The Most Unorthodox Grief Group: How Baseball Helped Me Heal

If you’ve ever pictured a grief group, you probably imagined a softly lit room, a box of tissues the size of a small refrigerator,
and someone offering herbal tea that tastes like regret. My grief group looked different: it had hot dogs, scorecards, and a
suspiciously loud guy two rows behind me who treated every pop fly like a personal betrayal.

And yetsomewhere between the first pitch and the seventh-inning stretchbaseball did something I didn’t expect. It helped me
survive the “after.” Not in a magical, everything-is-fixed kind of way. More like a steady, practical, “Okay, breathe. You can get
through this inning” kind of way.

When grief shows up, it doesn’t knock

Grief is rude. It arrives uninvited, rearranges your furniture, and then whispers, “By the way, your favorite songs are mine now.”
One minute you’re functioning like a regular adult; the next, you’re crying because a grocery store is out of the cereal your person
used to buy. That’s not you being dramaticthat’s grief being thorough.

People often talk about grief like it’s a straight road: you start at “devastated,” pass through “sad,” and arrive neatly at “okay.”
In real life, grief is more like a ballpark with confusing ramps and one escalator that’s always broken. You can feel strong in the
morning, wrecked at lunch, and weirdly fine by dinnerthen guilty for being fine. (Grief also loves guilt. It’s a collector.)

What helped me most was learning that healthy grieving isn’t constant wallowing or constant “staying busy.” It’s movementback and
forthbetween feeling the loss and living your life. Some days you confront it. Some days you can’t. Both can be normal. The goal
isn’t to win grief. The goal is to carry it without it carrying you.

What a grief group is “supposed” to look likeand what mine looked like

Traditional support groups offer something powerful: a place where loss is spoken out loud, where you don’t have to translate your pain
into polite conversation. They can be a bridge between “my people love me” and “my people don’t get it.” I’m a big fan of anything
that makes grief less lonely.

But in the months after my loss, I couldn’t always do the formal version. Sometimes I didn’t have the energy to explain what I was
feeling. Sometimes I didn’t even know what I was feeling. I just knew the world had changed shape and I was trying not to fall through
the cracks.

That’s where baseball came inquietly, stubbornly, and on a schedule. A season starts whether you’re ready or not. Games happen whether
you feel brave or not. And somehow, that rhythm created a kind of unorthodox support group: friends texting lineups, family members
sending the same dumb meme after every home run, strangers high-fiving because we all agreed a slider at the knees is a crime.

Why baseball worked when my brain wouldn’t

1) The calendar gave my grief a container

Grief can feel infinitelike it might stretch forever, swallowing every plan you had for the rest of your life. Baseball, meanwhile,
is aggressively finite. Nine innings. Three outs. A series ends. An off day arrives. Even extra innings end eventually (even when they
take a personal interest in your bedtime).

That structure mattered. It didn’t reduce my pain, but it contained it. I could tell myself: “Just get to first pitch.” Or:
“Make it to the seventh.” Or, on rough days: “Watch two innings and then you’re allowed to quit.” Baseball offered me small, measurable
goalstiny handholds on a wall I was climbing in the dark.

2) Rituals turned “missing” into “remembering”

Grief isn’t only sadness; it’s love looking for its usual place to land. When someone dies, your love doesn’t disappear. It just loses
its address. Rituals give love a new place to go.

Baseball is basically a religion that sells peanuts. Opening Day. The same seat. The same hat. The same song. The stretch. The postgame
recap. These rituals are simple, repeatable, and socially acceptablemeaning you can show up with your grief and nobody calls security.

I started doing small things on purpose: keeping a scorecard the way my loved one taught me, ordering the snack we always shared, texting
a friend the same pregame joke. Those actions weren’t denial. They were continuing the relationshipletting memory have a living role
instead of locking it behind glass.

3) Baseball talk became an emotional translation tool

Early grief can make feelings feel too large for language. Baseball gave me a sneaky side door. I could say, “That loss was brutal,” and
mean the gameor mean my life. I could complain about a bullpen collapse and be talking about my heart. I could say, “We’ll get them
tomorrow,” and borrow hope without having to perform inspiration.

Humor helped, too. When you’re grieving, laughter can feel illegal, like you’re breaking some sacred rule. Baseball is a permission slip
for absurdity: the superstitions, the mascots, the grown adults arguing about whether bunting is a moral failure. The silliness didn’t
disrespect my loss. It gave my nervous system a break from being on high alert.

4) Community softened the sharp edges

Isolation is grief’s favorite teammate. It convinces you that you’re alone, that nobody understands, that you’re “too much.” But community
disrupts that narrative. Even light connection helpsespecially when you’re not up for deep conversation.

Baseball communities are built for low-pressure togetherness. You can sit next to someone for three hours and talk about nothing
importantand still feel less alone when you leave. You can share a moment of collective joy that doesn’t require you to “be okay,” just
present. That kind of belonging is medicine with a scoreboard.

How to build your own “unorthodox grief group” using baseball

Step 1: Pick a “home team” habit

Choose a baseball routine you can repeat. It can be big (going to games) or tiny (watching highlights with dinner). Consistency matters
more than intensity. You’re not training for the playoffs. You’re training your heart to keep showing up.

