The White Unicorn

 About two weeks after my husband died, one of our more gregarious friends showed up at my door with a giant white unicorn. I kid you not. He literally knocked on my door out of the blue with a giant white unicorn in hand. He had a look on his face of utter helplessness. Of bewilderment. I could tell he just didn’t know what to do or what to say. All he knew was that he wanted to be there for us, and he wanted us to feel supported– and what popped into his head as the best way to show that was bringing us a giant white unicorn.

When people are on the outskirts of grief, they sometimes show their support in strange and funny ways. While it was totally unnecessary, and probably the last thing I needed to deal with considering I was moving across the ocean in a month, seeing that giant white unicorn made my sons smile, and that was enough. To have that moment of seeing my friend lug a giant, 4-foot, ridable unicorn up my front steps was enough. His lack of knowing what to do brought us joy, laughter, and a moment of peace.

It’s not up to me to determine how others should act around me as a result of my loss because I can’t know what emotions they are battling behind closed doors. For example: I had a friend who I expected would be closer to us. I assumed he would be more active in our lives in the time immediately following my husband’s death, but he wasn’t. I later found out his father had passed away when he was young and being around us was just too triggering for him. I tell this story to show that while grief is universal, it is also so personal- we can’t predict or hold any expectations of how others will handle it.  There are so many similarities to all grief stories yet so many nuances and individual expressions of it that we can’t fathom to manipulate or anticipate how it will affect those around us.

When dealing with the sudden loss of my husband, figuring out the logistics of a move to Maui, and facing the unknown head on – the absolute last thing I had the energy to do was hold space for someone else. I think I speak for most when I say, the most impactful support is that which is given without expectations. In the early stages of grief, the last thing we need is to expend our, already limited supply of, emotional energy by holding space for someone else’s wellbeing. It’s for this reason, I hate the question, “how are you?”

Although I recognize this question stems from good intentions and is asked in an effort to offer support, it has become a huge pet peeve of mine. When I get asked this question, I sometimes chuckle to myself over the thought of truly unloading the full weight of my grief on whichever well-intentioned person decided to reach out at 8:00am that particular morning, before heading out to start their day. But of course, I don’t do that. Instead, I expend energy crafting a more palatable response. While I must reiterate that these things are usually done unconsciously and are no one’s fault, there are a few “no-no’s” I have found while navigating through interpersonal relationships after grief. This is one.

If you are not a person I have entrusted with my vulnerability or if you are not someone to whom I feel close enough to show the full spectrum of my grief, asking me “how I’m doing” leaves me with two choices. I can either say how I am truly doing and risk making you uncomfortable or I say, “I’m fine” (or some equivalent) and risk making you think that I am totally ok, and the death of my husband was like water off a ducks back. So, if you are going to ask a grieving person how they are doing, make sure you are prepared to hold that answer – most people are not.

I find myself trying to meet somewhere in the middle. I’ll say “you know, it’s hard, but (insert list of reasons why they don’t need to worry about me).” If you are reaching out to support me, I shouldn’t be the one needing to hold space for you. Instead, if you want to check in on a loved one and let them know you’re there for them, do so, but follow up with a simple, “you don’t have to answer, just thinking of you and sending you love.” That’s it. Nothing else is expected.

Another no-no is trying to compare the actions of someone who is grieving to how you would feel or behave in the same situation. I have had so many people say, “I don’t know how you’re doing it”, “I don’t know how you’re still posting on Instagram”, or “if I were you I would ____”. This rubs me the wrong way; because you’re not. You’re not in my place. You have no idea how grief like this will strike you until it is upon you. It's ok to admit you don’t understand the full scope of what someone else is experiencing, because the truth is we never will. All grief is different, and the best thing we can do is respect each person’s sovereignty and their own personal journey.   

Sometimes the most comforting moments can come from a simple conversation between friends. A conversation without the looming cloud of grief blocking out all the light. It can be a relief to have a normal chat with someone that doesn’t revolve around the person we just lost.

I found, and still do find, comfort in hearing about the lives of the people I care about. About their success, or the things in their lives that are hopeful and positive. A lot of people worry it's inappropriate to share all the good things happening in their lives with a person who is grieving – but the truth is hearing that other people are living their lives and being fulfilled is, for me at least, very comforting. It allows me to share vicariously in those moments of joy. When you have experienced so much death and so much loss, it's inspiring to hear the stories of people who live.