A bit of grief advice for non-grieving partners

Originally posted on Dear Sugar, an advice column from Cheryl Strayed, at the time going by the pen name Sugar.

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Dear Sugar,

I’m a thirty-eight-year-old guy and engaged to be married this summer. My fiancé is thirty-five. I don’t need romantic advice. I’m writing to you about my fiancé’s mother, who passed away from cancer several years before I met her, when my fiancé was twenty-three.

She and her mother were very close. Her death was an awful blow to my fiancé at the time and it still hurts her deeply. It’s not like she can’t get out of bed or is struggling with depression. She has a great life. One of her friends calls her “joy on wheels” and that’s accurate, but I know it isn’t the whole story. Her mom’s death is always lurking. It comes up on a regular basis. When she cries or talks about how much she misses her mom, I’m supportive, but I usually feel insufficient. I don’t know what to say beyond lame things like, “I’m sorry” and “I can imagine how you’d feel” (though I can’t because my mom is still alive). She never had much of a relationship with her dad, who left the picture a long time ago, and her sister and her aren’t very close, so I can’t rely on someone in her family to be there for her. Sometimes I try to cheer her up or try to get her to forget about “the heavy stuff,” but that usually backfires and only makes her feel worse.

I don’t know how to handle this, Sugar. I feel lame in the face of her grief. I know you lost your mother too. What can you tell me? I want to be a better partner when it comes to handling grief.

Signed,
Bewildered

Dear Bewildered,

Several months after my mother died I found a glass jar of stones tucked in the far reaches of her bedroom closet. I was moving her things out of the house I’d thought of as home, clearing way for the woman with whom my stepfather had suddenly fallen in love. It was a devastating process—more brutal in its ruthless clarity than anything I’ve ever experienced or hope to again—but when I had that jar of rocks in my hands I felt a kind of elation I cannot describe in any other way except to say that in the cold clunk of its weight I felt ever so fleetingly as if I were holding my mother.

That jar of stones wasn’t just any jar of stones. They were rocks my brother and sister and I had given to our mom. Stones we’d found as kids on beaches and trails and the grassy patches on the edges of parking lots and pressed into her hands, our mother’s palms the receptacle for every last thing we thought worth saving.

I sat down on the bedroom floor and dumped them out, running my fingers over them as if they were the most sacred things on the earth. Most were smooth and black and smaller than a potato chip. Worry stones my mother had called them, the sort so pleasing against the palm she claimed they had the power to soothe the mind if you rubbed them right.

What do you do with the rocks you once gave to your dead mother? Where is their rightful place? To whom do they belong? To what are you obligated? Memory? Practicality? Reason? Faith? Do you put them back in the jar and take them with you across the wild and unkempt sorrow of your twenties or do you simply carry them outside and dump them in the yard?

I couldn’t know. Knowing was so far away. I could only touch the rocks, hoping to find my mother in them.

Not long before my mother died, I met a woman who’d been attacked by a man as she walked home from a party. By the time I met her she lived in a group home for those with brain injuries. Her own injury was the result of the attack, her head having hit the sidewalk so hard in the course of it that she’d never be the same again. She was incapable of living alone, incapable of so very much, and yet she remembered just enough of her former life as a painter and teacher that she was miserable in the group home and she desperately longed to return to her own house. She refused to accept the explanations given to her as to why she couldn’t. She had come to fervently believe that in order to be released she had only to recite the correct combination of numbers to her captors, her caretakers.

93480219072, she’d say as they fed her and bathed her and helped her get ready for bed. 6552091783. 4106847508. 05298562347. And on and on in a merciless spiral. But no matter what she said, she would never crack the code. There was no code. There was only the new fact of her life, changed irrevocably.

In the months after my mother died, I thought of this woman an inordinate amount and not only because I was distressed by her suffering. I thought of her because I understood her monumental desire and her groundless faith: I believed that I could crack a code too. That my own irrevocably changed life could be redeemed if only I could find the right combination of things. That in those objects my mother would be given back to me in some indefinable and figurative way that would make it okay for me to live the rest of my life without her.

And so I searched.

