Listening to Grief
Are you wondering why I named my business Listening to Grief? What does “listening to grief” mean? Does it mean that I just listen to people cry? (Sometimes.)
When the idea was presented to me to become a grief coach, I questioned what I could bring that was different from what other grief coaches offer. What is a grief coach, even? Like many people working in grief, I had experienced a loss so great it completely upended my life. I know grief. I can relate. Both of my parents died when I was in my twenties, but it was my sister’s death in 2021 that taught me what deep grief means.
What else does a grief coach need? I could get a grief coach certification in grief methods taught by grief experts to hundreds of people, learning what they learn. (My certification is from David Kessler and grief.com.) Is that enough? What else could set me apart? I’m good at empathizing and supporting friends and family through difficult times, and I’m getting better at talking to strangers. These are all great qualities and qualifications, but how am I different?
Aha! I have a master’s degree in Folk Studies. I’m not only good at listening to friends and family, I have an actual education in how to listen deeply and effectively. I’ve even done fieldwork with people who talked a lot about grief, though I wasn’t attuned to grief yet. One person I interviewed worked as a diver in Lake Michigan much of his life. He told me a story about diving to retrieve people who had died by accidentally getting tangled in the springs of old car seats that were in what was essentially an underwater dump. He also shared about his marriage of over 70 years to his wife, who he was caring for, even though he was also in his 90s.
I had the privilege of working with Vietnam veterans for a museum exhibit. Some of the vets had never told anyone the stories they told me. One Marine cried involuntarily during the entire interview. It was obvious that everyone we interviewed had experienced terrible things and carried it with them all these years later. Those interviews were among the most meaningful listening I have ever done. My fieldwork partner on that project showed me the value of patience. We were talking to a vet who had never shared his stories before, even though he had a close and loving family. He paused, with a lump in his throat. I was about to move to the next question, when my partner asked a gentle follow up question. You could see on his face that he appreciated this, that it allowed him time to sit with his memory before sharing it with us. I’ll never forget the lesson of being patient when witnessing someone’s buried grief.
I reflect back on earlier losses in my life, as well as times when I responded to other people’s loss (sometimes with compassion, sometimes not so kindly). For the longest time I would brush off condolences or make jokes to avoid talking about my grief. Sometimes I would remove myself from a conversation so I didn’t have to think about my own losses. It’s not easy to grieve in our society. Crying is often seen as a weakness. Talking about death makes people aware of their mortality, which is frightening. So we avoid, we joke, we suppress. I did all these things, until I couldn’t any more. I suppressed and joked until my sister’s death upended the universe so I understood. I still make jokes–it’s in my nature–and I still suppress–sometimes grief hurts too much–but now I understand why I do it. I understand why you do it. I no longer judge my past inappropriate moments. I won’t judge your grief, either. We don’t have good models for how to grieve. Society has changed from being community-centric to individualist. I grieve for the lack of community. I yearn for community.
It’s good to talk to someone about grief.
I take inspiration from my friends and family, and even some strangers, who supported me after Sarah died. I model myself on all the people who did or said something that touched me deeply. [Here’s a tip: send a card. Really. It seems so simple and passé, but cards have been sent for forever because they honestly do mean something. You don’t even have to say much, just “I’m thinking about you, and I love you.”]
As I learn more about how grief shows up in the body and the science of what is happening in our brains, I become more curious about all of it. I continue to read and learn about grief. I’m learning so many interesting facts. There are also things that I innately know. I know that talking about our loved ones is the best way to keep their memories close. I also know that our bodies give us signals–sometimes loud alarms–to slow down and tune into what’s happening in our brains and with our emotions.
So what does it mean to listen to grief? For me, it means many things:
Practice deep and compassionate listening.
Ask questions. How is your grief today?
Read between the lines. Sometimes anger or avoidance is a response to loss.
Validate, but don’t judge.
Silence is necessary for gathering thoughts. Don’t interrupt or rush.
Understand that grief is normal; promote acceptance of grief in our larger society.
Say the word grief aloud. It makes people feel like they can talk about their own grief when they know I’m not afraid of listening to them.
Create and participate in communal spaces where grief is welcomed.
Bring it back to the body (as my therapist always says).
What does listening to grief mean to you? How do you listen to your own grief? How do you listen to the grief of others? What should I include in my list above? Most people can listen to grief by simply acknowledging that the person they are talking to is hurting. I’ll post another blog with some suggestions for how to listen to grief stories. For now, here are three things to try when someone tells you about a loved one who has died:
Ask about them. What was their name? What do they miss the most?
Maintain eye contact (if culturally appropriate) and stay quiet. Don’t offer advice. Then acknowledge the loss and grief with a statement like, “[Name] sounds like a wonderful person. They will be missed.” If you also know the person, share a short memory or something that stood out. It meant a lot to me that so many people talked about how much they loved Sarah’s laugh and how she gave the best hugs.
Respect the sorrow. Grieving is natural and necessary. Never use the words “at least” when talking to someone grieving. There’s no need to try to cheer up the other person. It’s okay to cry.
Say it with me: It’s okay to cry!
I named my business Listening to Grief because it embodies everything outlined above. The tagline for my business is “Stories exist through retelling.” This is the heart of what I do as a certified grief educator. I provide a compassionate ear for the stories you want to tell about your loved ones or other losses. We grievers often fear that we’ll forget. That we’ll forget the sound of their voice, or their smell, or even our memories. Trust me that we don’t forget the important things. We don’t forget the memories, but we can keep them fresh by retelling them. So tell me about your loved one. Tell me about your earliest memory with that person. Tell me about their personality, their laugh, their loud chewing, or your complicated relationship with them. Tell me the jokes they used to tell or how they read you stories before bed every night. Tell me the habits you picked up from them and what you taught them. Tell me what you learned about grief from watching them grieve.
Let me know what to add to my list in the comments or by sending an email to tamara@listeningtogrief.com. Join an upcoming grief support group or grief circle. Walk with others in your grief. Sit down and tell me a story.
I’m here. I’m listening.
