Presence Trumps Platitudes

Somewhere along the way, I noticed how hollow the well-intentioned words sounded. "Sorry for your loss." "Sending thoughts and prayers." Kind phrases, offered sincerely—and yet they landed with a thud. Not because people didn’t care, but because the language had been emptied of presence through overuse. I found myself craving something else. Not better words—truer ones. Words that paused. Words that listened. Words that didn’t rush grief toward resolution or wrap it in social acceptability. That’s when I realized this wasn’t just about grief at all. It was about maturity. About choosing intention over reflex, and words given by the space over scripts I never consciously agreed to in the first place.

Grief has been a long companion in my life, though not a consistent one. My grandmother died in 1995, when I was thirty, and I was absolutely crushed—flattened, inconsolable. She was my rock, my guide, my sanity, my support. Until then, no person close to me had passed, and the pain arrived unfiltered and unguarded. She was the one who consoled me when my bulldog puppy died unexpectedly. "It's OK to cry!" she permissioned. Childhood memories of love and play were suddenly paired with a grief so raw it felt like weather moving straight through my heart. I didn’t manage it. I didn’t make meaning of it. I survived it by letting it break me open.

In 2006, my father and my grandfather died in the same year. By then, life was full. I was working, busy, engaged. I showed up. I handled things like the oldest child does. I kept moving. What I didn’t do—what I know now I didn’t do—was actually process those losses. I didn’t pause. I didn’t notice the feelings. I didn't gather them gently and let them flow. I stayed functional and composed, and I quietly carried the weight forward, unexamined. It’s only in the last year that I’ve learned how different grief can feel when it’s gently examined and then allowed.

In 2025, within five months, my mother-in-law and father-in-law both died. This time, something in me had changed. I had learned how to pause. How to notice. How to observe without fixing or bypassing what was present. Instead of bracing against the waves, I let them come. I didn’t analyze my grief or rush it toward meaning. I didn't busy myself with running around taking care of others, "helping" or "fixing" the family units involved. I just observed and allowed my own feelings. And to my surprise, it didn’t overwhelm me. It passed—unevenly, unpredictably, honestly—and then it moved on. It still shows up occasionally, especially while I'm meditating, hovers, then moves through me, or around and over. 

Bob Weir, passed just recently, a beloved mentor and musical soul mate of Chris' (my DeadHead partner of 19 years). I noticed there were no expectations around how that grief should look—no family roles to perform, no scripts to follow. What emerged instead was intense, immediate and real. It reminded me that grief doesn’t follow hierarchy or logic. It responds to relationship. To meaning. To permission. Different losses move through us differently—not because we’re doing it wrong, but because grief has its own intelligence.

Yesterday I discovered my closest cousin’s father-in-law died. Steve told me via text. And without thinking—without pausing—I replied with the phrase I’d offered and received countless times in 2025: "Sorry for your loss." The moment I sent it, I felt the emptiness of it. Not unkind. Not uncaring. Just automatic. A culturally acceptable response that required no presence, no listening, pause or creativity. And I knew—I was done.

I’m done defaulting to language I never consciously chose. Done with polite scripts that sound kind but feel hollow. I don’t want to say the right thing anymore. I want to say the heart felt, true thing. Or nothing at all. What I’m choosing now is simpler—and braver.

So I paused and asked myself, "Self? What might you have found respectful and soothing? What might feel more authentic?" I came up with three rough paths that I can practice and choose from depending on the scenario. These aren't scripts so much as focus points, like the word welcome— they reframe my thinking and my response if I choose to say anything— at all. Below are just a few of my off the cuff ideas, (to make them sink in I'll get to refine and practice a bit). Remember the old lines are deeply ingrained and saying nothing at all is still brilliant.

• I could lead with listening: "Tell me something about them. I’m here. I’m listening."
• I may speak from belief: "Perhaps they didn’t go far.  I choose to believe they just changed dimensions. You can talk to them anytime—they’re front row in your fan club beyond the veil."
• Or perhaps, the most loving thing I can offer is permission: "Feel whatever you feel. No explaining. No apologizing. Grief is unique and private. It comes in waves, at least it does for me."

I’m learning to give myself—and others—the gift of pausing. Of letting the feelings rise, flood, and slowly retreat in their own time. Of trusting that vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s honesty. Each moment, whatever it brings, is a gift of its own.

I choose to no longer think of the people I’ve lost as gone. I think of them as having changed dimensions. Still here—just invisible. Free of the physical, present in a different way. I talk to them. I feel them more intensely than when they were here sometimes.  (No kidding!) They arrive as a breeze on the trail, cooling my face just when I need it. Sometimes as light through the trees, or a quiet nudge that says, this way. I bless them, thank them, and send them love—because love doesn’t end when a body does. It simply learns a new language.
​
Field Guide Rule #39: "Presence trumps platitudes every time."

---