By Jeanni Ritchie
For three weeks, my body was operating in survival mode.
There was travel, my mom’s hospitalization, her final days, her death, funeral planning, company filling the house, and a seemingly endless list of tasks that simply had to be done.
I was exhausted.
What I didn’t realize was that I’d been running almost entirely on adrenaline.
When everyone left after the funeral, the silence was deafening. I crawled into bed at 6 p.m., thinking I was simply tired.
The next morning, I woke up unable to move my neck. Pain radiated down my back. Every muscle hurt. My body felt heavy. Walking into church took conscious physical effort. Just deciding to go to church took conscious mental effort. After church, I came home and went right back to bed.
I looked up the physiological effects of an adrenaline crash, finding my symptoms easily. Deep, bone-tired fatigue and heaviness in the limbs, intense brain fog, difficulty concentrating, headaches, muscle aches…
It was a very real physical response to prolonged stress. When the adrenal glands flood your bloodstream with adrenaline and cortisol, you get an immediate, almost superhuman boost in stamina and focus. But those hormones rapidly consume your body’s stored energy. Once the crisis has passed, your body must clear those hormones while rebuilding its energy reserves. That’s when the crash comes.
We often talk about the emotional side of grief, but we don’t always recognize what grief does to the body.
After days or weeks in fight-or-flight mode, the crash can be startling. This isn’t the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep fixes. It’s the kind of exhaustion that makes walking across the room feel like work. Your body feels heavy. Your mind struggles to focus. Even simple decisions can require tremendous effort. It can be frightening if you don’t understand what’s happening.
It doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong with you. It may simply mean your body has reached the point where it can no longer borrow from tomorrow’s energy.
I had plans to go to church and a play that afternoon. When I woke up, I thought about skipping everything. I felt like my insides were revolting against me. But I knew that I needed to push myself—a little.
I’m glad I went—my church family had been an incredible source of strength—but the pain and tiredness were winning the war. I went home and climbed in bed, sending apologies to the friend I was going to meet.
Sometimes caring for our mental health means recognizing that our minds and bodies are connected.
If you’ve recently walked through a crisis—a death, illness, caregiving, trauma, or even months of chronic stress—and you’ve suddenly “crashed,” know that you’re not alone.
Give yourself grace. Give your body permission to recover. Rest when you need to. Push yourself gently when you can.
The adrenaline crash won’t last forever. Your body will recover. Your mind will begin to clear. Healing isn’t immediate, but it does come.
