To the Lucky Ones Who Haven't Lost Someone Yet

What I wish more people understood about grief, love, and the people we never stop missing.

I want to write something for those of you who haven’t yet lost someone foundational to your life.

A mother or father — or whoever held that role for you. A brother or sister. A partner. A son or daughter.

You are fortunate. And I genuinely hope you remain so for a very long time.

I am 34, and most of my close friends have not yet experienced this kind of loss. I am deeply grateful for that. I wouldn’t wish it upon any of them. And yet, if I’m completely honest, sometimes it makes grief lonelier.

Because no matter how much someone loves you, there are certain things that are difficult to understand until you have lived them yourself.

My mother died nine years ago. And yes, she didn’t make it to my wedding. She never got to meet my children. She isn’t here for my birthdays or Christmas anymore.

Those are the losses people tend to understand. The milestones. The empty chair. The moments when someone is so obviously missing that everyone can see the absence.

But grief is so much more than that.

I used to call my mother every day.

For everything and nothing.

Because I was sick and wasn’t sure what I should take. Because I didn’t know what to wear. Because something wonderful had happened. Because something terrible had happened. To ask if she wanted to go to the movies or yoga.

Or simply because I wanted to hear her voice.

And I could.

I didn’t have to think about how lucky I was to pick up the phone and call my mother.

I just did.

There was a line between us that was always open.

And then, one day, there wasn’t.

That, to me, is one of the hardest things about losing someone who was woven into the fabric of your everyday life.

You don’t only miss them at weddings, Christmases and birthdays.

You miss them on completely ordinary Tuesdays.

Something happens and the thought comes automatically:

I need to tell Mom.

And then, almost as quickly:

I wish I could tell Mom.

Grief doesn’t expire

There seems to be an unspoken point at which society expects grief to become quieter. More private. More manageable.

One year. Three years. Ten years. Twenty.

At some point, we start wondering why someone is still struggling. We become uncomfortable when they cry. We try to cheer them up. We remind them of everything they have to be grateful for.

Or we stop mentioning the person who died because we’re afraid of making them sad.

But moving forward with your life and missing someone are not opposites.

I have built a beautiful life. I have fallen in love, become a mother, travelled, created work I care about and laughed until my stomach hurt.

And I still miss my mom.

Of course I do.

Grief does not end because, in many ways, grief is simply another form of love.

And love doesn’t expire.

Please say their name

Perhaps this is what I most want people who haven’t experienced profound loss to understand: You are not reminding us that they died. We haven’t forgotten. Sometimes, talking about them does exactly the opposite.

It reminds us that they lived.

Telling stories about them, laughing about something they did, remembering what they loved, or simply saying “I miss her today” are ways of continuing our relationship with them.

Silence doesn’t protect us from grief. Sometimes it just makes grief lonelier.

So if someone you love lost someone foundational three, ten or twenty years ago, and their grief suddenly comes pouring out again, please don’t wonder why they’re still grieving.

Don’t try to fix it.

Let them miss them.

Say their name.

Ask about them.

Listen to the story, even if you’ve heard it before.

And please don’t make them feel as though their grief is something they should have outgrown. Because grief isn’t evidence that someone has failed to move on. Sometimes it is simply evidence that love is still there.

I would give almost anything to pick up my phone and call my mother today.

To tell her something profound. Or something completely pointless.

Whatever.

I used to have that line.

I don’t anymore.

So I have learned other ways of keeping the conversation going.

Talking about her is one of them.

Writing about her is another.

My mother may no longer be here for me to call.

But the love is.

And I intend to keep that line open for as long as I live.