Grief has a way of keeping me awake at night. I think about the different forms it takes, and how familiar it can feel even when the loss itself is entirely new.
I felt it after my burn injuries. I remember witnessing my oldest sister’s grief when she lost her husband. I was eleven—too young to understand everything she was carrying.
Now another of my sisters has lost her husband, too.
His name was Thomas. Everyone called him Spike. I loved him, and I will miss him terribly—not just because he was wonderful to my sister, but because he was wonderful in his own right.
Spike lived with metastatic colon cancer for almost four years. But he did not want cancer to become what people knew him for. He wanted to be known as a dad, husband, son, brother, brother-in-law, a friend, and a cattleman. He wanted to be himself.
He wanted privacy around his illness, and people honored that wish.
Beside him was a very strong woman: my sister. She inspires me every day. She loved him, supported him, and cared for their children.
When she shared her loss publicly, she described her world as shattered.
I cannot tell her story for her. But I can listen, make room for what she chooses to share, and ask the people who love her to keep showing up.
She deserves to be supported, too—not because she has stopped being strong, but because being strong was never supposed to mean carrying everything alone.
After he received his terminal diagnosis, Spike expressed that his greatest concern was making sure his wife and children would be cared for. I keep thinking about that. Sharing this is one small way I hope to help honor that wish.
There are people we love who are grieving while still taking care of everything else. They need care, too.
And I am grieving alongside them.
When Grief Feels Unwelcome
People are not necessarily trying to be callous when they struggle to talk about illness, death, or grief. Sometimes they are frightened. Sometimes they do not know what to say. Sometimes they want so badly to make things better that they do not know how to remain present when they cannot.
I know that discomfort. I have felt it myself.
But when a conversation moves away from someone’s grief because another person is uncomfortable, it can feel as though their whole experience does not fit.
As though they must choose only the acceptable parts of themselves to bring into a conversation.
They can talk about ordinary things. They can offer a reassuring answer. They can tell a happy memory, perhaps. But the part of their life occupying so much of their heart must stay outside the exchange.
I do not think most of us intend to send that message. I do think we need to notice when we do.
Making room also means leaving someone the choice not to talk.
Spike’s wish for privacy mattered. Making room for someone’s whole experience does not mean making every part of it public. It means letting them decide what they share, when they share it, and with whom.
My burn scars are visible. Over the years, people have brought up what happened to me as though its visibility makes the experience available for conversation whenever they choose.
But they are mentioning the worst day of my life. Even a passing reference can be jarring. The conversation may move on quickly for them while I am left with what it brought back.
I want room to speak honestly. I also want the choice not to speak.
A Moment with Spike
In one of my last conversations with Spike, I asked,
“How are you?”
“Not great,” he said.
I sat there for a minute.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Eventually, I asked whether he wanted to be left alone.
He said yes.
“Of course,” I said, and walked away.
I felt so uncomfortable afterward. I wanted to support him, and I left feeling as if I had failed.
But I am trying to understand that moment differently.
He told me the truth. I could not make it better. I asked what he wanted, and he answered. I respected his answer.
He did not owe me a comforting interaction so I could feel useful. He did not have to accept my company to protect my feelings.
Maybe caring, in that moment, meant letting his wishes matter more than my discomfort.
You Do Not Have to Solve It
If you want to support someone who is grieving, let them help determine what the conversation can hold.
They may want to talk about the worst part of their life—not because they expect you to solve it, but because it is part of their life, and they need to know that part of them is welcome, too.
They may want to tell the same story again, talk about something ordinary, or have company without conversation.
They may want to be alone.
You do not need perfect words. “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here to listen” can be an honest beginning.
Then leave room for the answer.
If you want to help in a practical way, offer something specific without making it another obligation:
“Would you like company today, or would you rather have some time alone?”
“Could I bring dinner? I can leave it at the door if you don’t want a visit.”
“Would it help if I took care of this errand?”
Make room for no. Make room for a different request. Make room for the possibility that what helped yesterday is not what they need today.
The point is not to perform support successfully. It is to understand what the person in front of you can receive.
I Am Learning to Make Room, Too
Sometimes I make that room smaller myself.
I learned young to worry that sharing something painful would be seen as seeking attention. I am still learning the difference between choosing privacy and hiding because I am afraid my experience will be too much for someone else.
I remember attending a gathering while carrying this grief. The hosts had put so much care into the evening, and I did not want to bring sadness into it. I talked about other things. I thanked them. Inside, the contrast felt surreal.
Later, someone who had been there reached out. She said she would have offered her condolences in person if she had known.
I had assumed that keeping my grief out of the evening was the considerate thing to do. I had not made room for the possibility that someone would want to meet me in it.
I do not owe everyone my story. But I want to stop assuming that being welcome means arriving without the parts of me that hurt.
Remember the Person Caring for Everyone Else
Someone is answering messages, making arrangements, thinking about the children, keeping the household running, and remembering what needs to happen next.
That person is grieving, too.
Being capable does not mean being untouched. Continuing to function does not mean there is no need for comfort, companionship, or practical help.
Please do not assume that the person holding things together has everything they need. Sometimes, they simply feel as if there is no choice.
And if you are that person, I hope there is room for you to put something down.
I am writing this because people I love are grieving, and I do not want them to fall through the cracks. I cannot fill every gap myself. I hope we can make room for them together.
My sister deserves care in her own right. She has lost her husband. Their children have lost their dad.
I cannot make their loss smaller. But I can remember him as the person I loved, listen to what they choose to share, and keep showing up in ways they can receive.
We do not have to make grief comfortable before we let it into the conversation. We can let the person we love be whole.
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