"Let me know if you need anything," and other things you should stop saying to someone who's grieving

Reflections from a grief portal on how to actually support someone with a hurting heart

“Let me know if you need anything.”

In the days after my sister’s death, these words echoed in my ear like a scream into a canyon.

My phone was flooded with unread messages and unplayed voicemails. People I hadn’t spoken to in years appeared like apparitions, singing the same one-note song: I’m sorry for your loss. Let me know if you need anything.

I remember wanting to tell them, “I need my sister not to be dead! I need for this story to end differently. I need to un-feel this pain. I need a miracle.”

Instead, I said nothing. I let their words pile up like chores. Responding became just another to-do on the list of tasks the still-alive must complete.

I wanted to be angry with people for not knowing that their words felt hollow and useless, but I knew that I had joined a club with a set of truths only members would understand.

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When people say “death changes you,” they mean this literally.

Losing someone close to you is a right of passage. It is a transition away from life as you knew it — an initiation into a new way of being.

After my sister died, I felt like a stranger in my own body. Like I had fallen asleep and woken up in a strange dream. I felt like I was going through the motions of reality as a projection — a shell of who I once was.

I remember feeling a deep sense of ambivalence about everything. The things I used to care about? I could not have cared about them if I tried. The goals I had, the friends I wanted to be around, the day-to-day routines that had anchored me over the years — all of these, in a moment, changed.

I had to grieve my sister’s absence, the loss of life as I knew it, and the sudden disappearance of the person I was before.

It was a tall order.

When my sister died, I did not even know myself, let alone what I needed. I knew I was desperate for peace, for joy, and for relief. But these needs were elusive — not tangible things I could request.

I needed to wake up in the morning without the weight of grief on my chest. I needed to flee to the mountains or some faraway forest, to stay in a cabin alone for weeks, doing nothing but writing, talking to God, and wailing, unwitnessed and uninterrupted, until there were no more tears to cry.

“Let me know if you need anything,” became a riddle I could not solve.

I could not begin to even put into words what I needed, let alone delegate particular kinds of help to the people best able to provide it.

Grief after death is the type of pain that demands your full attention. There were days I could not eat, I could not sleep, I could not get out of bed. There were times I wanted to disappear, to be unperceived and alone with my grief, and there were times I wanted to be held like a newborn — to wail into the sky surrounded by a holy circle of people praying over me, tending to me, laying hands on me.

You ever had the wind knocked out of you? Grief is like that. It’s a collision with life itself. It is a full-body endeavor. It requires physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual labor.

It’s been 8 years since I got that call. Eight years of realizing how unskillful most of us are at navigating grief, and how grief-averse our culture is. Most people have no idea how to be present with pain, from the person feeling it to the people who want to support them.

“Let me know if you need anything” — however well intentioned — comes across as a shallow and performative gesture of support. If you are grieving, or supporting someone who is grieving, I encourage you to think critically and compassionately about some alternatives to the theater of care that too many of us find ourselves trapped in in the aftermath of loss.

I’ve spent a lot of time holding myself tenderly through time and space, offering myself all that I did not receive. I did not have the capacity nor the language to express what I needed at that time, but I did, in fact, need so much.

Here are the things I could not ask for, but would have, if I had the words:

Witness my sorrow without trying to change it. Affirm that my pain is valid and I don’t need to rush my healing. Remind me that I am loved and worthy of love even if I do nothing but exist right now. Show me that my grief is allowed to take up space. If my tears fall, let them. If yours come, let them. Don’t try to find the silver lining. Don’t say “at least…” anything. Don’t tell me to look on the bright side. Be with me in the darkness. Remind me that I don’t have to rush myself back to feeling good. Remind me that it’s okay to fall apart. Remind me that I don’t have to push through. Remind me that I don’t have to make my pain small or palatable. Remind me that I am not a burden, that my sadness is welcome in your presence, that my pain is not a problem to be solved. Help me untangle the knot of resistance and suppression of my grief. Create space for me to exist just as I am, exactly as I am.

Continue reaching out, even if I do not respond. Grief is overwhelming and exhausting, and I may not have the capacity to answer or engage. If you feel like I’m ignoring you, please don’t take it personally. Be patient with me. I am picking up the pieces of a broken heart. I am processing intense emotions and using all of my energy just to get through each day. Affirm that there is no pressure to reply to your calls or tests. If I don’t pick up, leave a loving message. If I don’t text back, remind me that your care and support isn’t contingent upon my responsiveness. Tell me you’ll be there when I am ready to connect again. Honor the paradox — I need space, but I also need to not feel alone. Know that the outpouring of care and support will slowly fade away as the weeks and months go by. Stay in touch beyond the initial days of grief. All the firsts are particularly hard. Set reminders in your calendar to reach out on holidays, birthdays, death-anniversaries, or just random days to check in and connect. If I come to your mind, reach out. If you are at a loss for words, send a photo of a beautiful thing. “Thinking of you/love you…no need to reply” is better than silence.

Instead of asking me what I need, think about what might lighten my load and simply give it to me. Instead of “let me know if you need anything,” say:

• I am going to drop off some groceries for you. I plan to pick up X, Y, and Z, along with some A, B, and C. Let me know if there is anything you’d like to add.

• I’ll come clean out the fridge next week, you can stay in your room and leave the key under the mat. Let me know which day works best.

• I’ll come with you to any appointments — memorial service planning, lawyer visits, whatever.

• I’ll babysit the kids afterschool so you can have a break.

• I’ll come sit with you this week if you wan’t. We don’t have to talk, I’ll just be there.

• I can help you pack up their things whenever you’re ready. No rush.

• I’ll spend the night with you if you don’t want to be alone.

• I can sit on FaceTime with you while you work or eat.

