They say that experience makes you an expert. If that's true, I suppose I’m something of an expert on grief. I've lost multiple people I love over the years, and as the anniversaries of their deaths approaches, I find myself returning to the subject.
You’ve probably experienced a jarring loss. You may recall the empty feeling, the loneliness, the sense of abandonment. You may also remember the words and actions of friends. Grief is impossible to define, and at times impossible to cope with. But the people around us can make a profound difference in how we deal with it. I keep returning to these interactions and asking myself: What were my needs at that moment? Who satisfied those needs best? And how can I be a better friend when someone I care about has experienced a loss?
Grief can take different forms with respect to different people, and even an expected death can find us unprepared. Many of us have lost a parent or grandparent. While it's never the “right” time to lose a parent, we know that a long life eventually ends. Still, knowing that doesn't make the grief any easier. We may grieve not only the person but the shared history and their place in our lives.
Some grief is more confounding or unimaginable: I lost one of my best friends in high school. His name was Edd Zelezny. I don’t know how I processed this loss at such a tender age, but I know that, when I was summoned to the office to bring his possessions from our shared locker, the people in the office ham-handedly lied to me about Edd’s death. It was the first time I cursed at adults. Other friends died not long after high school. I often ponder what their lives would have been like, if they were alive today.
Then there are the losses that change the shape of your family. The first week of January will mark 30 years since my sister Gale, my only sibling, died of a rare form of cancer. She would have been 68. She left a son and a legacy that continues to this day. And this December marks the ninth anniversary of the most devastating loss of my life: the untimely death of my son Bradley from prescription drug interactions. He would be 30 years old today. I’ll write soon about his death and one way I've found to cope with profound grief in a later column. But today, I'm focused on supporting those who are grieving a loss.
How do you empathize when the grief is great?
How can anyone adequately empathize with a friend who has experienced profound loss? We may struggle to find the right words, especially when someone has died young or unexpectedly. For the person grieving, even time takes on a different meaning: Events are forevermore divided into what occurred before or after the loss.
We all want to help friends in moments of grief, but the fear of saying the wrong thing can be paralyzing. Here are a few thoughts I’ve gathered over the years:
It’s okay to feel awkward. What do you say to someone who is grieving? Clearly, offering “thoughts and prayers” may be sincerely meant but can feel hollow. One may feel uncomfortable but it is in this discomfort that we can evidence and share our humanity. This moment is, after all, not about you: It is about the person who is grieving. Be comfortable being uncomfortable, and don't let that feeling prevent you from reaching out. If a phone call might feel like intruding, send a text or email.
You should say something. There's nothing quite as lonely as silence after losing someone. Acknowledging the person who is gone can be a great comfort. And because grieving never fully leaves us, a comforting word a year later can still mean a lot. I cannot tell you how wonderful it was when someone asked about my sister 10 years after her death. On more than one occasion, someone who hadn't heard the news would ask, “How is Gale doing?” When I told them she had died, they were sometimes visibly taken aback. But I would reassure them: “Don’t be silly; I appreciate your mentioning her. Every time I hear her name is a good thing.” Most times, the conversation would evolve to sharing remembrances.
You cannot know how exactly it feels. People often try to empathize by saying something like, “I know how you must feel.” But even if you've experienced a similar loss, that observation is unlikely to be true. And that's OK. It's better to acknowledge that they must be feeling pain, and perhaps steer the conversation to a happy memory of the deceased.
Telling someone, “It’s the worst thing imaginable” or “I can’t imagine how I could ever deal with that” isn’t helpful. For me, those are the hardest comments to hear. The grieving person is well aware of how horrible the loss is. When we lost Brad, many people volunteered these observations. To my ears, they sounded a little like, “Boy that’s really terrible; thank God it wasn’t me.” The interaction with the grieving is not about you or your opinions. Your friend doesn't need an assessment of how unbearable their loss is. They need your company, your attention, and your willingness to listen.
Don’t say “Is there anything I can do?” or “I’m here for you” unless you intend to follow through. I have heard these offers many times. If your goal is simply to acknowledge the loss, then do that. But if your goal is to provide help, offer something specific. Call a couple of days later and suggest lunch or coffee. Or offer to go for a walk, look at pictures together, or talk about the person who died. Give them room to decline, and check in on another day. Saying “we’re here for you” or “call me any time” shifts the burden to the aggrieved. They may not have the energy to call, or don't want to be a burden. Take the initiative.
Say the deceased's name and don’t be afraid to share a story. For some reason, people hesitate to mention someone who has died or tell stories about them — even ones about their foibles and missteps. I wish I could convey the joy I find in recounting stories, particularly those that have a humorous side. For me, few things are as comforting as reminiscing about someone with another person who knew them.
When well-wishers get it wrong
I’ve also been on the receiving end of awkward attempts at comfort. When I have the energy, I try to recognize the intention behind the words and let the person know I appreciate their reaching out. Try to be kind to the person trying to articulate the incomprehensible. Put them at ease and confirm what they mean to you — and how much you appreciate their message — even if they say something inappropriate or seemingly insensitive.
Given my history with loss, people often ask whether I think about it all the time. The answer is that I do. How can one not? But the remarkable thing about humans is how we can adapt to almost anything — just ask Victor Frankl. But remembering those who I've lost isn't the same as dwelling on their deaths. What I think about mostly is not the loss but the gift of having known them. Most of us can conjure up warm memories, funny stories, and shared experiences. Why dwell on death when one can focus on life?
Acceptance of our mortality
A life has value regardless of its length. While people may say “They lived a long life,” when a nonagenarian passes, that’s not necessarily comforting to a grieving child. There is never a good day to lose a parent, regardless of age. Nor does a life cut short have less value: All lives should be celebrated for who the person was, and how they positively affected us.
Religious reassurances deserve care, too. Saying, “God has his ways” or that the departed is “in a better place” may offer comfort if the bereaved shares your beliefs. But don't assume that the grieving person does, or that those words are what they need to hear.
It's a curious phenomenon that people intellectually accept the concept of our mortality — that nobody gets out of here alive — but don’t seem to acknowledge it on a personal level. We know it will happen in theory, but can’t imagine it will actually happen to us. We keep working and plan for the future. Look at Henry Kissinger, 99 years old and writing op-eds — or Warren Buffett, still investing for the long-term. Or maybe just down the street from you, the doctor or lawyer who refuses to retire. There's nothing inherently wrong with those impulses. But knowing that our time is limited should also remind us to enjoy what we have now — and that joy should not be postponed. And, if possible, we should leave a note for those we leave behind, telling them we love them and asking to be remembered for who we were, rather than how we died.
Eulogies while we're living
A closing thought: When my father and I returned from a funeral, he would always make two comments that have stuck with me. The first was “I’m lucky to return from this one above ground.” The second was about the eulogy: how beautiful it had been and what a shame it was that the person who died wasn’t around to hear it. My father felt the outpourings of emotion and appreciation after a person died were nice but “just a little late.” He would always say that it would be better to eulogize people while they are living.
What he meant, of course, is that we tell people while we are with them how much we love them, how much they mean to us, and how thankful we are for them. Why wait until death to articulate these emotions?
It's never too early to tell someone you love them. And when they are gone, the love you shared can comfort you for the rest of your life.
When he isn’t writing his column Thinking Things Through, Glenn Sonnenberg heads a real estate investment company and serves on several nonprofit boards. A graduate of the University of Southern California, Mr. Sonnenberg also received his J.D. from USC. He began his career as an attorney specializing in real estate and finance. Follow him on Substack here.