I didn’t find it in the half empty container of peppermint Tic Tacs that had been in the glove compartment of my mother’s car on the day she died or in the fringed moccasins that still stunk precisely of my mother’s size six feet a whole year later. I didn’t find it in her unfashionably large reading glasses or the gray porcelain horse that had sat on the shelf near her bed. I didn’t find it in her pen from the bank with the real hundred-dollar bill shredded up inside or in the butter dish with the white marble ball in its top or in any one of the shirts she’d sewn for herself or for me.

And I didn’t find it in those stones either, in spite of my hopes on that sad day. It wasn’t anywhere, in anything and it never would be.

“It will never be okay,” a friend who lost her mom in her teens said to me a couple years ago. “It will never be okay that our mothers are dead.”

At the time she said this to me she wasn’t yet really my friend. We’d chatted passingly at parties, but this was the first time we were alone together. She was fiftysomething and I was forty. Our moms had been dead for ages. We were both writers with kids of our own now. We had good relationships and fulfilling careers. And yet the unadorned truth of what she’d said—it will never be okay—entirely unzipped me.

It will never be okay, and yet there we were, the two of us more than okay, both of us happier and luckier than anyone has a right to be. You could describe either one of us as “joy on wheels,” though there isn’t one good thing that has happened to either of us that we haven’t experienced through the lens of our grief. I’m not talking about weeping and wailing every day (though sometimes we both did that). I’m talking about what goes on inside, the words unspoken, the shaky quake at the body’s core. There was no mother at our college graduations. There was no mother at our weddings. There was no mother when we sold our first books. There was no mother when our children were born. There was no mother, ever, at any turn for either one of us in our entire adult lives and there never will be.

The same is true for your fiancé, Bewildered. She is your joy on wheels whose every experience is informed and altered by the fact that she lost the most essential, elemental, primal and central person in her life too soon. I know this without knowing her. It will never be okay that she lost her mother. And the kindest most loving thing you can do for her is to bear witness to that, to muster the strength and courage and humility it takes to accept the enormous reality of its not okayness and be okay with it the same way she has to be. Get comfortable being the man who says oh honey, I’m so sorry for your loss over and over again.

That’s what the people who’ve consoled me the most deeply in my sorrow have done. They’ve spoken those words or something like them every time I needed to hear it; they’ve plainly acknowledged what is invisible to them, but so very real to me. I know saying those cliché and ordinary things makes you feel squirmy and lame. I feel that way too when I say such things to others who have lost someone they loved. We all do. It feels lame because we like to think we can solve things. It feels insufficient because there is nothing we can actually do to change what’s horribly true.

But compassion isn’t about solutions. It’s about giving all the love that you’ve got.

So give it, sweet pea. It’s clear that you’ve done it already. Your kind letter is proof. But I encourage you to stop being bewildered. Have the guts to feel lame. Say that you’re sorry for your lover’s loss about three thousand times over the coming years. Ask about her mother sometimes without her prompting. Console her before she asks to be consoled. Honor her mother on your wedding day and in other ways as occasions arise. Your mother-in-law is dead, but she lives like a shadow mother in the woman you love. Make a place for her in your life too.

That’s what Mr. Sugar has done for me. That’s what some of my friends and even acquaintances have done. It doesn’t make it okay, but it makes it better.

Next week it will be twenty years since my mother died. So long I squint every time the thought comes to me. So long that I’ve finally convinced myself there isn’t a code to crack. The search is over. The stones I once gave my mother have scattered, replaced by the stones my children give to me.

I keep the best ones in my pockets. Sometimes there is one so perfect I carry it around for weeks, my hand finding it and finding it, soothing itself along the black arc of it.

Yours,
Sugar

Anxiety, another stage of grief

Photo: @thetonik_co

People are generally familiar with the idea that grief brings about sadness, sometimes anger. Anxiety has often been referred to as the other stage of grief because it’s not part of “the big five” but it’s not uncommon for loss to bring up this feeling. Claire Bidwell even wrote a book on it. For some, because anxiety isn’t always talked about alongside grief, experiencing it for the first time feels unexpected and confusing.