• Text me anytime. I’ll keep my phone on.

Here are some tangible gifts that are specifically useful:

Survival & Necessity

• Meal delivery gift cards (Doordash, UberEats)

• Grocery delivery gift card (Instacart)

• Housekeeping or laundry service gift card

• Snacks/Food that require zero prep, zero cleanup, and zero decisions

• Wet wipes, face wipes, or anything to simplify hygiene

• Bottled water, electrolyte drinks, or hydration powders

• Disposable plates, cups, bowls, utensils, trash bags

• Toilet paper

• Laundry detergent

• Dish soap/hand soap /hand sanitizer

• Mouthwash, mints, gum, disposable toothbrushes

Comfort & Ease

• Soft throw blanket

• Weighted blanket

• Silk pillowcase

• Pajamas

• Cozy socks or slippers

• Eye-mask

• White noise machine

• Heating pad

• Candles (know your audience re: scent, or get unscented if you aren’t sure)

• A plain journal (no prompts) or coloring book with a small set of colored pencils

• Streaming service subscriptions (Hulu, Netflix, YouTube Premium)

• Hot water kettle w/ calming teas

While well-intentioned, here are things I felt (to me) more burdensome than helpful:

• Books about grief (I did not have the bandwidth)

• Bible verses and “stay positive/strong” quotes

• Ingredients for meals I had to prepare

• Food that didn’t account for my dietary restrictions

• Abundance of pre-cooked meals that took up too much fridge/freezer space

If you aren’t sure what to send, send money. There may be things that I want but don’t feel comfortable asking for. Financial resources go a long way. I might take an extra week off of work and need help paying my bills. I can use money to get a massage, pay co-pay for therapy, hire help from a service like TaskRabbit to help with purging or organization.

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Please keep your unsolicited advice. Suggestions about how to feel better make me feel ashamed of my grief and pressured to perform okay-ness. If you have a practice or an encouraging word you think would sincerely help, please ask my consent before sharing. Instead, be with me and my grief — don’t try to fix it or make it go away.

Ask whatever higher power you believe in to keep me in mind. If you have a religious or spiritual practice that is meaningful to you, honor me and my loved one in whatever way you feel called. Support doesn’t always have to be “given,” it can be practiced. Pray for the presence/guidance of God, my ancestors, angels, and spirit guides. If you’re the mindfulness type, visualize me being calm, grounded, thriving, abundant, and joyful. Here are things I would love to hear:

• I lit a candle for _____ and put it on my altar.

• I dedicated my morning meditation practice to _____.

• I planted wildflowers in the garden for ______.

• I wrote _____’s name down on a petal and gave it to the ocean.

• I chanted for you and _____ today.

• I found this picture of _____ and was remembering how _____ she was.

• I thanked the ancestors and the land for the life of _____.

• I meditated and imagined a protective light surrounding _____ and you.

• I heard this song and it made me think of _____.

Be good company. I may not be ready to talk or process my grief, but if I want to be together, I need you to hold space for me and the fullness of what I am carrying in this moment. If you have a specific activity in mind, take the lead on this and fully facilitate the experience. Offer it with dates and times so I don’t have to organize or plan anything. For example:

• I’d love to go to the botanical garden with you. We can walk in silence together. How about Thursday at 6?

• I’ll be journalling in the park from 1-3 Sunday, by the oak tree. I’ll have a big blanket, tea and snacks. Join me if you’re up for it.

• There’s a restorative yin yoga class on Tuesday at 6:30. If you want to go, I’ll sign us both up.

• I’m attending a guided online meditation Monday at 8AM, here’s the link to join.

• I’m going to see (a movie or performance) on Friday at 7. I’d love for you to join me. My treat.

The following disclaimers are always appreciated:

- I can pick you up or call you an Uber.
- No pressure if you end up wanting to stay home.
- If there’s another day that works best, let me know.
- Come as you are.

Remind me to take care of myself. When I am deep in a grief portal, I have a very hard time motivating myself to eat, move, sleep, and take basic care of my body. I often stay up late scrolling, skip meals, don’t hydrate, and abandon daily wellness practices. I need loving encouragement, positive reinforcement and accountability check-ins. This can look like sending me pictures of what you had for breakfast, calling me around lunchtime to remind me to eat, or providing tangible support with self-care.

Provide healthy distractions or facilitate the feeling of normalcy. Sometimes, I get so engulfed in my grief I forget there is a whole world outside of it. Even if I can’t engage with “normal” life, it means a lot to have things to reach for to momentarily escape the emotional turmoil. For example:

• Send me songs, playlists, podcast episodes, funny cat memes, movie recommendations — anything that might bring me comfort, intellectual stimulation, laughter or a smile

• Share what’s going on in your world that feels radical, transformative, exciting, energizing, stimulating, helpful.

Emotional support. State your desire, capacity and availability to provide it, and know your strengths and your limits. For example: I’d love to talk or just listen. I don’t have a lot on my plate right now and I’m well-resourced to help you hold this. I’m free weekdays after 5PM, call me anytime. Tell me, “I’m here for you if you want to process, vent, cry, scream, or just be quiet.” If you do not feel skillful in the realm of providing emotional support — if witnessing grief makes you uncomfortable — please don’t offer to hold space for me, and instead do any of the above.

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Perhaps this goes without saying, but use your discernment to decide what kind of care would be best received by the person you want to support. Some of these ideas might feel like a blessing to one person, and to others they might feel like a burden.

There is no right or wrong way to care for someone grieving, and there is no one-size-fits all solution for how to navigate it. Grief is an impossible bridge we all have to cross in this lifetime. The best we can do is be present with one other as we make the journey.

With deep breaths and lots of love,
Jamila

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