Part 2: How Can I Be There?

Conversations About Grief for Grief Awareness Month

A friend and I have both been grieving. 

I lost my Mom three months ago after she lived with dementia for 17 years. My friend’s loss is fresher than mine and ongoing. We've been checking in by text and occasional phone calls, giving each other space while reminding each other that we're here. I’ve offered to stop by for a quick hug and to leave some sourdough bread at her door.

Last Friday morning, I texted that I was feeling waves of grief, and sent the wave emoji for emphasis. She wrote back about a selfie from years ago that popped up as a memory on her phone. In the photo, she was at the beach, wearing a floppy hat and a big grin. The photo reminder and my text came in at the same time. My friend shared that she was feeling called to see, hear, and feel the ocean.

Text from my friend later on that day: “Wanna go to the beach tomorrow?”

My response: “A day trip to the Jersey shore on a Saturday in August?!” (Thinking to myself that she’s either deep in grief or not familiar with beach traffic.) “Only if we go for sunrise and pack up to return home before the crowds pour in.” 

At about 8:30pm that evening we decided to go. 

My alarm rang at 4:00am Saturday morning.

By 4:45, I was in front of my friend’s house and we headed for the coast.

We arrived at the beach by about 6:00am.

Walking as briskly as we could through soft, dry sand, we stood at a distance from other early risers with an unobstructed view of the orangey-pink horizon meeting the deep blue sea.

Watching the sunrise never gets old. It felt magical. My friend was tickled by the “show,” as she said “peek-a-boo” out loud to the sun.

Neither of us searched for the “right” words. We just got in my car and drove toward the ocean. 

We listened closely and with compassion while the other talked. We allowed for periods of silence to sit with us too. 

We were together. 

Somehow, my wave emoji and her beach selfie had led us there. And being there was good for both of us.

Maybe when we don’t know what to say to a griever, instead of searching for the right words, we can ask ourselves, “How can I be there?”

Most people genuinely want to be helpful when someone they care about is grieving. The problem is, we often don't know how.

“Reach out if there’s something I can do” may be offered with great care, but it doesn't always land the way we intend.

I believe the intention of phrases like this comes from a place of kindness. 

We don't want to intrude. 

We don't know what someone needs. 

We don't know what else to say. 

What we may not realize is that statements like “Just let me know if you need anything” can feel like a burden. The griever now has to: identify what they need; decide whether they’re comfortable asking; contact you; and explain what they want you to do. This is a lot!

Try to be specific with your offer of support instead.

“I’d like to drop dinner off on Thursday.”
Then visit one of their favorite local restaurants and send a text to let them know you’ve left a take-out order at their door.

“Would you like company while you walk your dog this evening?“ 

Or a spontaneous proposal like: “I’m driving to the beach for the sunrise tomorrow. Would you like to ride along?”

Make it easy for the griever to say “no,” by removing any pressure to accept. They may want the freedom to change their mind at the last minute, so assure them that this will be okay with you too. Sometimes just knowing we can cancel alleviates pressure and makes it easier to say “yes.”

Let your message be enough.
Avoid turning your outreach into another obligation they must tend to. 

Give grievers permission to not respond to your texts or calls at all. Don't expect an acknowledgment or a "thank you" for your kind gesture, especially in early grief. A response may come much later, or not at all.

"I'm thinking about you. No need to respond." can be a lifeline and remind us we are not alone. Grieving can be such an isolating experience and brief texts or voicemails letting us know we haven't been forgotten can help us feel seen and loved. 

Try gently asking brief, thoughtful questions.

"Are you up for a chat? It can be about anything"

"How's your heart today?"

"How are you feeling right now?"
It helps to specify “right now” because asking just "How are you?" can feel impossible to answer and confusing to even consider.

You can also ask questions about their person.
“Would you like to tell me about them?“

“Is there a story about them that you’d like to share?”

A common practice in the grief space is to "say their name." 

This can be a beautiful way to acknowledge that the person who died still matters. But I recently heard someone share that using the first name of an elder was considered disrespectful in his culture. He had never addressed his grandfather by his first name, so why would he do so now?

That reminded me not to assume.

"Please tell me what you'd like for me to call your brother when we talk about him." Sometimes simply asking what feels right is the most considerate thing we can do.

Staying curious while supporting a griever seems like a good practice.
How we grieve is unique to each of us and so are the ways we want to communicate and receive support.


Rather than trying to “make it better,” make room. Remain open to how the griever carries their loss.

It's only natural to want to say something that might make a person we care about feel a little better. But what comforts us may not be of comfort to them.

We often hear people say things like:
"They're in a better place."
"At least you still have"
"Everything happens for a reason."

Those words may reflect what you believe, but they may not reflect what's true for the person who is grieving.

Try asking if they’d like to tell you a story about the person they have lost or to share a favorite quality in their loved one with dementia. If you know or knew their person, ask if they’d like to hear a favorite memory of yours. 

Although my sunrise friend’s loss is more recent than mine, I don’t believe she would want me to pretend I wasn’t having waves of grief myself. 

My closest friends and I want to be authentic and honest with each other, even when one of us is grieving. And this doesn’t mean asking them to take care of me; just letting them in on what’s really going on in my life. Sometimes I find relief in knowing I'm not being treated differently as a griever; that life around me is still moving.

If I’m unsure, I might first ask, “Do you have space for me to share something I’m going through?”

I’m always grateful for friends and colleagues who continue to check in on me. Grief lasts well beyond the funeral or the first few weeks following a diagnosis. Waves continue for months, years, for a lifetime.

So, send the text.

Keep checking in.

Remember the birthdays and anniversaries.

End a text or voicemail with, "No need to respond."

Don't stop the invitations.

Keep allowing for "no."

Don't misinterpret silence as a request for you to disappear.

After the sun was all the way up, my friend and I settled into our chairs, moving back and forth between spurts of conversation and periods of silence.

I closed my eyes, wrapped up in my hoodie and towel, and quietly listened to the ocean while wiggling my toes in the cool sand.

My friend took a walk along the water’s edge, as she’d imagined herself doing the day before.

Nothing about either of the situations we came to the beach with had changed. 

Her grief was still there.
My Mom was still gone.

Then again, maybe something had changed.

There was the ocean, the sunrise, the ride together.
A brand-new memory for us.

Maybe we don't need to find exactly the right sentence.
We can be a witness.
We can ask thoughtful questions.
We can offer to do something specific.
We can make space for what’s true.
We can be there without saying a word. 

And sometimes, we can get in the car before dawn and go watch the sun rise together.

Asbury Park, New Jersey. August 2026.

This is the second of three Grief Awareness Month essays about communicating through grief.