The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion,
who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can
tolerate not knowing . . . not healing . . . not curing . . .
that is a friend who cares.1
—HENRI NOUWEN
We all need other people, never more than when we're overwhelmed by grief. We need one another to stay sane, to feel that we belong, to take a break, to fix a leaking toilet, to watch a movie together, to talk about the unspeakable events that just happened, to sing, to cry, and to laugh out loud. We need a check-in with a friend, a walk, tea, a kindness, the presence of another human being who listens and reminds us that everything changes, and that someday we'll feel more ease.
We may not like being the person who needs a lifeline, the person who admits her sorrow is more than she can bear alone. But at times, it's our turn to be the one receiving casseroles, flowers, and phone calls just to see if we're okay. That's how it is. And another day, it will be someone else's turn, and we'll be the one driving up to their house, bringing dinner, looking after their kids, just showing up. Isn't it true that the more generosity you can take in, the more you have to give?
Big losses—even when they're expected, as when someone dies after a prolonged illness—shock most of us to the core. Losses counted in the hundreds of thousands of lives, as in the pandemic, cause us to question our safety and our very existence. No wonder we become numb, distraught, lost, barely able to function—not ourselves.
When you are overcome with grief, it is common to take time apart for a while, maybe even for a long while, to go inside to be with your grief, to rest, and to heal.
But then what? How and when is it possible to re-engage? What if you finally feel ready to connect—at least for that moment—and an hour later decide it isn't what you want after all? What you really want is to stay home, because you don't have the energy to be with friends, or you don't want to break open or cry in public. Maybe you dread feeling invisible if no one mentions your loss, or you simply feel afraid to leave the house. Like many people, we swing back and forth, not sure when it's better to push through fears or when it's okay to yield and keep to ourselves.
Sometimes, we take a tentative step to reach out, and then discover that friends who were attentive during the first few weeks after our loss have returned to their own lives. Perhaps they assume we're doing better and don't need their help, or they feel uncomfortable around sadness or despair. For whatever reasons, they're less available.
What can be a lifeline at such a time? Some people seek out a “grief friend,” a person at church or work, or a neighbor who understands that grief doesn't go away, and who is willing to sit and listen as we cry, rage, laugh, and tell and retell our story.
Some people seek out a bereavement group where they sit with people who are also suffering and know the experiences they're going through. Some people find a group that includes people with a variety of experiences of loss. Others choose a bereavement group with a focus, for example: a group for young adults who have lost a parent; or one for people affected by suicide; or one for caregivers of someone with dementia or cancer; or one for people mourning their pets.
Maybe you have joined a support group and heard someone say he talks with his departed partner, and you say to yourself, “I do that, too!” You listen to a person tell the group that he goes into his closet to smell his partner's clothes. Or you hear someone say she can't bear to give her partner's clothes away because she believes (as author Joan Didion did) that her spouse may come back from the dead and need his shoes.2 And you laugh and think, “Me, too!”
Perhaps week after week, you sit with the same people in your bereavement group, and one day you realize you are part of a beloved community.
We've all heard of courageous people who, after experiencing a painful loss, transform their suffering into passion, purpose, and community. The word passion derives from the Latin passus, meaning to suffer. Guided by a desire to help others avoid the suffering they've experienced, they devote themselves to a cause larger than themselves.
Candy Lightner, whose daughter was killed by a drunk driver, started the group Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD). Haven Fyfe-Kiernan, who lost her husband on the first plane that crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, opened The Wellness Room in Massachusetts to offer bereavement counseling. The parents of Matthew Shepard, who was brutally murdered for being gay, became strong advocates for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning, and/or queer (LGBTQ) rights and helped pass a federal law called the Hate Crimes Prevention Act (HCPA).
And there is the extraordinary example of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who fled his homeland at the outset of the 1959 Tibetan uprising against Chinese occupation. His Holiness embodies the losses and suffering of the Tibetan people, while also exuding kindness, love, and joy wherever he goes.
Granted, these are remarkable responses to unspeakable losses, but there are lots of examples of ordinary people who also act with great joy, kindness, and generosity, at least in part because they too have suffered and want to give something back. When one of my bereavement groups was ending, a widower named Charles joined a new bereavement group. He was beginning to feel happier and more rooted, and he believed his experiences could be a beacon of hope to those newly bereaved.
Some people join choruses that sing at the bedsides of the dying.3 Others volunteer at local shelters to walk dogs and reduce the suffering of animals waiting for adoption, or ride their bikes to raise money for charitable causes. Volunteers with the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) work to create housing for adults affected with mental illness. A mother who lost her baby at birth raises money for her hospital's neonatal unit—hoping to save another family from the tragedy she suffered.
How will you take your broken-open heart, your vulnerability and your tenderness, and allow it to restore your own well-being? At some point when you're ready, and only when you are ready and have enough energy to reach out, how will you allow your grieving heart to connect with others and make the world a little more welcoming?
Sit quietly for a few moments, noticing the feeling and flow of your breathing, in and out. Say slowly, to yourself, the following phrases:
May I allow myself to feel vulnerable.
May I have the courage to ask for what I need.
May I find ways to help other people and other living beings.
Reflect on ways you might develop a support network for yourself:
Take a few minutes to reflect on activities you love, such as making music, woodworking, learning a language, or playing sports: