How I'm supporting a grieving friend
seeds of joy for Jessie, plus a plan to share that joy with you
“How…”
Delete.
“How are…”
Mmm. No. Delete.
“I hope you’re doing…”
No. Definitely not.
“I love you and am sending you a big squeeze.”
Yes. That’s the one.
I texted that message to Jessie, one of my dear friends, several times over the past 12 months.
She’s grieving a loved one’s death. Not just any loved one, but her mom. She courageously shares her experience in the most beautiful words on her Substack, which you must check out if you don’t subscribe already. (If there’s one thing I’m sure of, she’ll be a best selling author one day.)
The evening before Jessie’s mom’s planned death, by way of New Jersey’s medically assisted death (MAID–explained by Jessie here), I went to a musical performance in Hudson Yards, oblivious to what tomorrow would hold. Laying inside a large white sphere on a black netted surface akin to a hammock, watching multi-colored lights dance on the ceiling in coordination with thumping music, my mind wandered to hundreds of places, processing old ideas and welcoming new ones.
Thump.
Jessie. How is she doing?
Thump.
Stuck. I feel stuck.
I want to support her, but not bother her. I want to know what she’s experiencing, but don’t want to force her to relive inevitably difficult experiences. I want to add to her life, not dwell on what is being taken from it.
Thump. Thump.
“How are you?”
No. That question feels so wrong.
I know the circumstances. I know she isn’t doing well.
Asking a question I already know the answer to would be more in service of my own ego–reassuring myself I’m a good friend for checking in on her–than in service of Jessie. The question would take more than it would give: a response would require mental and emotional energy, likely already consumed by grief, and risked sucking her out of a fleeting moment of love and peace, forcefully throwing her into the jaws of grief’s tumultuous waves.
Thump. Thump.
“How can I best support you?”
No, not this time.
In addition to the energy an answer requires, asking this assumes Jessie knows:
how much time and energy I have to give,
all the ways I could support her, and from that,
which ways would serve her best.
Thump. Thump.
Let me try on Jessie’s shoes.
In the throes of grief, when my heart is sinking in sadness, all I can see, think of, and feel is the pain. When the pain is so raw and alive, when I hurt so badly, I can’t imagine a treatment exists, let alone ask for it.
Jessie needs her friends and family to be her diagnosticians.
Thump. THUMP.
Pain and joy can coexist.
Thump. Thump. THUMP.
I can’t take away Jessie’s pain, but I can add joy.
Thump. THUMP. THUMP.
Jessie has the capacity and willingness to make space for joy amid excruciating pain.
In the years leading up to her mom’s death, I was blown away by Jessie’s ability to enjoy the present moment when, after reviewing her circumstances on paper, I’d expect her to be bound to the safety of her bed, drowning in tears under her comforter. Those moments happened too, but between them, she laughed and danced at birthday parties, dinner parties, and brunches, and cooked feasts for her loved ones.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Reminders of goodness.
I can give Jessie reminders that in the midst of grief and loss, beautiful things continue to exist. Reminders that as her mom’s physical presence slips through her fingers, the world will refill her hands with more beauty and joy. Reminders that losing her mom won’t zap all the love and laughter from her life.
But how might I remind her, and continue to remind her, in an unobtrusive and gentle way?
Unaware it was the eve of her mom’s planned death, I texted Jessie in my Uber home from Hudson Yards to let her know I’d start randomly sending photos that make me smile or laugh. I told her to let me know if the photos got annoying, but otherwise, no need to respond.
That night, I think my angels–my second mom and uncle who died when I was eight and nine years old–were preparing to receive Jessie’s mom, and as Jessie’s mom was preparing to arrive, they all came together and whispered in my ear, telling me what Jessie needed.
Over two months later, I still send Jessie photos most days. I’ve sent photos of flowers, food, paintings, friends, sidewalks, beaches, trees, coffee, animals, and more.
Jessie tells me these photos help. Four days after her mom’s death, she described the photos as “an unobtrusive and lovely way to feel your support and thoughts and also get to see some beauty.”
Seeing beauty in the midst of pain was a gift from my second mom and uncle. And now, in giving me the opportunity to share that gift with Jessie, Jessie’s mom gifted us water and sunlight to nourish the seeds of our friendship.
When beautiful people leave us, they leave us with their beauty. To focus on their physical departure is natural: it’s the most abrupt and tangible change. But if we listen closely, if we look attentively, we may find their beauty all around us. We may find that as much as they have departed, they have also stayed. As much as we have to grieve, we also have to enjoy.
As Jessie has shown over and over, we can hold space for both pain and joy.
We can allow joy to enter where there is suffering.
We can allow suffering to enter where there is joy.
We can allow ourselves to not be okay.
We can allow ourselves to be okay.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Introducing: “seeds of joy” photos
A few weeks ago, Jessie had the brilliant idea that I start sharing these photos with you all. She thinks they might bring joy to you too. I agree.
I’m going to start sharing photos in the “chat” section of Substack.
These photos are a reminder that everything will be okay. I hope they bring you moments of peace and joy wherever you are, in whatever circumstance you find yourself. No need to respond, but if you enjoy what you see, I’d love to hear from you. You can respond in the chat or DM me on Instagram (@the.sunshine.table).
Sending you love and light,
Syd
I’m a Certified Health & Well-being Coach. I write about the challenges and wins of my personal growth journey to comfort and inspire. Through my training at Duke Health, corporate mentor experience, and wellness journey, I’m uniquely positioned to guide clients to real, lasting improvements to their health & well-being—including nutrition, exercise, mental health, mindfulness, sleep, and more—through a research-backed process. I currently have three spots open for new clients.
I really like this post
You’re very kind & thoughtful
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I’m mindful there is limited availability