Where She Still Lives.

When you’re grieving, people don’t always show up the way you expect them to—but that doesn’t mean they’re not showing up. Grief is strange like that. It blurs the lines between presence and absence, between words and silence. Sometimes, what people say or do—no matter how small, awkward, or even bizarre—is simply an act of love.

In my own grief, that’s what I noticed most: not what people said, but what they did. The truth is, what do you even say to someone who’s lost someone they love? Really—nothing. Aside from “Hey, guess what?! It was all just a bad dream!”… words fall short. Words. Fall. Short.

What stayed with me were the subtle moments. The real ones.

A friend at work didn’t say a word to me for days after my mom passed. But I noticed her watching me gently from across the room. I could feel her presence, her care, even in the silence. Over time, she edged a little closer, until finally she stood just far enough for me to say, “It’s okay, you can come closer. I see you.” She smiled, shy and sincere, and said, “I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry.” Then came an awkward side hug.
I laughed. We both laughed. It was so simple, so tender—so human. In the fog of grief, that moment still remains clear, and I’m grateful for it.

Another friend handed me a bunch of bananas and said nothing. It was random and oddly perfect. That made me laugh too. Still does.

One offered a mix of practical advice and levity: “Get more death certificates than you think you’ll need,” she said, right after telling me about the sleepaway camp her family went to after her mother-in-law died.

My closest friends? They stayed normal around me—because they knew that’s what I needed. And when I really needed them, they were there. With open arms. Open hearts.

My sisters, my best friends? They got mad when I was mad. They cried when I cried. They made “too soon”jokes. They said what they felt, with no filter, no fear. That’s real love. That’s home.

Then there were the ones who had known the same kind of loss—not just in theory, but in their bones. The ones who had walked through the same fire and learned how to carry the heat. They said things like, “It’s hard, but it’ll get easier. Just be where you are—wherever that is, in this moment.” And somehow, those simple words didn’t feel like advice. They felt like shelter.

They were the ones who didn’t need to fill the space. They just sat with me. In silence. And still, I felt understood. I didn’t have to explain myself. I didn’t have to pretend. Our language existed in the pauses, in the glances, in the heaviness and grace we both carried. It lived in the heart—where grief and love speak most clearly.

And yet, the gestures that meant the most? The quiet hugs. Long enough to recharge my heart. Nothing needed to be said.

Grief isn’t a test of friendship or humanity. It’s a mirror. And everyone reflects something different. Let people move through loss with the dignity of their own experience. There is no right way to show up. Only real ways. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

What have I needed? 

Honestly? I just want my mom back. And I know that’s not possible. So a warm hug goes a very long way. Maybe a few tears or a good laugh. 

And now, a few people I love have lost someone close to them. You’d think, after what I’ve been through, I’d know what to say. But I don’t. Because the truth remains: there is nothing to say.

All I want to do is sit beside them in silence. Hold them. Let them know—truly—that I’m here. Just here.

I know their grief will be its own unique journey—curated just for them. And though it may hurt like hell, there is beauty in it, too. How do you explain that to someone who is still in pain?

You don’t. You simply stay close, and let them find it for themselves.