I'm always grateful when people open up about their grief experiences. With every conversation, the still mostly taboo topic of death is brought a bit further into the light.
For years, I've been writing about and asking why so many of us avoid the "D" words. If we talked more openly about death, it might lessen the fear. It would certainly bind us more deeply together in our humanity. Most importantly, the Grievers would likely feel less alone.
Thank you, Jane, for sharing pieces of your grief story. It's beautiful. I love that you consider your marriage one that includes four people and that photos of your former spouses were included in the ceremony.
Your work is so needed, Jane. As is yours, Jeannie. You're both making such a difference. Thank you for sharing this beautiful essay. I iappreciate you both.
What a powerful, tender and necessary conversation. Thank you, Jane, for your deep generosity, and Jeannie for braving what goes unspoken and aches to be said, heard, and witnessed.
You make it speakable.
I’ve often wondered: what if we welcomed death as a teacher, not a terror? What if we didn’t wait until it was urgent or final to speak its name?
I've been with many in their final days. My mother's death was the greatest teacher on so many levels, yet I found few with whom I could deepen in conversation. I did write about it, and this opened an informative conversation.
In my own life, especially as a caregiver, I’ve found that death, or the shadow of it, lingers in quiet corners long before it formally arrives. And still, we’re encouraged to look away. To soldier on. To "stay strong." But what if, instead, we softened? Came a bit unstitched? Asked questions? Challenged our assumptions? Held each other closer?
Jane, your metaphor of the oak sapling growing from an acorn cracked open by grief moved me to tears. I recognize the ground you describe—that fragile, uncertain terrain where identity, purpose, and love all feel upended. And as you stay with it, something begins to root. Your story reminds me that even in the darkest soil, there is life reaching toward the light.
I’ll be carrying this with me for a long time: “Because you keep on being alive until the very moment you are dead.” I love that line; it holds a raw, clear truth. Thank you for saying the often left unsaid. For making grief a place where others can rest, and remember that love continues, different, but real. Maybe stronger.
Prajna, your comment here reads like poetry: "what if death became a teacher, not a terror?" And how death, as a caregiver, lingers in quiet spaces. I feel this ache with you. All of it. Yes.
What you wrote here is my "Why" behind my book, From Grief to Grace. I wrote it, because it was the book I needed after Sarah was born. And now that Sarah has been in my life for almost 13 years, death is never far away. I learned long ago that each of us lives in the small margin between life and death.
To learn to live well is to learn to die well.
Your mother's death story sounds like a powerful one. Do you have a link you could share so I can read it?
Hello Jeannie, Thank you so much for this beautiful reflection. Your words land with such quiet power—especially this: “each of us lives in the small margin between life and death.” Yes. We know this as mothers, caregivers, and writers.
Your book From Grief to Grace sounds like a profound offering—born of love, loss, and truth. All the hard, beautiful gifts that Sarah brings. I can't wait.
My mother’s death story is included in the first edition of Edge of Grace. Please p.m. me and I will find it for you or mail you a copy. She was one of the rare ones who learned to live well—to die well. It was not without struggle, but her crossing was conscious, peaceful, and educational beyond words. Whne she passed, I changed my last name to her maiden name, O'Hara, so I can hear her name every day.
Thank you for witnessing Jane so fully. This space you hold is a blessing. XO
Thank you Prajna, I really appreciate your words. And I love the idea of welcoming death as a teacher, not a terror. We all really need to do that more and more.
Everything you wrote here Jane, shot straight to my heart. We don't do well with grief in the West and I think what you shared here while heartbreaking, is really, really important. We need to have more honest conversations about dying, the fear of dying, the loneliness, the anger of being left behind... everything! This is so we can honour those we have lost, those who are grieving, and those who are going through the process of loss. From my heart to yours, I am sending you both a big hug and so much gratitude.
Thank you so much Imola. Sometimes it’s hard talking about this stuff when so many don’t want to know. Making your comments all the more important and meaningful 🙏
I understand! Grief/ death makes people so uncomfortable. Not because they are bad, but because they (we!) don’t know what to do/ say. This is why it’s so important to share more of these stories/ perspectives. Much love to you Jane.
Imola, you have the kind of heart and awareness where I am certain that you simply address whatever it is that is surfacing for you. That is one of the many attributes I love about you! Your honesty. Your warmth. Your kindness. Your openness. You have such a magnetic personality, and I have no doubt that dealing with the hard things is something you don’t shy away from.
