Moving Through Grief with Essential Oils

Christian St-Pierre

When absence settles in, time unravels and the body tightens: the breath shortens, movements turn mechanical, and then the wave returns without warning. Essential oils aren’t meant to erase grief; they can simply create a moment that’s breathable, gentle enough to help you stand without breaking.

Helichrysum helps gather what has come undone; myrrh slows the inner storm and gives weight where everything feels adrift; cypress brings movement back to the throat and the breath; benzoin warms the inside like a nest; amyris lays down a quiet, lived-in calm to make it through the day.

I stay with small gestures, repeated: one minute of inhalation when the wave rises, a short diffusion at the end of the day to soften the room, a very diluted trace (1–2%, 1 drop for 5 ml of carrier oil) on the sternum, only if it feels supportive.

Nothing to force, nothing to prove: creating a bit of air between the waves, welcoming whatever comes, then choosing one simple action, opening a window, writing a single line, drinking something warm.

Now for the practical side: how to use them, when to reach for them, and what to do if you prefer just one oil or a gentle duo.

1- Helichrysum / Italian Helichrysum (Helichrysum italicum)

Key molecules: Neryl acetate, Italidione, γ-Curcumene
Overall effect: Restorative and harmonizing; eases emotional shock, softens tension, and supports gentle repair when feeling bruised, inside or out.

In grief, something loses its shape: time unfolds strangely, the body contracts. Helichrysum doesn’t try to erase any of this; it helps me gently gather the pieces so the pain becomes something I can breathe through.

Its warm, dry, slightly honeyed note lays a quiet balm on the chest: the breath deepens, the inner space reorganizes itself, fragile, but bearable.

In practice, I keep things minimal. A slow 60–90-second inhalation when the wave rises; at the end of the day, a short ten-minute diffusion to soften the room without forcing anything.

On the skin, only if I feel ready: a light dilution (1–2%) on the sternum, placed like a small act of care. The scent is deep, sometimes disorienting; I often round it out with a soft wood or a gentle resin to make it more welcoming.

My gesture: when the emptiness pulls too hard, I breathe with Helichrysum for a few cycles, then keep my hand on my sternum for three more exhalations. I’m not trying to “feel better” right away; I’m simply trying to stay with what is, without breaking.

2- Myrrh (Commiphora myrrha)

Key molecules: Furanoeudesma-1,3-diene, Curzerene, Lindestrene
Overall effect: Grounding and deeply comforting; steadies the breath, calms inner agitation, and supports a quiet sense of presence when emotions feel heavy or scattered.

Myrrh carries something both solemn and gentle. When grief becomes dense, when you feel “underwater,” it invites you to slow down and stay present without being swallowed by it.

Its resinous-earthy, slightly dark note gives weight where everything feels adrift: the breath finds support, and the emotion moves without overflowing. It doesn’t push you to talk; it keeps company with the silence.

In practice, I use it when the mind spins in circles or when the chest tightens. One slow 60–90-second inhalation is often enough to bring a bit of ground back under my feet.

In soft diffusion, ten minutes create a slower, almost ritual atmosphere, helpful at the end of the day, when everything feels heavy. On the skin, I stay very light: a low dilution (1–2%) on the sternum or the back of the neck, pre-mixed in a carrier oil (the resin is tenacious).

My gesture: when everything becomes too dense to name, I breathe with myrrh for a few cycles, then sit in silence. Not to find meaning, just to feel that I’m still standing, gently.

3- Mediterranean Cypress (Cupressus sempervirens)

Key molecules: α-Pinene, δ-3-Carene, Limonene
Overall effect: Strengthening and regulating; supports steady breathing, eases emotional overflow, and brings a composed, grounded clarity when feeling overwhelmed or unsettled.

In grief, everything can sometimes freeze: the throat tightens, the breath shortens, and the emotion gets stuck with no way out. Cypress doesn’t try to make you “let go”, an expression that often feels too harsh to me, it simply helps bring movement back where everything stopped.

Its resinous, dry, refined note opens the chest, eases the throat a little, and creates that small space where you can breathe again… and sometimes, finally, cry.

I use it mostly when emotion feels lodged behind the ribs. One slow 60–90-second inhalation is often enough to find a longer thread of breath.

In diffusion, ten minutes give a clear, almost vertical atmosphere, as if standing outside beneath a tree, it helps you remember that life continues around you. On the skin, I dilute it to 1–2% on the back of the neck or the sternum, rarely more; I avoid it if the skin is very reactive.

My gesture: when I feel my throat tightening but the tears won’t come, I inhale gently with Cypress and stand near a window. Sometimes nothing happens; sometimes the breath begins to move again, and that’s enough for the day.

4- Benzoin (Styrax tonkinensis, resinoid)

Key molecules: Benzoic acid derivatives, Vanillin, Cinnamic esters
Overall effect: Warm and enveloping; soothes emotional tension, brings a gentle sense of safety, and supports deep relaxation when the heart feels tight or unsettled.

In grief, we often feel suspended: the world keeps moving, but inside everything stands still. Benzoin brings a simple, almost homelike warmth.

Its vanilla-balm note creates a sense of being “inhabited on the inside,” as if there were once again a place to settle. It’s not an oil that lifts you up, it comforts, it keeps you company.

