)

If you’d like a gentle prompt (and you can answer in your head, write it down, or tell someone about it):

1. What has been the strangest or most surprising part of grief for you? 

2. What do you wish someone had told you early on—before you started wondering if you were going mad?

3. What does your “100%” look like today? (No judgement. Just noticing.)

4. What’s one thing you wish people understood about YOUR grief?

Grief is painful, but you don’t have to do it alone—especially if you feel overwhelmed, isolated, or stuck in fear.

Therapy can offer:

• a place where you don’t have to be “fine”

• space to explore complicated feelings without judgement

• support for navigating waves, identity changes, and relationships

  
  

If you’re reading this and quietly thinking, “This is me,” you’re welcome to reach out. We can talk about what support might look like—at your pace.

Helen x