Reading your story felt like walking beside you—step by step—from devastation to rooted strength. The image of the sapling growing from grief, nourished by truth, tenderness, and the courage to feel, will stay with me. You’ve given shape to an experience that so many endure in silence, and in doing so, you’ve offered a path through the ache—not around it.
Your honesty about the unspoken realities of death, the emotional contradictions of love and loss, and the slow, sacred process of becoming someone new, is deeply moving. I was especially struck by your insight: “Because you keep on being alive until the very moment you are dead.” It’s a simple truth that holds the weight of everything unsaid in hospital rooms and quiet homes.
Thank you for showing that growth doesn’t cancel grief—it grows beside it. Your voice is a lifeline for those navigating loss in isolation. You remind us that strength doesn’t always look loud—it often begins as a fragile shoot that keeps reaching for light, day after day.
Hi Jane. Thank you for sharing. Your story in dealing with the hospital at the time of Philip's death as well as the life you have literally grown for yourself is very inspiring.
Whilst medical science is amazing, I often question the need to keep people alive at all costs. We shouldn't be so afraid of death.
Cali, you bring up a really important subset of this discussion. I think Jane's insight that many prolong life because they're afraid of death is very apt. I remember when my grandfather was dying. His partner/caregiver Bob could NOT let my grandpa go. Bob kept running to get the nurses so that my grandpa could hang on a little longer, and finally, I took Bob's hand and said gently, "Just let him go. He's ready to go. What we can do is be here with him and make sure he's comfortable."
Hi Cali - yes, I question that need too. The trouble is, keeping people alive at all costs appears to be the only way many currently have to deal with their fear of death. Which is a hiding to nothing, of course, as 100% of us are going to die. And even when we know that, we still have this great tendency to shy away from it.
I sometimes feel so exasperated! But then I turn towards people like you, Jeannie, and others commenting here, and my heart opens again to the possibility of many more having the courage to turn round and face death in the face, and simply say a quiet hello. It's never as bad as we think it will be.
Thank you both for talking about death (and also for not using a euphemism like 'passed' or 'transitioned'). And thank you Jane for so intimately and honestly sharing your story. It is so sad how death-denying we are in western society. I had an insight during Covid that the extreme fear some people experienced was really fear of death. I remember a person from an indigenous culture saying that in their culture, they welcome all, even pathogens, as 'visitors', because all is connected, not separate. Grief can be a very lonely journey because of other's discomfort and inability to just 'be' alongside the person grieving. We can't 'fix' death and I think medics are trained to save lives at all cost, which is why they are often so uncomfortable about allowing death to happen naturally, without trying to 'fix' it.
Wow, PJ, the insight from Indigenous culture is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it here. I agree - I think the fear surrounding many issues we face as humans centers on our fear of death. Most of us do not want to confront the inevitability of our mortality or the fact that each of us stands on the edges of death every day. Every second. That's hard to keep in the back of one's mind.
Also, the words "passed on" seem to me a softer way of communicating this very real aspect of life. Death sounds so... harsh, so real. And it is. It seems to me that each of us has our own quite intimate feelings surrounding death. It's a personal conversation. It touches us each differently.
I large factor in starting my Substack was to counter the American experience of denying grief.
Those who grieve eventually stop talking about it with their friends when they start encountering their resistance. I have watched people subtly shut down grief acknowledgement long before I was ready to stop "move on."
In fact, I hate hearing anyone say "move on" in relationship to the death of a loved one.
It is like denying I ever had three daughters. I'm moving forward in my life without her physically present, but I will not "move on" from her.
Jane, I appreciate your openness with your own experience of loss.
Nancy, I just want to tell you what a privilege and honor it has been to get to know Sheila through you. You're right that there is no "moving on" when someone we love dies. It's my hope that this prevailing attitude is shifting these days. I think it might be, however slowly.
It is so good to have you here in this space. I always feel blessed by your presence and words. Thanks for supporting Jane and her story today.