I use it mostly at the end of the day, when everything feels too heavy to think through. One slow 60–90-second inhalation helps the shoulders release.

In diffusion, ten to fifteen minutes create an enveloping atmosphere, supportive of rest or gentle conversation. On the skin, I stay minimal: a low dilution (around 1%) on the sternum or wrists; the resinoid texture usually needs to be pre-blended into a carrier oil.

My gesture: when I no longer know what to do with the sorrow, I open the benzoin, stay still for a few breaths, and let the warmth do its work, no questions, no answers. Just a moment of companionship.

5- Amyris (Amyris balsamifera)

Key molecules: Valerianol, Elemol, Eudesmol
Overall effect: Grounding and gently calming; releases restlessness, supports quiet focus, and brings a soft, woody tranquility ideal for unwinding and settling an overactive mind.

In grief, energy becomes strange: too low to move forward, too restless to rest. Amyris offers a lived-in calm, not numbness, but a quiet steadiness that helps you get through the day without breaking.

Its woody-balm note, soft and slightly ambered, settles gently into the body; the breath widens, the mind feels less scattered.

I use it when I feel like I’m floating or collapsing from the inside. One slow 60–90-second inhalation helps me find a simple axis again: I’m standing, even if I’m fragile.

In diffusion, about ten minutes are enough to lay down a calm background, helpful before evening or before returning to a concrete task. On the skin, I use very little: a 1–2% dilution on the sternum or the back of the neck, the way you’d place a reassuring hand. Amyris doesn’t impose, it accompanies, it supports.

My gesture: when I feel a bit empty, I inhale Amyris for a few cycles, then choose one modest action, make the bed, prepare tea, open a window. Not to feel better, but simply to stay in gentle motion.

A Botanical Bath Salt for Moving Through Grief

Why I Offer Bath Rituals for Moving Through Grief

Grief never arrives in a simple way. Sometimes it hits brutally, sometimes it settles in quietly, but it always has one thing in common: it turns everything upside down. Landmarks shift, time doesn’t pass in the same way, and even the body feels tired from having felt too much. Some days the tears come easily; other days you barely feel anything, just a vast distance inside.

In those moments, I don’t believe in formulas or in the kind of advice that promises you’ll “move on.” Grief isn’t something you fix; it’s something you move through, with its waves, its returns, its pauses.

For me, the bath can become one of those rare places where you can simply rest without having to play any role. Warm water surrounds the body, the muscles loosen a little, and the breath begins to deepen again. There is nothing to explain, nothing to justify. Just you, the water, the silence, and the permission, for a few minutes, to be exactly as you are: emptied, sad, angry, grateful, lost… or all of that at once.

In this context, essential oils are not meant to “erase” the pain. They create a climate around it: a bit more softness, a bit more warmth, something that allows the grief to breathe without sweeping everything away.

For grief, I chose a synergy that feels like a quiet presence:

Amyris for its warm, woody, almost tender quality that brings a silent grounding.
Vetiver to root deeply, helping to bear emotional weight without dissolving.
Roman chamomile to soothe the nervous system, cradle tension, and offer a sense of comfort.
Bourbon geranium to harmonize emotions and soften the internal ups and downs.
Sweet orange to bring back a touch of light, very gentle, like a shy sunbeam after the rain.
A hint of rose to reintroduce tenderness, the heart’s dimension, that delicate thread between sorrow and love.

Together, these oils don’t make absence disappear. They’re more like a warm hand on the shoulder, inviting you to breathe, to let memories come without being completely overtaken. It’s a bath of grounding and remembrance, created for those moments when you simply need a bit of softness around what hurts.

How I make these bath salts

As with my other synergies, my intention isn’t to produce in large batches. Each botanical bath salt is made one by one, at the moment it’s ordered. I work slowly: I weigh, I blend, I smell, I adjust. This gentle rhythm feels important to me, especially for a ritual connected to grief. I don’t want these baths to be just “another product” on a shelf, but a tangible, human gesture, prepared with care.

I want to stay simple, accessible, and sincere. I have no plan to open a factory or flood the market. My goal is to offer something true, something genuine, something that can accompany someone in a fragile moment without making promises no one can keep. When someone shares their experience with me, what this bath meant for them, a slightly softer night, a moment of calm, a memory that settles, I’m deeply moved. That exchange is part of the process; it is already a form of healing.

And it needs to be said honestly: neither essential oils nor my bath salts heal grief. They don’t replace love, time, or the human support one may need.

What they can offer, however, is a sensitive container: a moment where the body feels held, where the heart feels a little less alone, where the pain can exist without being smothered or amplified. Sometimes, in these small pauses, something begins to move again, a tear, a softer memory, a quiet gratitude, the simple sense of being able to go on for one more day.

This bath is not a solution, nor a required step. It’s a small ritual of presence, created to accompany the passage, gently, a gesture for oneself, in the midst of everything we cannot control.

If you’d like to discover it, here is the link. >>>

Conclusion — letting sorrow breathe

I’m not trying to “move on.” I prepare the inside: a scent that steadies the heart, a breath, a tiny walk, a short message to someone who understands. Grief moves in waves; we move one step at a time, and that’s enough for today.