it’s okay to give them space
Grief contains many inherent paradoxes, and one of the biggest is this: at no other time in your life will you be in more need of connection, of love and support from the people around you, and at no other time in your life will you be in more need of your own company. Because to walk the path of grief—the grief that belongs only to you—is to walk it alone.
“Grief can’t be shared. Everyone carries it alone; [their] own burden, in [their] own way.”
Sometimes the most compassionate thing you can do for a grieving loved one is give them space. They may not ask for it directly or even know it’s what they need. You can reach out, you can show up, but sometimes it’s not wanted at that moment. Sometimes you’re met with silence. Sometimes your texts or calls go unanswered. Sometimes the door stays shut.
Every single one of us has a unique grieving process, and that process changes according to each new loss. Some people need extra time to absorb the shock, to adjust to their new reality—the now-quiet home, the empty bowl, the leash gathering dust. Some people may need to withdraw and isolate for a time because they can’t bear to talk to or see another person, or they simply don’t have the energy. Grief is exhausting.
As an introvert (among other factors), I naturally gravitate toward isolation when I’m hurting. Admittedly, it’s not always in my best interests, but usually it is. After I came back from Japan without Moxy, I isolated like never before. For many weeks, I didn’t step outside the house. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t utter a single word to anyone outside my immediate family, and even then, I said as little as possible. It was many months before I responded to select phone calls and text messages, and there were some I never responded to at all, ever.
Not having access to your loved one can be really painful when all you want to do is help and comfort, be there for them—or at the very least—make sure they’re okay. And since grief affects everyone differently, and since none of us are mind-readers, it’s impossible to know for sure how to interpret their silence. You know you can’t force them into conversation, or to open the door. How they react and respond is beyond your control. What you can do is keep your door open and let your best judgment, your wisest intuition, guide your actions.
There may be instances when what’s needed is your refusal to be pushed away and kept at a distance, when what their soul is really crying out for is to be held so tightly they can barely breathe. But in the majority of cases, you need to respect their boundaries. You need to respect what silence communicates. You can choose not to take their need for space personally—because it’s not about you. You can trust your loved one will be carried through this dark period by unseen hands, invisible forces, and will reach out again if/when they’re ready.
“Every one of us lives in the creative tension between belonging and solitude, arcing around this helix in a rhythm that acknowledges the soul’s simultaneous need for connection and freedom. In times of deep grief, this rhythm may become altered and exaggerated. We may experience wild oscillations, at times wanting others within reach, when our solitude is an aching territory of loneliness, while at other times, we will require the absolute stillness of our interior landscape, feeling even the barest of contact to be too much.”
In retrospect, space is absolutely what I needed—and it wasn’t even a conscious choice. Back then, I was so used to taking care of other people and their feelings, catering to their demands of my time and attention and resources, forever worried I wasn’t doing enough. Space let me wallow, wail, and wage war against whatever had taken Moxy from me (including my own decisions). Retreating so far into myself, into the darkness, was ultimately what allowed me to come to terms with the trauma, to find the ground of my own being. In those early days, I gave myself up completely to grieving Mox, to being eclipsed entirely, because the grief was so intense, so feral, I simply didn’t have the capacity to focus on anything else, let alone worry about anyone being upset with me for not responding. My job was to keep breathing.
So, it’s not only okay to give your loved one some space while they’re grieving, but it’s also necessary. And this movement of advance and retreat, of letting you in and then keeping you out, can be a cycle for a while, one that may repeat as they learn how to live companionably with grief. In the meantime, you can continue to be a force for good in their life—sending prayers and healing wishes, love and light, every time you think of them. If their absence goes on for an uncomfortably long stretch of time, you can find ways to reach out and let them know you’re still there, as long as you release any expectation of response. Grief has its own timetable.
Consider sharing this supportive space with your loved one when they’re ready.