Thankyou Jane for your vulnerability and courage in sharing your grief journey with us. My condolences but also my admiration for your honesty and what your honesty about your first marriage made possible within you and in your second marriage. I hear you when you ask why people won't speak of death. Perhaps for health professionals it feels like they didn't get it right as they may feel their "job" is to make people better. How much kinder for everyone if "their job" was to walk beside in the healing journey, even when the body will not heal. Honest, difficult conversations are so important. How powerful that you allowed the onslaught (and passing) of each emotion, and that you learnt to see the gift presented to you in wrapping you may never have chosen.
Melanie, you bring up such an important point in this conversation. I once read from Henri Nouwen, one of my favorite spirituality authors, that a movement from cure to care is how healing takes place in community. When we move away from a model of fixing someone or something and instead accompany them where they are, as they are, there is great freedom and power in that quiet acceptance and unspoken love.
'From cure to care' - I've never heard that before but I do just love it! The amazing thing about the freedom you speak of is that this is where healing happens (regardless of whether it happens on the physical plane or not). And it all starts with acceptance.
Melanie, thank you. I love that you suggest the kindness involved in health professionals taking a different slant to their work. As regards end of life care, this will be less likely to happen until the medical schools train doctors/nurses in this. But you and me and Jeannie and others speaking up about it is part of the journey towards that happening. So again, a huge thank you to you.
I think end of life issues are a whole separate arm of the conversations surrounding death, Jane. Again, I am just astounded at the depth and layers of these comments. Just blows me away! You are all incredible!
Yes, the end of life planning/care/training/preparation is all a huge other subject, and yet can't be addressed unless people are willing to face the fact that one day they will die.
An 82 year old friend of mine told me recently that he's just not going to die. He laughs about it, but he's actually quite serious too. He just can't take in this fact of life coming to an end.
Whoa. That’s kind of sad, Jane, that he cannot face his mortality. I think if we learn to do this, we can somehow have a beautiful death. That’s what I hope for myself, at least. It may not be an easy death. It may be hard. But I hope it is beautiful.
I love this! And as someone who writes about grief and death and loss somewhat regularly, this is SO needed. These frank conversations. Also, sorry to Jane, for your loss. Sending you big hugs and lots of love ❤️
This is such a poignant, honest piece. You are right, Jane; people avoid the Death and Dying words so much, even medical professionals. It's ridiculous. I loved how you advocated for your husband. If we don't advocate for ourselves and our loved ones, who will advocate for us?
I'm so grateful for when you said our thinking changes. It's true. If we think about life and our thinking as just stagnant, that's not a realistic view. We change as time moves on.
We do indeed change as time moves on. That’s one thing I hadn’t realised after Philip died. I didn’t want to be a different person but I was, because of what I’d gone through and would go through.
The person I am now is very different to who I was then. I like her better, for a start!
Oh wow, Jane, such a powerful point here: “I didn’t want to be a different person, but I was.” That summarizes grief so well in one sentence! We are changed by grief, though we wish we weren’t. Once grief enters our lives, it never goes away.
"What you feel, you can heal." Louise L. Hay's words, as you shared, resonate so deeply with the often-misunderstood journey of grief. There’s this pervasive idea in society that at some point, we should just "get over" grief, or "move on" from it. But your experience, and this profound quote, beautifully challenge that notion. It suggests that true healing isn't about bypassing or suppressing emotions, but rather about fully experiencing them, allowing them to flow through us like a turbulent river, knowing that eventually, the waters will calm.
It’s a powerful invitation to lean into discomfort, to trust the process, even when the tears don't immediately bring relief. I've often found that the feelings we try hardest to push away are the ones that cling to us most stubbornly, often manifesting in unexpected ways. Your "front door, back door thinking" model is a wonderfully practical and insightful approach to emotional processing, giving permission for the messy, contradictory nature of human feeling without judgment. It reminds us that grief isn't a problem to be solved, but a profound human experience to be honored and felt.
I loved the “front door, back door” idea that Jane wrote (and drew!) to describe grief, too!
Alex, what you said about the feelings we try to run away from or resist in some way are precisely the ones that beg our attention (I am, of course, paraphrasing here) really resonates. I have experienced that most of my life, and it wasn’t until I began to informally pray, “Help me to see myself honestly” that I could actually confront the ugliest thoughts and feelings, admit them, and ask what they were trying to teach me.
That process has spilled into my writing. And Jane’s story here is one of such deep-seated wisdom. I am thrilled it resonated with so many!