There are many reasons why people might feel anxious after a loss—financial strain, changes in relationships and living arrangements, the added stress of having to handle someone’s affairs or estate. Loss also shines a light on the impermanence of life, and that can turn into fear.

Here are a few ways to deal with anxiety, if you find yourself in this position.

Familiarize yourself

Sometimes being unable to label or understand a feeling, especially one like anxiety, can intensify it. Read about anxiety and panic attacks and learn about the physiological and mental symptoms so you can recognize when it’s happening. Learn about what anxiety feels like in your body and mind so that when you experience it, you can name it.

Notice triggers

Once you’re able to start identifying the anxiety, pay attention to when you’re feeling it more often. See if there are patterns. Do you start to feel more panicked when you’re behind the wheel? About to go to sleep? If you can identify times of day or situations where your anxiety peaks, this can help you prepare for it.

Breathe

The number one way to help manage anxiety is to breathe. Taking deep breaths, especially all the way into the diaphragm (known as deep belly breathing) can relax your parasympathetic nervous system and let your body and brain know that you’re not in danger. Read more about deep belly breathing in this post.

Think of your feet

Another way to manage anxiety in the moment is to ask yourself where your feet are. This technique helps you become present in the moment and can help take your mind off of the fear and panic. Anxiety can sometimes be a feeling in the mind, like a runaway train. Reminding yourself where your feet are can bring you back into your body and ground you in the now.

Talk to a professional

You don’t have to suffer alone. If you’re experiencing anxiety in your life, talk to a professional — a therapist, doctor, or psychiatrist. There’s no shame in getting help. Talk therapy is a great way to verbalize and understanding your feelings and what’s contributing to them. Medication can also be a helpful step and may not need to be a permanent solution. Talk to your personal doctor to get more information on whether this is the right approach for you. [Grief Collective is not recommending one particular health treatment and is not a substitution for professional advice]

How to: deep belly breathing

Photo: Fabian Moller

You’ve probably heard the advice “take a deep breath” a hundred times. And it’s true—deep breathing is a simple and effective tool to manage stress, anxiety, and depression. But what you may not know is how to actually breathe deeply.

Let’s try this: take a moment, get comfortable, and take a deep breath. You probably felt your lungs fill up, your chest rise and fall. Maybe you feel a bit more relaxed. This is all great, but according to breath experts (yes, it’s a thing), we can do better.

Most of us breathe from our chests rather than fully engaging our diaphragm, which is just next to our bellies. Breathing all the way into the diaphragm—really filling up on the inhale all the way to the bottom of our stomachs—produces a different physiological response than chest breathing. It can reduce blood pressure, increase the amount of oxygen in your blood, and reduce heart rate, to name a few benefits (of many). Some holistic practitioners also say that this breathing helps root into your core, allowing you to feel more grounded and clear.

Deep belly breathing (also called diaphragmatic breathing) can be a helpful tool in navigating the stress and anxiety associated with loss.

How to do deep belly breathing

Here’s how you can learn to do deep belly breathing on your own (adapted from this tutorial). It may feel a little unnatural at first if you’re like many people who breathe through their chests, but over time you can make it a routine practice. Aim for 3 good breaths in a row.

Disclaimer: If you have a lung condition like COPD or asthma, speak with your healthcare provider before trying any type of breathing exercise. If you feel lightheaded at any time, discontinue the breathing exercise.

Step 1: Get comfortable
You’ll want to start in a comfortable position, sitting or lying down on your back. Your posture should feel relaxed but not slouched.

Step 2: Place a hand on your upper chest
This will help you observe where your breath is really coming from. If you're engaging your diaphragm (deep belly breaths) properly, this hand should remain relatively still as you breathe in and out.

Step 3: Place the other hand below your ribcage
The other hand should rest on your belly, just above your navel. This will allow you to feel your diaphragm move as you breathe.

Step 4: Breathe in through your nose
The air going into your nose should move downward so that you feel your stomach rise with your other hand. It’s important not to force your abdominal muscles in the movement, just let your belly fill and expand without straining. The movement (and the airflow) should be smooth. Remember that the hand resting on your chest should remain relatively still. 

