Why Baseball Became My Language for Grief...

Why does this book exist...

I didn’t grow up talking about grief. Like many others, I found that grief was often a subject avoided. This silence can make one feel isolated, as if the overwhelming emotions are solitary burdens. But in reality, so many people quietly carry this weight, unsure of how to give voice to their inner turmoil.

I felt grief in my body, deep in my chest, and in the quiet moments when words fell short. Loss came early, before I knew how to name it or felt allowed to slow down and feel. Like many kids facing grief and trauma, I learned to keep moving, to adapt, and to survive. I focused on what I could control.

Baseball met me there.

Baseball wasn’t a solution nor a distraction. It was a steady presence when everything else felt uncertain. Over time, it became my way to express grief and regulate my nervous system. Nine innings (or more) provide me comfort and consistency. It helped me sit with disappointment and hope.

Baseball didn’t rush me. It didn’t ask me to be “over” anything. It just kept showing up.

Baseball teaches you patience.

Baseball is a slow sport. But that slowness is part of what makes it intriguing. There are long periods of watching, waiting, and trusting. You learn that you can’t get quick results, and though failure is part of the game, it is not the end.

Grief feels the same.

There are times with loss when nothing seems to change. Sometimes, all you can do is stay present and let time pass, without expecting it to be “fixed”. It's also normal to feel stuck. It is all part of the healing process. Grief doesn’t happen on a timeline.

Baseball taught me that waiting isn’t passive. It’s participation and patience.

Loss and loyalty can coexist.

A baseball fan knows disappointment will happen. Seasons end. Players move on. Games are lost, yet you keep coming back.

Grief carries that same contradiction. You can miss someone deeply and still build a life. You can carry grief and still experience joy.

The dugout matters as much as the field.

Some of the most meaningful moments in baseball happen off the field, like in the dugout, on the bench, during rehab, or behind the scenes.

Rest, reflection, and just staying alive are enough. Consider simple acts, like a quiet walk, journaling your thoughts and feelings, or taking a few minutes to breathe deeply and meditate. Even dedicating time to a favorite hobby (running for me) or simply listening to music can be grounding. Baseball showed me that being benched isn’t failure. Often, it means you’re healing.

As a psychotherapist and writer, I see this all the time: people judge themselves for not getting “back to normal” quickly after loss.

Baseball reminds me that there is no rushing readiness. It’s a long season, same as life.

Why I wrote Grief, Hope, Baseball

I didn’t write this book to teach anyone how to grieve. It grew out of years of noticing how often baseball metaphors came up as I tried to understand grief in my own life and in gatherings with clients facing trauma, loss, and change.

Innings. Extra time. Comebacks. Slumps. Rituals. Spring Training. Opening Day.

All these opportunities helped me stay present when grief felt unbearable. They let me sit with the loss while holding on to hope.

Grief, Hope, Baseball is a memoir-style collection of essays about growing up in NYC, losing loved ones, dreams, and even myself at times, and learning that healing isn’t about “moving”. This book is not a grief manual or a step-by-step guide to recovery.

It’s a new perspective on grief through the lens of baseball.

You don’t have to know the ending to keep showing up. Sometimes, holding on to hope and just being present is enough. There is always another at-bat and inning.

Grief, Hope, Baseball will be released VERY SOON. SO STAY TUNED! This season, I’m sharing pieces of the story as an intentional warm-up. If you’d like to follow along, you’re welcome here.

In service and with gratitude,

Jess