Good Grief
Grief support from trained professionals and community groups can offer invaluable comfort to those coping with the death of a loved one. Grief can affect each person in very different ways, and a person-centred, compassionate approach recognises that there is no single path through loss. Rather than something to “get over,” grief is a deeply personal process that deserves understanding, patience, and care. These services can also be helpful for those with a life-limiting illness to help them come to terms with the impact of their illness.
Grief support group spaces and community in-person in Bristol
GRIEF SERVICES IN BRISTOL
There are incredible offerings in Bristol from the larger charities to small group meet ups. Do let me know if you hear of other grief support services that I can add to this list.
Bristol Grief Research Centre
The Bristol Centre for Grief Research and Engagement focuses on interdisciplinary and multidisciplinary research into grief, death and loss, aiming to increase understanding of these fundamental aspects of being human. The Centre brings together programmes of research, scholarship, policy and civic engagement at the University of Bristol,
The Bereavement Journey
The Bereavement Journey is 7 Sessions of film and discussion for anyone bereaved anytime. The 7th session is based on the Christian faith and is optional. They run throughout the UK and Bristol, the link is to one based on Gloucester rd, Bristol but do pop onto the general page to see the full list of locations.
Grief Encounter
Their mission is to give every child and young person (up to age 25) access to the best possible support following the death of someone close.
We work closely with individuals, families, schools and professionals to offer a way through the anxiety, fear and isolation so often caused by grief
GRIEF SUPPORT THERAPY
GRIEF SUPPORT ONLINE
Tincture
Andrea Gibson
1975 –2025
Imagine, when a human dies,
the soul misses the body, actually grieves
the loss of its hands and all
they could hold. Misses the throat closing shy
reading out loud on the first day of school.
Imagine the soul misses the stubbed toe,
the loose tooth, the funny bone. The soul still asks, Why
does the funny bone do that? It’s just weird.
Imagine the soul misses the thirsty garden cheeks
watered by grief. Misses how the body could sleep
through a dream. What else can sleep through a dream?
What else can laugh? What else can wrinkle
the smile’s autograph? Imagine the soul misses each falling
eyelash waiting to be a wish. Misses the wrist
screaming away the blade. The soul misses the lisp,
the stutter, the limp. The soul misses the holy bruise
blue from that army of blood rushing to the wound’s side.
When a human dies, the soul searches the universe
for something blushing, something shaking
in the cold, something that scars, sweeps
the universe for patience worn thin,
the last nerve fighting for its life, the voice box
aching to be heard. The soul misses the way
the body would hold another body and not be two bodies
but one pleading god doubled in grace.
The soul misses how the mind told the body,
You have fallen from grace. And the body said,
Erase every scripture that doesn’t have a pulse.
There isn’t a single page in the bible that can wince,
that can clumsy, that can freckle, that can hunger.
Imagine the soul misses hunger, emptiness,
rage, the fist that was never taught to curl—curled,
the teeth that were never taught to clench—clenched,
the body that was never taught to make love—made love
like a hungry ghost digging its way out of the grave.
The soul misses the unforever of old age, the skin
that no longer fits. The soul misses every single day
the body was sick, the now it forced, the here
it built from the fever. Fever is how the body prays,
how it burns and begs for another average day.
The soul misses the legs creaking
up the stairs, misses the fear that climbed
up the vocal cords to curse the wheelchair.
The soul misses what the body could not let go—
what else could hold on that tightly to everything?
What else could see hear the chain of a swingset
and fall to its knees? What else could touch
a screen door and taste lemonade?
What else could come back from a war
and not come back? But still try to live? Still try
to lullaby? When a human dies the soul moves
through the universe trying to describe how a body trembles
when it’s lost, softens when it’s safe, how a wound would heal
given nothing but time. Do you understand? Nothing in space can
imagine it. No comet, no nebula, no ray of light
can fathom the landscape of awe, the heat of shame.
The fingertips pulling the first gray hair
and throwing it away. I can’t imagine it,
the stars say. Tell us again about goosebumps.
Tell us again about pain.
From Lord of the Butterflies (Button Poetry, 2018) by Andrea Gibson. Copyright © 2018 Andrea Gibson.