5. Breathe out through your mouth
Exhale slowly through slightly open lips, letting your belly relax. You should feel the hand that's over it fall inward as you exhale. Again, don't force the muscles around your stomach inward by squeezing or clenching. The hand on your chest should continue to remain relatively still.

I hope that deep belly breathing can be a useful tool for you to take with you as you navigate the current global situation and any feelings that arise during stressful times associated with grief, loss, anxiety, and depression. Comment below on how it goes for you.

How meditation can provide support in grief

Photo: JD Mason

“Mindfulness not only makes it possible to survey our internal landscape with compassion and curiosity but can also actively steer us in the right direction for self-care.”

— Bessel A. Van der Kolk

When I first learned about meditation, it was introduced by my college grief counselor. We had spent several sessions talking about my fears and anxieties after losing my dad and how I was having trouble falling asleep, so she emailed me an audio file, and she encouraged me to listen to it as I was getting ready for bed. That night I plugged my headphones into my iPod mini, laid down on my bed, and listened to the 10-minute clip in the darkness.

It started with a woman’s voice speaking slowly and calmly. She instructed me to take three deep breaths. After a few moments of silence, she asked me to draw my attention to my toes and focus on relaxing the muscles while continuing to breathe. After a few moments of focus on my toes, she asked me to draw my attention to my ankles and repeat the same exercise. The voice continued to direct my attention to various parts of my body, all the way up to my head, encouraging deep breaths throughout. By the end of the audio file, I felt more relaxed in my body and my mind, and I was able to fall asleep easily that night.

Meditation comes in many forms. It can be guided or unguided, it can be done walking or seated or lying down, it can be done in a group or on your own. No one approach is better than another—it’s more based on personal preference—but the benefits, especially in grief, are major. This Mayo Clinic article has lots of additional details on the general benefits and different types of meditation, but when it comes to dealing with grief and loss, these are my top reasons:

Help with sleep
A lot of the anxiety I dealt with after my dad’s death peaked when I was getting ready to fall asleep. Suddenly, right as my head hit the pillow, I’d find my thoughts and worries running rampant. Doing meditation right before bed can help your nervous system and brain go into rest mode to better prepare you for sleep. And practicing meditation on a consistent basis can help train your body and brain to access that calm state more easily and frequently throughout the day, which can help prevent the sudden surge of thoughts at night.

Health
I rarely got so much as a cold growing up, but the year after my dad died it seemed like I was sick every other week. Stress can take a toll on your immune system, which can leave you more susceptible to illness. And with grief, especially with anxiety, the stress on your body and nervous system is constant. Your parasympathetic nervous system (rest-and-digest), activated by meditation as well as breathing and other grounding activities, can combat the body’s natural reaction to stress and restore you to a calmer state. Meditation, especially when you’re more prone to stress in a time of loss, can help keep your nervous system from operating in fight-or-flight mode, which wears on the health of your mind and body over time.

The brain-body connection
When we’re stressed, we tend to store tension in our bodies in different ways. Some people are jaw-clenchers, some are shoulder-tensing, a lot of us even store emotion in our hips (it’s a common belief that, dating back to the fetal position, this is our first bodily reaction to stress). Meditation is a great tool to manage the physical symptoms that come along with grief, such as muscle tension, headaches, stomach discomfort, and anxiety-related chest tightness. For me, the guided meditation that focused on areas of the body illuminated where I was storing tension, and it helped me relax and bring more awareness to how I held stress throughout the day.

Existing in the present
When I was in the early days of grief, as I suspect many people can relate to, I spent most of my time thinking about the past, holding onto old memories, wishing I could change things. And when I wasn’t longing for the past, I was worrying about what the future held. Meditation is about focusing on the present moment—what’s here and now. That’s why practices encourage you to focus on your breath or have a mantra you repeat or, in my case with the audio file, focus on relaxing different parts of your body. These methods are meant to bring your attention to things that are tangible with the goal of anchoring you. As hard as it is to acknowledge, we only ever have control over the present moment. This isn’t to say that you shouldn’t think about the past or the future, but meditation helps re-center you when you feel yourself getting swept up.

