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Gina Moffa, LCSW

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Gina Moffa, LCSW

I am a NYC based trauma-informed grief therapist and author of Moving On Doesn’t Mean Letting Go

I am a NYC based psychotherapist and consultant specializing in grief and loss, situational depression and anxiety, life transitions, and complex trauma.

03/31/2026

Many years ago, when I worked as a clinical director in substance use treatment, I always wondered why in the ‘Serenity Prayer’, grief was never mentioned. Most of what we endure, overcome, or accept, comes with deep grief in some way. It’s the unnamed bridge we must cross. You cannot fully accept what you’ve lost without moving through the grief of it.

This applies to all our losses.

And, there’s a very nuanced kind of grief that lives in the space between fighting and accepting. It doesn’t always come with only tears or rage, or any fanfare, really. It can move more quietly within us, like fog settling into valleys before dawn.

Sure, we call it “acceptance”, but I understand that word feels too clean, too final… because acceptance isn’t a destination you arrive at once and stay forever.
It’s something you do again and again, in different rooms of your life, on different days, wearing different versions of yourself.

The grief of accepting things you cannot change, is about the monumental strength required to stop breaking yourself against immovable things. To release your grip on the rope you’ve been pulling for months, years, maybe a lifetime. Your hands are tired. Your heart is tired.

Here’s what they don’t tell you: accepting what you cannot change doesn’t mean you stop wishing you could have. It means you’re finally brave (maybe exhausted) enough to redirect your precious energy toward what can still grow.
Toward what still asks for your attention, tending to.
Toward your own healing.
This kind of grief is sacred.
And so many of us are feeling this every day, with collective + individual losses.
It’s hard.
Some doors close.
Some situations we just can’t change.
Some people and things stay exactly who and what they are.
Some situations don’t have a resolution we may wish for.
But, it doesn’t mean you have to carry the weight, and pain of it alone.

This instagram post is only a jumping off point in exploring the possibility that you can heal/work through/understand differently, something that’s held you in a painful place for far too long. And, that’s a really powerful new path to explore, with your own pace, in your own time…

🤍, Gina

03/18/2026

I was sitting with a client this week and we were talking about the strangeness of the passing of time.
About how we don’t really have a word for what that feels like. The closest we could get was “homesickness”. Except we’re not missing a place per se.
We’re missing whole lives we used to live inside.
Whole versions of ourselves we had to leave behind just by the act of keeping going.
Whole versions of this collective world that used to feel less out of total control on a daily basis.
“Remember when…”

We both just sat with that for a moment, because sometimes, that’s all you can do when the language runs out. And the truth is, sometimes I think the feeling knows more than the words do anyway.

That’s the thing about nostalgia. We don’t have many words that can carry what it actually feels like in the body. The way it settles into our chest slowly, warm and heavy. The way it’s somehow beautiful and unbearable at the same time. The way we go quiet in the middle of a conversation, because a song came on, or the light shifted, and suddenly we’re somewhere between here and gone.

We feel it all the time, and we almost never name it for what it is. And lately, I am even feeling nostalgic for a future world that feels gone. Less hopeful. Grieving in the future tense.

Most grief announces itself.
It has a shape, a date, a reason.
But, nostalgia slips in through the back.
And we let it, because it feels too soft, too pretty, too private to call loss.
We romanticize it instead of grieving it.
We call it bittersweet, and move on.
But, we have been mourning inside of it all along.
We just never gave ourselves permission to call it that.

03/11/2026

There is so much happening inside us at any given moment. So much being carried quietly, bravely, imperfectly.
If you’re overwhelmed and exhausted by it all, please know that nothing is wrong with you for taking in what feels like too much and needing to take care of yourself.

The hardest thing sometimes. is not the pain itself. It is learning to be with the pain inside and all around us, and still come home to our body.
To rest when possible.
To find the small beautiful thing in the ordinary day.
To look away when we have to, without guilt, and look back when we are ready.
To hold reality in one hand, hope in the other,and not drop either one.

I am just here to witness how much we are all carrying. The grief and the years of horrific headlines and the anniversaries and the ordinary Wednesday, that somehow contains all of it at once.

