WHAT WE HOPE YOU’LL KNOW WITHOUT US SAYING IT

Grief hasn’t just changed the shape of our days — it’s changed how we relate to the people around us. The people who love us. The ones who want to help, but don’t always know how.

After our daughter died, there was a wave of support — messages, gestures, kind words, thoughtful offerings. Even though we couldn’t always read or respond to them at the time, they mattered. They anchored us during the blur of early days.

Now, five months later, that wave has quieted. And though time moves on for everyone else — as it must — we’re still here, still in it.

What’s stayed with me most is how differently people respond. Some have shown up in ways we didn’t expect — with quiet presence, thoughtful gestures, or a steady kind of care that’s hard to describe but deeply felt.

Others have stayed silent, not because they don’t care, but because they do. They’ve been trying to give us space, not wanting to intrude or say the wrong thing. I understand that now — I used to think the same way. But what I’ve learned from being on this side of loss is that silence, even when it comes from kindness, can sometimes feel like distance.

There are moments when the quiet becomes heavy. When the phone doesn’t buzz. When the days stretch long without a message, and we start to wonder: “Do they still think of us?” “Do they believe we’re okay now?” “Are we meant to carry this alone?”

And still — we don’t always reach out either. We’re exhausted. We don’t know what to ask for. Sometimes we don’t even know what we feel until it shows up as tears, or anger, or a deep, aching kind of silence.

It’s a painful irony: We need connection, but can’t ask for it. They want to help, but don’t know how.

And in that gap — that space between — assumptions are made. Misunderstandings quietly take root. Sometimes we mistake quietness for absence, or even indifference. But more often than not, our family and friends are simply trying to do the “right” thing. And the right thing, in grief, is hard to define.

What we need right now isn’t big or complicated. We don’t need answers. We don’t need anyone to fix anything.

We need people who are willing to sit with us in the uncomfortable, unsolvable parts. Who let us “sadass” — to be quiet, or heavy, or hollow — and still choose to stay.

We need presence. Not pressure. Not advice. Just closeness.

Sometimes that looks like a short message: “I’ve been thinking of you. No pressure to reply.” Sometimes it’s a quiet check-in: “Would it help to talk today?”

Sometimes it’s dropping off a meal or a small memento — not to fix anything, but to say: I see you. You still matter. You’re still held.

Because even though grief is personal, it’s also collective. It touches everyone differently, but it’s something we carry better together. The loneliness of loss doesn’t lessen just because time has passed. It just changes shape.

So if you’re holding back because you’re not sure what to say, it’s okay. We don’t need perfect words. We just need to know we’re still connected — that we’re not drifting out of reach while life picks up around us.

And if you’ve stayed quiet, believing that silence was the most respectful way to love us — thank you for the care behind that. But please don’t stay silent forever.

We still need you. Just to stay connected, to feel care even from a distance. To remind us that we aren’t alone.