what do you say to a grieving person?

The internet seems full of advice about what to say to a grieving person. The only thing there’s more of is what not to say. I probably should have read more of those back when I was young(er) and dumb(er). Especially in my twenties, I don’t think I showed up very well for the people in my life who were grieving. At best, I could be silent, avoiding the subject entirely, telling myself that I was “following their lead.” At worst, I fumbled into outright offensiveness and then was too terrified to apologize (technically that only happened once, but it haunts me). 

I think fear was the problem, either way. Grief made me profoundly uncomfortable. It wasn’t fear of saying the wrong thing, exactly (I probably could’ve done with more of that, because WHEW did I say the wrong thing a few times), but some kind of overriding shut-down response in the face of something I couldn’t fathom. I remember I always had trouble making direct eye contact with people who were acutely grieving, like something bad would happen if I saw into whatever chasm of pain was in there.

Then, it happened to me. And to be honest, I’m not sure I have any better an idea of what to say or what not to say. It turns out it’s a lot more complicated than a Do or Don’t list.

Yes, technically a few people have said “the wrong thing” to me, and yes, it sucked every time, but I don’t think any of them meant to — in fact, I’m completely certain they were trying their best. One person assured me that pregnancies only end in miscarriage when there’s something really wrong with the baby, which might have comforted someone else, but to me, at the moment I heard it, felt like an unforgivable attack on the future child I’d already started loving. Another person texted me about something totally unrelated just a couple weeks after the miscarriage, and even though I know they didn’t mean anything by it, the text buried a suspicion in me that I couldn’t shake, even months later – that they didn’t think what had happened to me was such a big deal. That maybe, even temporarily, they’d forgotten. 

But that’s the thing — while I’m sure there are some universal things “not to say” to a grieving person, or specific things “not to say” about somebody’s miscarriage — in so many ways, I couldn’t have possibly predicted the stray comments that would burrow in and wound me. Some hurt just because of the timing, because of the particular peak of grief I happened to be experiencing at the exact moment I heard it. Some just felt wrong, felt dismissive or distracted in a way that made me shut down, and in at least one case, stop speaking to the person entirely. I wasn’t angry at them, and I’m still not. It was just survival mode – everything hurt so much, I couldn’t take the risk of being in the presence of someone who might throw out a comment that would hurt me even more, whether they meant to or not.

To be honest, those “wrong things” were outweighed so profoundly by the people who surprised me (in a good way) – whether they put it in words or not – that I find it difficult to conjure any real outrage about them. I’m not just “focusing on the positive” here (I do not do that, as a rule) – it’s just a fact that we got overwhelmed with love, including love from some truly unexpected places, in the wake of losing our pregnancy. A co-worker who’d always been pretty formal with me sent me an email that wasn’t long but managed to convey so much care, so much detailed attention to what I was going through, that I will be forever grateful to her. Distant friends sent care packages of tea and honey and chocolates. Young people from my mutual aid collective cooked me casseroles. Some of the gestures were small – fleeting, even – and yet I remember them with my full body. I can still see the little check-in texts (“no need to reply, just thinking of you”), can still hear the words people said. I remember every time someone heard my news and kept eye contact, didn’t turn away from me. I remember everyone who gave me a hug, who wondered and worried about what they should say, because they cared. They mattered to me, every single one. 

About a month or two after the miscarriage, I scheduled a massage. In the online form I completed beforehand, I typed “I recently had a miscarriage” into the “Anything else we should know?” box. I wasn’t sure why – back then I was still haunted by medical risks, and wondered if maybe I was even allowed to get a massage at that point. By the time I showed up for the appointment, I’d forgotten that I’d written it. The masseuse met me at the door, got me settled, and then, just before she stepped out to let me undress, she put a hand lightly on my arm and said, “It happens to a lot of us. And it wasn’t your fault.” And then she was gone. When she returned for my massage, neither of us brought it up. But I think about her all the time. I carry her with me, and feel just a little less alone. 

I guess what I’m saying is that it’s worth it to say something, especially if you can find the courage to witness all of someone’s grief. To just be with them, unafraid of the dark place they’re caught in, a place none of us can save each other from. It’s what I wish I’d had the courage to do earlier in my life. It’s what I hope I’ll now have the courage to do, for others.