And, inside all of that, we still have to eat something. Rest our bodies. Notice the light through the window. Step away from what is too heavy until we can hold it again.
That is the heart of it.
That is the whole complicated, exhausting, sacred work of being alive right now.

03/04/2026

We are at war externally, with a world that is increasingly volatile and fragile.
And internally, with old wounds, unfinished losses, inherited fear, and the quiet pressure to keep functioning as if none of it is happening.

We are at war…
With instability. With uncertainty. With grief that keeps shape-shifting.
With opposing facts. Differing beliefs systems and values. With headlines. With history. With the ghosts in our own nervous systems.

There is so much exhaustion. So much overwhelm.
This is what prolonged stress does to a body.
This is what layered trauma does to a psyche.
This is what chronic vigilance costs.

Trauma asks the body to brace.
Grief asks the heart to ache.
Your body is not a machine built for nonstop output in the face of nonstop threat.
It is an organism wired for cycles: activation and rest, connection and repair.

The work right now is not perfection.
It is preservation.
Rest.
It is remembering to put down the phone sometimes.
To drink water.
To unclench your hands.
To take one real breath.
To let yourself be impacted, without shaming yourself for being impacted.
We are living through a lot.

There aren’t neat answers for living in complex times.
There isn’t a five-step plan for existing inside uncertainty.

There is only endurance.
Endurance does not mean becoming hard.
It means learning how to stay steady…psychologically, emotionally, relationally, without abandoning your own humanity.

And, we must remember that loss is not just an event, it is a terrain we must navigate every moment of the day.
And, our real steadiness is built while we’re moving.

02/26/2026

I’ve been quieter here lately.
Sometimes, the work doesn’t come with the proper language attached. It just comes with the doing. With showing up. With putting one foot in front of the other in the dark.
I’ve been in that place, doing the work. Living inside it, rather than posting about it. And, for a while, there simply haven’t words.
But, I’m here, finding my way back to this community that means so much to me.

Lately more often than ever, I’ve been hearing the same question in my sessions, in my communities, and honestly, in my own heart: “What is the point?”

I want to be clear that I’m not opening this up for judgment or negative discourse.
This is one of the most vulnerable, most human, most existentially honest questions a person can ask, when they feel burnt out, outraged with no where to put it, depleted beyond language, and deeply, deeply grief stricken. The question itself reaches into the deepest part of our being, and I think it deserves to be spoken out loud rather than carried in silence.

I don’t have your specific answer to the question…though I do hope some of the information I wrote in the slides can make you feel validated and seen.

I know what I come back to, every time, in the therapy room, and in my own life, when I hear, what’s the point?

The point is… each other.

Connection is not a luxury or a nice idea.
It is biological.
It is regulatory.
It is the thing that has always gotten human beings through the unsurvivable.
We remember who we are when we are tenderly witnessed.
We find our strength when we are not alone. We can do the hardest things when we feel safe enough to fall apart in the presence of someone who will stay.
So, if you’re in that flat, heavy, “what’s-the-point” place right now, I see you. And, I am so grateful you’re here, and we are connected.

Heart to heart, Gina.

02/12/2026

Perhaps some of the deepest, most ignored grief is the one we carry for our former selves…the ones who existed before the breaking, who didn’t hold so much grief, anger, fear, exhaustion, and sorrow. The self we knew has been marked by what happened, and it can feel like we are waking up in a new world without a map.
But, we see clearer now.

The former selves who belonged to a world that no longer waits for us, or promises us that beautiful illusion that we were ok.

When the nervous system endures or witnesses what feels unbearable, parts of us are forced to reorganize.
Some parts go quiet, others rise to the surface, and we’re left wondering who we are now and how to move through life without betraying what we’re living through.

We know we cannot go back.
We can only go forward, gathering strength, shedding what or who no longer fits or works, bearing witness, and building new paths with hands that remember the old roads that got us here. We build together.

