Thursday's Dead Serious Thoughts: Wading Through Grief and Loss

I recently discovered Substack and immediately subscribed to about a dozen writers who explore grief and loss. I listen to podcasts like All There Is with Anderson Cooper and Best Life, Best Death with Diane Hullet (both are wonderful, by the way). I seek out documentaries, movies, television series, and books that explore what it means to love, lose, and keep living.

I have my own thoughts about grief, shaped by both my work and my life, but I'm continually fascinated by how much there is to learn.

One thing becomes clearer with every story I hear:

Everyone grieves differently.

Some people wear their grief openly, almost as a badge of honor. Others tuck it away so deeply that no one would ever know it's there. Neither way is wrong. It's simply the way each of us survives.

And yet our culture seems to give us, what...three days? Maybe a week if we're lucky? Then it's time to return to work, answer emails, smile politely, and carry on as though life hasn't fundamentally changed.

Woof.

How is that enough time to even begin to understand who you are now?

A widow.

A bereaved parent.

An orphan.

A best friend who is suddenly...best friend-less.

Grief doesn't just take away the person we love. It changes our own identity in ways we never expected.

Last year, I lost someone I would call a friend. He was my very first employer. We were connected through music and through church, and his death was sudden.

His celebration of life was so perfectly him. Everyone wore Hawaiian shirts because that had become his signature. Someone played a video of him introducing a piece of music before sitting down at the piano to play it. Watching him smile, hearing his voice again, and listening to him play was surreal—and incredibly beautiful.

I loved hearing the stories people shared about him: how he met his wife, the adventures they had together, the ways he quietly made people's lives better. I left feeling touched by the life he had lived.

After the service, everyone gathered for food, conversation, and community.

I wanted so badly to speak with his wife.

To hug her.

To tell her how much her husband had meant to me.

To hear whatever she wanted to share.

But she was surrounded by people all afternoon, and somehow I never found my way over.

Life moved on.

Yesterday, I found the sympathy card I had bought for her.

Still sitting there.

Never mailed.

And I realized...

I really, really dropped the ball.

Then, almost as if the universe wanted to underline the lesson, I came across a Facebook post she had written. She spoke about how much it means not to grieve alone. How healing it is when someone is brave enough to simply show up and hold space.

Not with answers.

Not with perfect words.

Just with presence.

So I sent her an email.

I apologized.

I told her I was sorry I hadn't reached out sooner. I asked if she'd like to meet for lunch sometime.

I truly hope she says yes.

If she doesn't, that's okay too. I've learned that I won't be everyone's person, and that's perfectly alright.

But I have learned something about myself.

I know how it feels to not reach out.

And I don't want that feeling to stop me from trying again.

One thing I know to be true is this:

We don't "get over" grief.

We learn to carry it.

Sometimes we carry it alone.

Sometimes someone comes alongside us and carries it for a little while.

If you've been thinking about reaching out to someone who is grieving, consider this your gentle nudge.

It doesn't matter if it's been six weeks.

Six months.

Or even six years.

It is rarely too late to say:

"I've been thinking about you."

"I'm sorry I disappeared."

"Would you like to have coffee?"

"Tell me about them."

Love doesn't have an expiration date.

Neither does grief.

Maybe today is the day you help someone carry theirs.