I remember when we were talking about palliative care for my mom and about how she wasn’t really eating anymore but if we wanted to, they could place a feeding tube but it sounded like it would cause more trouble for her and be really uncomfortable. My aunt, her sister, was fighting hard to have them place it but I shut that down. Like I get it, knowing that she wasn’t going to be here with us for much longer was sad and scary but I wasn’t going to make her life miserable just to keep her here for another week. It’s been two years now and while part of me is glad she isn’t here anymore, LONG story, I don’t think I’ll ever really be used to her being gone.
I understand that dilemma so well Stephanie. It's like you both want them to be there with you, and yet because that can't happen, you're glad they're not. It's a very weird thing to try to hold juxtaposed together.
Stephanie, what you wrote here illustrates how complicated our feelings about death can be. There's a paradox in nearly everything, I think, about grief. We can learn to hold two seemingly dichotomous realities together - the relief and loneliness, the doubt and closure, the sorrow and nostalgia. It's all okay. It's all part of the human experience.
I remember when we were talking about palliative care for my mom and about how she wasn’t really eating anymore but if we really wanted to, the could place a feeding tube but it sounded like it would cause more trouble for her and be really uncomfortable. My aunt, her sister, was fighting hard to have them place it but I shut that down. Like I get it, knowing that she wasn’t going to be here with us for much longer was sad and scary but I wasn’t going to make her life miserable just to keep her here for another week. It’s been two years now and while part of me is glad she isn’t here anymore, LONG story, I don’t think I’ll ever really be used to her being gone.
Hi Jane and Jeannie,
I'm always grateful when people open up about their grief experiences. With every conversation, the still mostly taboo topic of death is brought a bit further into the light.
For years, I've been writing about and asking why so many of us avoid the "D" words. If we talked more openly about death, it might lessen the fear. It would certainly bind us more deeply together in our humanity. Most importantly, the Grievers would likely feel less alone.
Thank you, Jane, for sharing pieces of your grief story. It's beautiful. I love that you consider your marriage one that includes four people and that photos of your former spouses were included in the ceremony.
Your work is so needed, Jane. As is yours, Jeannie. You're both making such a difference. Thank you for sharing this beautiful essay. I iappreciate you both.
It's such a gift to have you here, Nancy. I'm so grateful Jane's story touched you in a particular way.
Thank you Nancy, that's just lovely to hear
What a powerful, tender and necessary conversation. Thank you, Jane, for your deep generosity, and Jeannie for braving what goes unspoken and aches to be said, heard, and witnessed.
You make it speakable.
I’ve often wondered: what if we welcomed death as a teacher, not a terror? What if we didn’t wait until it was urgent or final to speak its name?
I've been with many in their final days. My mother's death was the greatest teacher on so many levels, yet I found few with whom I could deepen in conversation. I did write about it, and this opened an informative conversation.
In my own life, especially as a caregiver, I’ve found that death, or the shadow of it, lingers in quiet corners long before it formally arrives. And still, we’re encouraged to look away. To soldier on. To "stay strong." But what if, instead, we softened? Came a bit unstitched? Asked questions? Challenged our assumptions? Held each other closer?
Jane, your metaphor of the oak sapling growing from an acorn cracked open by grief moved me to tears. I recognize the ground you describe—that fragile, uncertain terrain where identity, purpose, and love all feel upended. And as you stay with it, something begins to root. Your story reminds me that even in the darkest soil, there is life reaching toward the light.
I’ll be carrying this with me for a long time: “Because you keep on being alive until the very moment you are dead.” I love that line; it holds a raw, clear truth. Thank you for saying the often left unsaid. For making grief a place where others can rest, and remember that love continues, different, but real. Maybe stronger.
With reverence and thanks,
Prajna
Prajna, your comment here reads like poetry: "what if death became a teacher, not a terror?" And how death, as a caregiver, lingers in quiet spaces. I feel this ache with you. All of it. Yes.
What you wrote here is my "Why" behind my book, From Grief to Grace. I wrote it, because it was the book I needed after Sarah was born. And now that Sarah has been in my life for almost 13 years, death is never far away. I learned long ago that each of us lives in the small margin between life and death.
To learn to live well is to learn to die well.
Your mother's death story sounds like a powerful one. Do you have a link you could share so I can read it?
Thank you for your tender affirmation for Jane!
Hello Jeannie, Thank you so much for this beautiful reflection. Your words land with such quiet power—especially this: “each of us lives in the small margin between life and death.” Yes. We know this as mothers, caregivers, and writers.