02/10/2026

So this is just me saying: I see you. I’m right here with you. And, on the days when you can’t show up in your own way, when you can’t witness anymore pain, when you can’t even think straight, when all you can do is survive- try to rest, refill, restore. Taking care of yourself is really important… it’s how we each make it through.

We need you here, and that means you have to care for your body, mind, and spirit, along the way.
There is much grief to talk about … and we will.

$These days in grief, our body becomes a house of waiting…heart keeping vigil for the next fracture, mind circling the sa...$

02/05/2026

These days in grief, our body becomes a house of waiting…heart keeping vigil for the next fracture, mind circling the same impossible-to-comprehend facts.
Some days, you’re so alive to the pain you can’t stop your voice from screaming out.
Other days, you’re so far gone, you forget you have one.
And sleep, when it comes, isn’t rest, just a different kind of dark, where the loss finds new ways to say its name.

The things that once felt certain
are gone.
The floor.
The map.
The rules we thought existed.
The promise that tomorrow would resemble today
in any recognizable way.
Empathy.

Yes, everything that felt certain
is gone.
So, if we look steady,
know that steadiness is labor.
If we are momentarily silent,
it’s because there is nowhere for the sounds to go.
If we are angry,
it’s because something sacred has been taken.
If we seem distant,
it’s because we’re holding ourselves together with threads you cannot see.

But, we are still here,
grieving, in so many layers
and, saying their names
bearing witness,
unbroken in the one place that matters most:
Our insistence
that this is not the end.
It is not the end.

That fierce, enduring hope, even when it seems weak, even when it has nowhere safe to land, refuses to go silent.

02/02/2026

We don’t honor history by acknowledging it once a year. We honor it by letting it change how we live, how we love, and how we treat one another - every single day.

This month, let’s go deeper than words.

01/28/2026

Hi all,
For anybody who is feeling overwhelmed and exhausted and feeling helpless, my amazing colleagues and I are going to be hosting a free gathering tonight to offer space, togetherness, and tools to navigate these uncertain times.

It is not to fix anything, but simply to be together and tend to our nervous system, and our hearts.

If you would like to join, it is 7 PM Eastern standard time at the link below. 🤍

Link: https://meet.google.com/xfm-hsmj-tzz

01/27/2026

Some of you will scroll past this. And, I get it.
We’re all so tired of being told how hard things are, how much we’re carrying, how overwhelmed we must be.
Why another stupid carousel post …
I just wanna acknowledge how much is being held and carried right now, is all.

With everything happening in the world right now, everything that’s been happening in the world for a long time, with relentless bad news, senseless public losses, the significant personal losses we’re carrying privately, the grief that doesn’t have a clear shape, the fear that lives just beneath the surface of our daily functioning, I just want to say this:

Your body may be carrying a lot right now.
Maybe too much.
Fear. Numbness. Exhaustion. Rage. Irritability. Sadness. Feeling untethered — well, grief.
All of that comes with physical manifestations you may or may not be experiencing right now.

Spending our days in people’s pain, in addition to our own and the world’s, can lead to secondary trauma (the toll of witnessing others’ suffering) and compassion fatigue (the depletion that comes from caring when your capacity is already maxed out). It’s important to care, but it can be a lot.

So, I want us to just take a moment to be with our body.
To just allow space for the overwhelm to land.
This post isn’t here to gloss over the collective outrage, or to fix anything, but to witness what you might be holding.
To offer some understanding of why your body might feel so different lately, and some gentle practices that might help, if they feel safe.

Some of you will find this uncomfortable, too much, dumb, or not what you need right now. That’s okay.
But, I want to acknowledge that it’s really hard to carry the pain and weight of the world, in addition to your stress and pain. We all know that we’ve been living through immense collective trauma, collective loss, collective uncertainty. Our own stuff doesn’t go away.

I just want you to know that I see that. I’m not saying to look away, but also, we can’t have strength and endurance and fortitude to keep going, without also having rest and regulation, and some peace. I wish you that.

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Monday	8am - 8pm
Tuesday	8am - 8pm
Wednesday	8am - 8pm
Thursday	8am - 5pm
Friday	8am - 3pm

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http://ginamoffa.com/

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