Five Unhelpful Phrases for Grieving People

Some well-intentioned words those in mourning can do without

When my father died, people around me tried to help me.

They saw my total devastation and in their urgency to alleviate some of it they did what good people do when other people they care for are grieving: they said things.

And often the things they said, as birthed from a beautiful place as they were—really hurt. What they so desired to be healing actually poked the already massive wound in my heart and made it worse.

You may recognize a few of the things I heard.

"They're in a better place."

People imagine this will feel comforting to those who mourn: the idea that those we've lost are somewhere more beautiful, enjoying the afterlife. Often, there is little solace in this because the absence of those we love, means that this place (the place we live and need to stay) has grown much worse without them. It is this place that we now have to inhabit forever disconnected from them, that weighs the heaviest on us. We don't want to imagine our parents and best friends and siblings and children, blissful somewhere without us.

"God needed another angel."

The moments after a death are rarely a good time for a spontaneous sermon, even the most well-meaning one. Religious people tend to want to make theological sense of really senseless loss, and they often resort to platitudes that again, feel helpful—but are more likely injurious. Painting for a survivor, the image of a selfish Creator somewhere in Heaven who actually engineered their blinding sadness by taking someone from them, doesn't just exacerbate the trauma—it makes it the work of a God they are likely to resent.

"Everything happens for a reason."

On the surface this seems like a safe declaration but it's a minefield for a grieving person. Now, they not only have the face the emotional wreckage of their loss, they have to somehow figure out the whys of that loss: the purpose for God or Fate or the Universe taking their loved one in that manner and at that time. That's far too great an ask for a person on their best day—and this is not their best day.  If there is a reason for such despair, it's probably not possible to comprehend on this side of the hereafter.

"I know how you feel."

You don't. Grief is a singular experience. No loss we endure can be held up to another's. Their relationship with the person they've been separated from is unprecedented, which means they alone carry the intimacy and the memories and the vacancies of their departure. No one was grieving my father's death the way I was, not my mother or my brothers or my sister or his friends. No one in the history of this planet was my father's oldest son, and no one could know what it is like to be his oldest son having to grieve and miss him in the way that I now did. You may have known grief, but you don't know anyone else's.

"Call me if you need anything."

This is a logical default for us. We want people in pain to know that we're there for them. The problem is, when the bottom drops out from us and we are torn open and nothing seems normal—we have no idea what we need. We can barely sustain ourselves to the next breath. And even as the haze of the initial trauma begins to lift and we realize we are lonely or struggling or in deficit, we will almost never call you. That's just how this works. Don't tell grieving people to call you. You call them.

Honestly, there are very few words that will be helpful in the face of the total existential collapse that comes when those most dear to people are suddenly gone.
If you are going to try and fill with words, a cavernous space that really defies description, the only words I'll suggest are:

"I'm so sorry you have to walk this road."
"I love you."
”Tell me what you’re feeling and thinking?”

That's about it. Anything else is bound to be either superfluous or damaging.

What I knew about my father's passing even in the early moments and days is that it wasn't fixable. I knew there weren't words that were going to replace him or counterbalance my heartsickness or make sense out of his absence. Nothing anyone said was going to rewind the clock back to a time when I felt the way I felt before he left, or fast forward to some future place of greater peace. I knew I was just going to have walk through hell and to let it hurt and to allow time to do the work that only time can do.

What this means, friend, is that the greatest gift you can give a grieving person is your presence: that loving, steady (often silent) reminder that they are not alone. That presence will make a difference for those who now face the world with this unspeakable attrition, in a way that words never could.

Relatively soon, you will likely encounter a grieving person you love, whose devastation shakes you and whose heart you will want to heal with words.

This is a beautiful aspiration, just know that it is a likely an impossible one.

Be quick to embrace.
Be urgent in presence.
Be very slow to speak.