Who’s Ready to Scream With Me?

Why yelling into the void might be good for your neural pathways

Have you seen the recent video of Florence Welch, hair wild, digging a hole like she is burying a body, but then screaming into it like she had run out of coffee, stepped on her dog’s chewy, discovered an aphid infestation in her garden, and well, just life itself?

Now, I love Florence + The Machine, and the possible news of a new album practically sends my serotonin into overdrive. But the mystery of that video—no explanation, no context—hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting, especially the scream.

“I feel the same, Florence. The same.”

Last week, during a massive nerve assault flare-up, I binge-watched both seasons of Sullivan’s Crossing on Netflix. Season 3 dropped yesterday. I have opinions about that show, but that's for a different time.

In season 1 episode 8, Maggie (the lead) follows Cal (love interest) deep into the woods.

No, that doesn’t happen, but stay with me.

He convinces her to try therapeutic screaming. At first, she laughs it off, embarrassed. But then a memory layered in anguish and rage splits her open, and she lets loose a scream that shakes the air and brings her to her knees.

A couple of weeks ago, I read about a “Scream Club” in Chicago. They meet at the North Avenue Beach pier every Sunday at 7 p.m., count to three, and scream into the watery echoes.

I thought this was genius.

And I was noticing a pattern. I mean, it was just screaming right at me.

Okay, that was bad. I admit.

The truth is, screaming is wildly cathartic. I’ve done it—into pillows, in the car, in the garage, in the closet, into Phil’s side. Every single time, my blood vessels burst under my eyes, so I look like I lost a fight over the last Sunsparkler Plum Dazzled Stonecrop Sedum at the greenhouse for a couple of days, but it’s worth it.

During grief, rage, or just everyday “what the hell is happening” moments, screaming feels good.

Screaming into the void.

Screaming into the cosmos.

Screaming into the mushroom pillow you bought on clearance at World Market.

I even turned to my husband and said, “Maybe I should start a scream club here in Sioux Falls. Meet at Falls Park, line up along the jagged rocks, and just let ’er rip.” I swear, half the city would show up. We could be a community of screamers and grievers. Sacred rage in unison. Permission to not be okay. Let the waters carry away our razor-edged, soul-slicing emotions.

Because grief isn’t just sadness.

Neuroscientists explain how our brains literally rewire themselves when someone or something we love is gone—whether it’s a person, a pet, a job, a relationship, or our own health. Entire thought patterns, sensory links, and memory maps are reconstructed.

So when we say, “I don’t feel like myself” or “I feel disconnected,” that’s not melodrama—it’s biology. Your brain is trying to redraw the map without their voice at the intersections. Without the routines. Without the imprints of their existence. It’s trying to make sense of a place where they, or the life you thought you’d have, doesn’t exist anymore.

And when memories blur at the edges? That’s your mind trying to do the impossible: hold on and let go at the same time.

Grief is motion—spiritual, emotional, physical.

Some days, you’re rebuilding the foundation.

Some days you’re just rubble.

That, my friend, is when you scream.

Screaming can release endorphins, lower stress, and ease pain.

I’ve always had a morbid, inappropriate sense of humor. But after my nervous system crash, medication roulette, the deaths of Grandpa and Dad within months of each other, and saying goodbye to a business I built, my humor got darker. More inappropriate.

I didn’t even know that was possible, but here we are.

The kind that makes strangers look concerned and suggest therapy. (Surprise—I’m already in therapy. My therapist encourages screaming.)

So, go scream.

Let it out.

Be Blanche Devereaux, who once said she was so angry she could scream… and then did it. Rose was shocked. She'd never seen someone actually go through with it.

As my brain rewires, screaming into the void and telling dead dad jokes (My dad’s been gone two years, and I still can’t believe he ghosted me like that.) will remain part of my self-care plan.

Because sometimes, the only sane response to life is to yell right back at it.

Blanche screaming video