Why Buffalo Run Towards Storms
A few months ago, I was listening to a podcast from Matthew Hussey, a wonderful author I had recently discovered. The episode was about heartbreak and grief, something many of us will experience multiple times in our lives. In the podcast, Hussey interviews David Kessler, an expert on grief.
During the interview, Kessler talks about how he studied the behavior of buffalo and how he relates this to grief. I became very interested in how this massive, majestic, animal and grief had anything to do with each other.
“One night I happened to come upon a documentary called Facing the Storm, about the buffalos in Montana. Robert Thomson of the Montana Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks discussed how buffalo run into the storm, thus minimizing how long they will be in it. They don’t ignore it, run from it, or just hope it will go away, which is what we often do when we want to avoid our storms of emotion. We don’t realize that by doing this we’re maximizing our time in the pain. The avoidance of grief will only prolong the pain of grief. Better to turn toward it and allow it to run its natural course, knowing that the pain will eventually pass, that one of these days we will find the love on the other side of pain.”
― David Kessler, Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief
Buffalo, unlike cows and other similar animals, run toward the storm when it is approaching. Doing so gets them through the storm faster and minimizes the energy lost. Other animals run away from the storm, exhausting themselves, only for the storm to eventually overtake them anyway, and for much longer.
Human beings, as Kessler explains, tend to ignore grief, run from it, or hope it will go away with time. People like me, with addiction tendencies, often use drugs or alcohol to numb the grief instead of actually feeling it. Whatever method you use to avoid it, only delays the experience of grief. It eventually catches up to you.
The Buffalo
About a month ago, I went to my favorite restaurant in downtown Bellingham, JUXT, for dinner. I was having a pretty lonely night, feeling a lot of feelings, and just wanted to be somewhere familiar, with wait staff who recognized me.
Basic, safe, human contact was the goal. Food was secondary.
I achieved both and left feeling a bit less lonely, with a stomach full of butternut curry soup.
After dinner, I walked toward my car and decided to stop into Third Planet, a shop nearby. I browsed the entire store and was just about to leave empty-handed, like usual. I’m the kind of person who loves going into malls and shops and never buying anything. I just like to look and people-watch.
As I was getting ready to leave, I noticed a rack full of stuffed animals.
On it was a small, cute stuffed buffalo.
I picked it up.
Looked at it.
Squeezed it a little.
And then I walked it to the checkout counter.
It was coming home with me.
At the register, the salesperson asked if the buffalo was a gift or if it was for me.
I told them, “It’s for me,” and explained the significance of the buffalo, about weathering storms.
They smiled and said, “Aww. Go be a buffalo.”
I paid. They put it in a gift bag. And before I could even walk out of the store, it was out of the bag, and I was holding it in my arms with tears already streaming down my face.
Their kindness, combined with the grief I’d been carrying for weeks, cracked something open immediately.
I walked back to my car holding the buffalo, got into the driver’s seat, and cried for probably a half-hour before I was able to drive home.
Once home, I stared into his cute, unconditionally loving little face. I squeezed him tighter.
Another wave of salt water flooded my eyes.
Running Toward The Storm
That stuffed animal helped me start running toward the storm of grief.
And I’ve been doing it ever since.
A few years ago, I rediscovered my tears. Growing up, crying wasn’t acceptable, especially if you were a “big boy.” Crying was punished.
Now? If my crying gets blubbery, messy, snotty, if my shirt gets wet, my eyes swell shut, or my stomach turns, so be it.
If it happens in public or makes people uncomfortable, so be it.
I have held these fucking tears in for most of my life, and I’ll be damned if I store them up again.
Now I cry whenever I need to cry.
Sometimes it’s while sitting on my bed holding my buffalo.
Sometimes it’s during breakfast at Diamond Jim’s.
Sometimes it’s on the Little Squalicum Pier.
Sometimes it’s in the parking lot of the Lynnwood REI.
Sometimes it’s watching a sunset on the Pacific coast.
Sometimes it’s in the California Redwoods.
Sometimes it’s at Clayton Beach.
Sometimes it’s at the Nutcracker Ballet.
Sometimes it’s walking out of Third Planet.
Sometimes it’s in Bellis Fair Mall.
Sometimes it’s in the arms of a close friend, a U.S. Navy Commander.
Sometimes it’s while cuddled with a platonic friend.
Sometimes it’s with my therapist.
Sometimes it’s with other men, who I have never seen cry.
Bottom line: I cry wherever it happens.
What I’ve Been Grieving
The grief hasn’t just been about recent losses.
It’s been about everything.
- 2025 as a whole
- My mother, gone for over 10 years
- My father, gone for over 20 years
- The person I used to be
- The masks I wore
- My life before alcohol sobriety
- The IT career I left behind, and the financial stress that followed
- Time lost with my daughters during estrangement
- Friends, connections, and relationships I’ve lost
- Everything I didn’t know when I made the mistakes I did
I was grieving my former identity and persona.
For me, crying is the equivalent of running toward the storm. I don’t avoid it. I run straight at it and let everything surface:
- Missing
- Bargaining
- Blame
- Denial
- Anger
- Depression
- Acceptance
Sometimes all of it happens fast. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I reach acceptance, only to find myself back in denial minutes later.
Grief is weird like that.
It also doesn’t end. There’s no finish line. The feelings may spread out over time, but the loss is always there somewhere.
And however you grieve is normal.
No shame.
No wrong way.
Feel it. Cry. Rage. Collapse. Be still.
Finding Your Way Through
I’m sending every reader my love, compassion, empathy, and condolences for the losses you’ve endured. I wish you the gentlest, most peaceful journey through your grief.
And as you grieve, don’t forget this:
Be a buffalo.
Run toward the storm.
❤️