These are just some of my thoughts around where meditation can be useful in a grieving process. What other benefits have you seen with meditation and grief? I’d love to hear.

How to talk to someone who's grieving

Photo: @reo

If you’re the friend, family member, colleague, etc. of someone who’s grieving—welcome. You’re already taking a caring step in trying to learn more about how to understand your loved one. It can be vulnerable and even scary to approach someone in the throes of difficult emotions, but it will mean so much to them when you do. Here are some tips for navigating this time.

just try

The first step in talking to the grieving person in your life (let’s call them GPIYL from here on out) is to do it. That might seem a little obvious but it’s actually not uncommon for people to shy away from other people’s difficult emotions and just say nothing. Saying nothing is one of the worst things you can do, especially if the GPIYL is someone you’re close to. Just trying is a step that will mean so much to your loved one.

be Thoughtful, curious

If it’s the first time you’re talking to the GPIYL, a standard phrase you can say is “I’m so sorry for your loss.” You can also personalize it and say “I’m so sorry about your [insert person/pet they’ve lost].” You can also offer to them that they’re in your thoughts. Another question to ask is a simple “How are you doing?” Allow them to answer honestly, even though the answer is most likely not good.

If you’re writing it, a how-to on writing condolence notes is available here (there’s some advice overlap with this post).

Avoid hurtful phrases

There are a small handful of phrases that have come to be accepted in the grief community as more harmful than helpful, and it’s best to avoid them. Here are a few examples:

• I know how you feel.

• Everything happens for a reason

• At least they’re not in pain.

• You’re never given more than you can handle.

• It was just their time.

• You’ll be okay.

Also remember to be sensitive about religious beliefs. While religion may be comforting to you, if the GPIYL isn’t religious, this can be hurtful.

Tears are normal

There’s a common misconception that mentioning the loss will make the GPIYL upset because you’re “reminding them” of their loss. Two things here are true: 1) Their loss is already front-and-center in their mind, so you’re not reminding them of anything. 2) They may cry, and that’s a totally normal, healthy reaction for a grieving person to have. The best thing you can do for them in those moments is anticipate a tearful reaction and be prepared hold space for them (rather than shifting to a new topic or trying to maneuver out of your own discomfort) — consider bringing tissues. A hug may be appropriate for someone you’re close to. For colleagues, a hand on their arm or shoulder may be a better option. Consider your relationship and how the moment feels to determine the best path.

Follow their lead

The GPIYL may want to share a lot—or they may be more reserved. This is usually dependent on personality, how they’re feeling that day, and setting (for example, if they’re in the office or around a larger group, they may want to be more brief). Pay attention to whether they’re engaged—sharing more about their experience, telling stories—or whether they want to move on—changing the subject, making a joke, etc. Go where it seems they want to go.

Follow up

It’s a wonderful step to acknowledge the GPIYL’s loss early on. It’s even better to continue to acknowledge the loss over time because this is now a permanent part of their life. Recognizing anniversaries and critical milestones like birthdays, mother’s day, father’s day, etc. will go a long way. You can also just ask about the GPIYL’s lost loved one in the course of a normal day. Prompts like “Tell me a story about your dad” or “What was your son like?” can be a thoughtful way to acknowledge their loss as a huge part of their life—as well as honor the person they’ve lost.

Show, don’t tell

You may notice that the phrases “I’m here for you” or “Let me know if you need anything” aren’t in the suggested list. Those aren’t necessarily bad—they show your support—but it leaves the burden on the GPIYL to reach out. What’s * better * is to offer specific ways to help in the form of options. Some examples include:

• “I can bring you dinner next week. Do you prefer lasagna or tacos?”

• “I’ll watch your kids for an afternoon this weekend, which day is better—Saturday or Sunday?”

A note in closing: You might still fear that you’ll say the wrong thing. It’s okay. Do it anyway. People won’t remember what you say - they remember how you made them feel.

