Years ago, when an acquaintance of mine lost a loved one, I didn’t know what to say. I’d worry that whatever I said would only make their pain worse, so I’d end up saying nothing at all—frozen in place like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
A friend of mine who was going through something similar at the time pulled me aside and had a conversation that brought me to my senses. “I’ve lost a loved one, and you haven’t even said ‘my condolences.’ Don’t give me any of that nonsense—just be human.”
From that day on, I realized my mistake. No matter how hard it is for me, I now offer my condolences and express my sorrow.
However, this time another situation arose that I didn’t like.
Whenever I send someone a message like this, the sentences just pour out in a flat, formulaic way: “My condolences, may their resting place be paradise, may God grant you patience.”
After sending it, I stare at the screen and stay that way for a while. Because none of what I’ve written feels like my own words. It’s as if I’m not writing at all, but simply copying and pasting something I found ready-made.
It’s not that they’re wrong. It’s just that they make me feel like I haven’t fully expressed myself—like something is missing.
These thoughts led me to wonder: why is it so hard to talk about this? It’s the most certain thing in life. It’s something that happens to everyone, one way or another. But when it comes to putting it into words, it’s as if we all go mute.
This post is partly about that.
Let me start with something we all think we know.
The five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. You go through them in order, and eventually you heal.
Everyone knows this. It’s in movies, in books, in conversations.
But this model was misunderstood from the start.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross didn’t describe these stages for people going through grief. She described them for terminally ill patients—that is, for people facing their own death. (1*)
Moreover, she later stated that these stages aren’t sequential, that not everyone experiences all of them, and that some might never be experienced at all.
But the popular version has become so entrenched that a person in mourning feels compelled to follow a timeline. “It’s been a year, and I still haven’t reached the acceptance stage,” they think. In other words, they measure their own grief as if it were a performance.
Yet there is no staircase to climb.
The second mistake—and in my view, the deeper one—lies in the words we use.
“You’ll get over it.” “Time heals all wounds.” “You’ll forget—don’t worry.”
All three imply the same thing: erasing the pain. One day that pain will go away, and you’ll go back to the way you were.
But the 1990s marked a turning point in grief research.
Until then, the prevailing view was that healthy grieving meant severing the bond. People who maintained a connection with the deceased were considered stuck—or even pathological.
Klass, Silverman, and Nickman’s study “Enduring Ties” turned this on its head. (2*) They found that people do not sever the bond. The bond changes form but continues. And those who do this are not worse off—in fact, they are often better off.
So we don’t “get over” the loss. We learn to live with it.
This made a lot of sense to me. Because “getting over it” actually means asking for something impossible. Then, when that person can’t get over it, they start to think there’s something wrong with them.
Now, there’s an irony here that I find appealing.
Western psychology discovered something called “ongoing attachments” in the 1990s.
We were already doing that.
Holding a Mevlit. The seventh, fortieth, and fifty-second days. Visiting the grave. “Fatiha for their soul.” Cooking the deceased’s favorite meal, naming a child after them, doing a charitable deed in their memory.
All of these are practices of maintaining the bond. Not severing it.
And I think their most important function is this: they grant permission.
Saying “You’ll do this until the fortieth day” actually means “You’re allowed to mourn for forty days.” It’s not a calendar; it creates a space. It also lets those around you know, “This person is mourning right now.”
Modern life has narrowed this space. You take three days off, then go back to work, and no one asks anything. Because asking is now considered rude—out of a desire not to disturb.
Yet the person who is grieving often wants to be disturbed.
What I’ve said so far has been about death. But now I’m getting to the point I really want to discuss.
Some losses don’t have a funeral.
Sometimes a friendship just quietly comes to an end. You don’t fight, no one holds a grudge against anyone—you just stop calling one day, and that “one day” turns into “every day.”
A relationship ends, but no one dies.
You leave a city.
You give up on a dream—without even telling anyone.
A sick loved one is still alive, but they may no longer be the person you once knew.
Psychologist Pauline Boss calls this “ambiguous loss.” (3*) She defines it as follows: either the person is physically gone but psychologically present, or physically present but psychologically gone.
The hardest part about these losses is that they lack rituals.
No one comes to offer condolences. No one says “may you find peace.” No memorial service is held. And you don’t even give yourself permission to grieve, because “there’s no one who’s actually died.”
But a loss is a loss. And grief that isn’t allowed doesn’t disappear—it just goes underground. It resurfaces somewhere else, in another form.
Let me speak for myself.
It’s been ten years since I left Turkey. For a long time, it felt strange to me to call this a loss, because I chose it myself. No one kicked me out; there was no disaster—in fact, it was a good decision.
But something ended.
A life ended, a social circle ended, the comfort of speaking a language freely ended. Seeing certain people once a week ended and turned into seeing them once a year. With some, it turned into never seeing them at all.
No one sent their condolences. After all, no one had died.
For a long time, I thought of this as “getting used to it.” Now that I think about it, I didn’t get used to it—I learned to carry it with me. Those are two different things.
And as I write this, I realize that this isn’t a loss. It means the connection continues. There’s something I’ve carried with me from there, and that thing is with me.
So what should one say to someone?
There’s no easy answer to this question, but I’ve realized this: some of the things we say aren’t actually for them—they’re for us.
“They’re in a better place.” “They were suffering so much; they’re at peace now.” “Life goes on.”
These are often said with good intentions, but their purpose is to put the matter to rest. Because the other person’s pain disturbs us too, and we want to get back to normal as soon as possible.
Yet the person who is grieving often doesn’t need words. They just need someone to be there.
We’ve discussed this before when writing about listening, but it’s even more relevant here: sometimes the best response is not to respond at all.
One last thing.
Grief has no timeline.
The second year can be harder than the first. In the fifth year, a scent, a song, or a street can knock you off your feet. This isn’t going backward—it’s just how grief works.
And I don’t think the measure is “aren’t you sad anymore?”
The measure is this: Can you live with that emptiness, or are you building your life around it?
Once again, I’d like to share these practices I’ve developed for myself with you. But this time, let me add a note: these aren’t instructions—they’re just things you can try.
Think of someone you’ve lost. Is there a habit, a phrase, or a trait they left behind? That’s the enduring part of your connection.
Is there a loss that no one else counts as a loss? Give it a name. To name it is to give it permission.
You don’t have to say anything to someone who’s grieving. This week, just be there for them—or even stay silent.
If there’s something you’ve thought, “I should have gotten over this by now,” change that sentence to “I’m still carrying this,” and see how it makes you feel.
Do something that the person you lost loved to do. Cook their favorite meal, listen to their favorite song, go to a place they used to visit.
Maybe I was supposed to offer a solution at the end of this post. I try to do that in every post I write.
But I won’t do that this time, because there isn’t one.
There’s no solution to loss. There are only ways to carry it. And even the best way to carry it doesn’t end the pain—it just makes it something you can carry with you.
Perhaps the most honest thing we can say to someone is this: this pain won’t go away, but one day you’ll become strong enough to carry it.
I’d like to ask you, too: Is there a loss you’re still carrying but haven’t told anyone about? And does the fact that you’re still carrying it make you flawed, or does it simply make you human?
See you in the next post. Until then, stay well.
(1*) Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, On Death and Dying (1969)
(2*) Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman & Steven Nickman, Continuing Bonds (1996)
(3*) Pauline Boss, Ambiguous Loss (1999)
