If Grief Was a Person

Grief is inevitable. It affects every single person at some point or another. But ironically, we live in a culture that is grief illiterate. The village doesn’t know how to support someone suffering in deep grief, other than by bringing casseroles and flowers and saying, my condolences. These gestures have become our custom. While grieving people appreciate them, they are starving for something else.

If grief was a person, her deepest need would be to be witnessed and held.

Unfortunately, her needs most often go unmet. Sure, everyone expects her to fall apart in the first weeks after someone she loves dies. But after that, she becomes inconvenient, a bummer, a vibe-kill. People tell her that time will heal, that she needs to be strong and hide away all of those big feelings, all in the name of moving forward.

She is unvalidated, rushed and forgotten.

Others may assume, in the bustle of their busy lives, that she is doing better. That she is surrounded by support. But most times, she is suffering silently in isolation.

If grief touches us all, how can this be? How have we not got this right by now?

What could it look like if more space was made for our neglected guest? What if we, as a village, became witnesses instead of distracting her or trying to pump her up to move forward?

During the first grief retreat that we facilitated, I was able to start answering these questions. We didn't try to fix anyone's grief. We didn't try to make anyone feel better. We simply made space for it.

And in that space, something beautiful happened.

People connected deeply. There was a sense of relief because grief was invited to show up exactly as she was, without concealing or masking her pain. She felt cared for and truly seen among a community of people who understood.

We need to become better friends with grief. To listen without trying to fix her. To stay with her when things get uncomfortable. To remember she is there long after the casseroles stop coming.