How to find a therapist

Talk therapy can be an incredibly helpful experience when navigating grief. A trained professional can listen to your thoughts and feelings, and they can help provide context for your experience as well as advise you on what to do next. Therapists can help with many different areas, from terminal illness to grief and loss to anxiety. Many therapists now offer remote options as well as in-person. We did a whole post on therapy apps as well, which you can check out here.

Here are steps to consider when looking for a therapist:

Determine your budget

If you are like most people who live in the US, there are cost implications to be aware of when considering therapy. Costs can range based on several factors including location, frequency, and insurance coverage. The good news is that many insurance providers cover therapy if it’s in-network or charge a co-pay cost, which could be minimal depending on your insurance. Most of this information can be determined by contacting your insurance company or looking at your benefits website—some even include a search for in-network providers. If you don’t have insurance or prefer not to use it, you can also pay out-of-pocket. It’s not uncommon for out-of-pocket therapy costs to be $100+ per session. If weekly isn’t in your budget, consider working with your therapist to find a schedule that will.

Also note that some therapists offer a sliding scale for payment - this is something to ask about in preliminary conversations. And if these options are all cost prohibitive, therapy apps can be another option (some accept insurance) as well as free or reduced-cost therapy through HRSA.

Search for therapists

The next step is to actually find a few options for therapists to contact. A great starting point is Psychology Today’s therapist finder, where you can search by location and filter or search by specialty. You’ll want to look for someone with grief experience to get the most relevant training. If you’re starting with a search through an insurance provider, specialties and experience are usually listed, but you may have to go to the therapist’s website to learn more. Most of these search engines will also show whether the therapist is taking new clients.

Learn as much as you can about your potential options to help narrow it down. Read bios and review credentials to get a better sense of their experience and approach. Once you’ve found a few that resonate with you, you can reach out using their contact information. Let them know you’re interested in therapy as a new patient, and they should be able to take it from there.

Assess if they're a good fit for you

A good thing to know going in is that not every therapist will be a good fit. This is why it’s also helpful to have a few options narrowed down before contacting—in case one just doesn’t feel right. The relationship you have with your therapist will be an important one, where you should feel a sense of trust, openness, and non-judgment. Many therapists recommend a preliminary phone call or session to get a sense of whether it’s a fit for you both before committing to a longer arrangement, but this is also something you can request (note that this may have an associated cost). Feel free to ask them questions about their approach, what they look for in clients, their views on any topics that are important to you (e.g. religion, medication, etc.). Take note of how you feel talking to them. You may be nervous if it’s your first time, but do you feel respected? Heard? As much as you can, try to go with your gut.

get on a schedule

Once you’ve found a therapist and confirmed their fit, the typical next step is scheduling. You can work with the therapist to determine frequency, day and time, and iron out other details. There may be some paperwork involved and if you’re using an insurance provider you will need to provide your insurance information. Also take note of their policies so you’re aware (information-sharing, cancellation fees, holidays). Once you’ve started seeing your therapist regularly, you’ll get a better feel for their style. The first few sessions may feel awkward. You’ll often be asked to provide lots of background information early on so they can better understand how to support you. You can decide how much you want to share. The therapist may or may not take notes, and they may ask some follow-up questions as you go along.

evaluate over time

After you’ve been seeing your therapist regularly, you’ll have a better idea of fit and how much therapy is helping you overall. It’s not uncommon for it to take multiple sessions for therapy to feel more comfortable and helpful, and it’s good to have realistic expectations going in. Your therapist won’t be able to solve all of your problems, but they should be able to help you feel less alone, provide strategies for coping with the big emotions, and offer perspective on your thoughts in a way that helps you process.

As time goes on, you will have a better sense of your therapy needs. You may find that you want to increase or decrease the frequency of sessions. You may want to see if your therapist offers longer sessions. You may even get to a point where you feel okay without therapy — or where it’s not the right fit for your life anymore. On the other hand, you may find that things aren’t flowing well and sessions aren’t feeling as helpful. In any of these situations, it’s best to speak with your therapist and let them know what you’re thinking. At the end of the day, therapy should be a helpful tool for you - and if you find that isn’t the case for whatever reason, it’s okay to change things up.