• Low-energy option: Listen to a radio broadcast while doing chores.
• Medium-energy option: Watch the first three innings and check the score later.
• High-energy option: Go to a game with one “safe” friend who knows the plan if you need to leave early.

Step 2: Draft your people (no tryouts required)

Your grief group doesn’t need to be large. Two people who text during games counts. A sibling who sends you the same GIF after every win
counts. A neighbor who invites you over for a playoff game counts. The real requirement is that the relationship feels steady, not
draining.

Set simple rules that make connection easy:

• No pressure to respond right away.
• No fixing, no silver linings, no “at least.”
• Baseball talk is allowed to be the whole conversation.
• Real talk can show up when it wants to, like a surprise rain delay.

Step 3: Use the game as a check-in

Grief check-ins don’t need to be intense. Try a “first pitch” message:
“How’s your heart todayspring training, midseason, or extra innings?”
The metaphor makes honesty less intimidating. You can admit you’re struggling without handing someone your entire pain file.

Step 4: Create one ritual that’s just for your person

This is where baseball becomes a bridge. Pick a single, repeatable gesture that honors your relationship:

• Keep score the way they did.
• Wear their old cap on certain games.
• Make the same snack every Opening Day.
• Text them a “we got robbed” message in your notes app (yes, it counts).

The point isn’t to pretend they’re still here in the old way. The point is to let the bond evolvebecause love doesn’t end, it adapts.

When baseball isn’t enough (and how to know)

Baseball helped me heal, but it wasn’t a replacement for real support. Sometimes grief becomes so heavy it starts interfering with your
ability to functionwork, relationships, basic self-care. If your grief feels stuck, overwhelming, or like it’s getting worse over time,
it may be a sign you need additional help.

Consider reaching out to a mental health professional or grief counselor if you notice:

• You feel persistently numb or intensely preoccupied with the loss for many months.
• You can’t re-engage with life in any meaningful way.
• You’re using alcohol or other coping strategies that are hurting you.
• You have thoughts of self-harm or suicide (in that case, seek immediate help).

There’s no medal for suffering alone. Getting support isn’t “failing to cope.” It’s choosing to live with your loss instead of under it.

What I learned in the bleachers

Baseball didn’t erase my grief. It gave it a place to sit beside me. It taught me patiencebecause healing is a season, not a moment.
It taught me that breaks are allowed, that joy can exist without betraying love, and that community can hold you up when your own muscles
are tired.

And maybe most importantly, it reminded me that life keeps offering small beginnings: a new inning, a new series, a new day. You don’t
have to be ready for all of them. You just have to keep stepping back up to the plate.

Extra innings: 500 more words of the messy, real experience

The first time I went back to a ballpark after the funeral, I had a plan: arrive early, act normal, do not cry into nachos. I even wore
sunglasses like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi, except the paparazzi was my own emotions and they were extremely motivated.

I made it through the gates and immediately got hit with the smellcut grass, fried food, sunscreen, and that unmistakable ballpark air
that feels like summer decided to become a location. My brain did a rude magic trick: it pulled up a memory of my person leaning over a
railing, giving me an overly confident prediction about a game they were absolutely wrong about. I laughed. Then I cried. Then I laughed
again, because grief loves an emotional doubleheader.

I sat down and realized my hands didn’t know what to do. They kept reaching for my phone, like they expected a text. That’s when I
started keeping score again. Not because I’m the world’s most dedicated scorekeeper (I am not), but because it gave my hands a job and my
mind a track to run on. Balls. Strikes. Outs. A tiny order inside the chaos. When the crowd roared, I didn’t have to interpret my own
heartI just marked the play.

Around the third inning, someone spilled a drink near my feet. I should’ve been annoyed. Instead, I had a weird moment of gratitude,
because the annoyance felt normal. It reminded me I was still a full person, not just a walking obituary. I could still have petty
opinions. I could still be irrationally angry at a missed call. I could still be alive inside my grief.

In the fifth inning, the person next to me offered me a napkin without a word. Not a big dramatic gesturejust a napkin. I didn’t even
realize I was crying again until I took it. That’s one of the sneaky gifts of baseball spaces: people understand quiet. You don’t have to
explain yourself. You can just exist, tissues and all.

The seventh-inning stretch arrived and everyone stood up like it was a rule written into the Constitution. I stood too, mostly because my
knees needed it, but also because the whole stadium moving together felt strangely comfortinglike the world still knew how to do something
in unison. We sang. I didn’t sing well. Nobody cared. For a minute, my grief wasn’t the only sound in my head.

After the game, I walked to my car and noticed I felt two things at once: exhausted and lighter. Not “healed,” not “fixed,” but lighter,
like someone had cracked a window in a sealed room. I realized baseball wasn’t a distraction from my grief. It was a way to carry it with
other people nearby. It was a rhythm I could lean on when my own rhythm was broken.

Now, when I watch a game on a hard day, I don’t force meaning. I don’t demand a life lesson from a ground ball. I just let the game be a
companionsteady, imperfect, and somehow still showing up. And when the final out lands, I remind myself: tomorrow is another inning. I’m
still here. That counts.