when you can see thestrals
Have you met Death? Are you on nodding terms, or even more intimate? Do you know what it is to say goodbye to a dearly loved pet as they transition? Have you held paws and whiskered faces, stroked soft fur or feathers or coarse hair, kissed noses and heads, gathered their whole bodies onto your lap for one last physical embrace?
If so, then you, dear friend, can see thestrals, the skeletal winged horse-like creatures from Harry Potter. According to the source literature, only those who have seen Death can witness a thestral; for everyone else, they’re invisible.
This is often what grief is like, as you’ve likely experienced. You’re surviving in your own reality, filled with intense emotions other people can’t feel, and seeing ghostly images other people can’t see. It’s why people talk about being in the grief club—until you’re in it, you won’t get it, and once you’re in it, you’ll never be able to not get it again.
It’s also why Luna Lovegood, the wacky, whimsical, eccentric blonde, is such a comfort to Harry: he remembers she can see thestrals, too. She has known Death, she has lost a loved one, and therefore understands him in a way that eludes other characters—he’s not alone. Which means he can open up about his own grief over losing Sirius without having to worry about her feelings or inability to relate.
Even though it’s not in the book, the Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix film scene in which Harry and Luna feed thestrals together is a tiny masterclass in discussing grief, mostly because of what it doesn’t show:
They recognize each other as “different” for having seen Death, and while there’s a palpable empathy present, there’s no pity, or coddling, or outsized emotional reactions, or avoidance of the topic altogether. They relate to each other straightforwardly.
They don’t overstate the obvious. Yes, they’ve had close encounters with Death, but they don’t make a thing of it. It’s treated with simple respect and acknowledgement—so much can be said without words.
Luna is honest about how she still struggles with grief, but she does so without indulging in self-pity or expecting Harry to do anything to fix it or make her feel better (she knows he can’t). There’s no dwelling here, or taking center-stage, or trying to establish a grief hierarchy.
They’re supportive and validating for each other through listening and being present, walking and facing the same direction, without needing a hug or even a perfunctory back pat (nothing wrong with hugs, of course—I’m a hugger, myself—but it’s important to know it’s possible to be a comfort to someone through presence alone).
Even the filmmaker’s decision to include a baby thestral is wonderfully meaningful. It points to the truth that there is beauty in Death; it’s ultimately not something to be scared of, but something to be accepted and even embraced—a vital part of the natural world. And being able to witness this beauty is something Harry and Luna share, a dark gift from the pain of their experiences.
Your ability to see thestrals means you’ve also received this dark gift, and so you are intimately familiar with the reality your grieving loved one is now living in. It means you are uniquely equipped to offer them a solid sense of support and understanding. Because you’ve been there. You know the territory. You’ve been carved, deepened, marked forever. You’ve walked the (often) lonely path of grief and survived. And your heart is still tender—it makes you want to reach out and help, if you can.
If you’re wondering how best to support them, take a cue from Luna. Be honest about your experiences with Death, but only if/when prompted; otherwise, keep the focus on your loved one. Let them talk if they want to—and listen deeply if they do—but don’t force conversation. Treat them and their grief with dignity and respect, without making them feel like they’re fragile or need to be handled with kid gloves.
Above all, offer your presence. Be with them. Be yourself with them. Some part of you knows the words, and the gestures, and the atmosphere that’s needed (and usually it’s because it’s what you needed, too).
Face the thestrals you both can see with as much courage as you can, and remember their message hiding in plain sight: loss touches us all, in the end, and usually many times over before it’s our turn to exit the stage. When you can see thestrals, you can see what others miss—the full range of the human experience, the beauty in the light and the dark, and the true privilege it is to have each other, to share it together.
“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”
Can you see thestrals? Come share your experience.