Your book From Grief to Grace sounds like a profound offering—born of love, loss, and truth. All the hard, beautiful gifts that Sarah brings. I can't wait.
My mother’s death story is included in the first edition of Edge of Grace. Please p.m. me and I will find it for you or mail you a copy. She was one of the rare ones who learned to live well—to die well. It was not without struggle, but her crossing was conscious, peaceful, and educational beyond words. Whne she passed, I changed my last name to her maiden name, O'Hara, so I can hear her name every day.
Thank you for witnessing Jane so fully. This space you hold is a blessing. XO
Yes, my friend, I want to read your piece on Edge of Grace!
Thank you Prajna, I really appreciate your words. And I love the idea of welcoming death as a teacher, not a terror. We all really need to do that more and more.
Everything you wrote here Jane, shot straight to my heart. We don't do well with grief in the West and I think what you shared here while heartbreaking, is really, really important. We need to have more honest conversations about dying, the fear of dying, the loneliness, the anger of being left behind... everything! This is so we can honour those we have lost, those who are grieving, and those who are going through the process of loss. From my heart to yours, I am sending you both a big hug and so much gratitude.
Thank you so much Imola. Sometimes it’s hard talking about this stuff when so many don’t want to know. Making your comments all the more important and meaningful 🙏
I understand! Grief/ death makes people so uncomfortable. Not because they are bad, but because they (we!) don’t know what to do/ say. This is why it’s so important to share more of these stories/ perspectives. Much love to you Jane.
Imola, you have the kind of heart and awareness where I am certain that you simply address whatever it is that is surfacing for you. That is one of the many attributes I love about you! Your honesty. Your warmth. Your kindness. Your openness. You have such a magnetic personality, and I have no doubt that dealing with the hard things is something you don’t shy away from.
Dear Jane,
Reading your story felt like walking beside you—step by step—from devastation to rooted strength. The image of the sapling growing from grief, nourished by truth, tenderness, and the courage to feel, will stay with me. You’ve given shape to an experience that so many endure in silence, and in doing so, you’ve offered a path through the ache—not around it.
Your honesty about the unspoken realities of death, the emotional contradictions of love and loss, and the slow, sacred process of becoming someone new, is deeply moving. I was especially struck by your insight: “Because you keep on being alive until the very moment you are dead.” It’s a simple truth that holds the weight of everything unsaid in hospital rooms and quiet homes.
Thank you for showing that growth doesn’t cancel grief—it grows beside it. Your voice is a lifeline for those navigating loss in isolation. You remind us that strength doesn’t always look loud—it often begins as a fragile shoot that keeps reaching for light, day after day.
With gratitude and admiration
Thank you so much! I love how you are embracing this, and I feel very touched by your words.
This is such a beautiful comment. Thanks for taking the time to write out your thoughts here.
I just want to reiterate how thrilled I am that Jane’s essay has touched so many people!
Hi Jane. Thank you for sharing. Your story in dealing with the hospital at the time of Philip's death as well as the life you have literally grown for yourself is very inspiring.
Whilst medical science is amazing, I often question the need to keep people alive at all costs. We shouldn't be so afraid of death.
Cali, you bring up a really important subset of this discussion. I think Jane's insight that many prolong life because they're afraid of death is very apt. I remember when my grandfather was dying. His partner/caregiver Bob could NOT let my grandpa go. Bob kept running to get the nurses so that my grandpa could hang on a little longer, and finally, I took Bob's hand and said gently, "Just let him go. He's ready to go. What we can do is be here with him and make sure he's comfortable."
Hi Cali - yes, I question that need too. The trouble is, keeping people alive at all costs appears to be the only way many currently have to deal with their fear of death. Which is a hiding to nothing, of course, as 100% of us are going to die. And even when we know that, we still have this great tendency to shy away from it.
I sometimes feel so exasperated! But then I turn towards people like you, Jeannie, and others commenting here, and my heart opens again to the possibility of many more having the courage to turn round and face death in the face, and simply say a quiet hello. It's never as bad as we think it will be.
Thank you both for talking about death (and also for not using a euphemism like 'passed' or 'transitioned'). And thank you Jane for so intimately and honestly sharing your story. It is so sad how death-denying we are in western society. I had an insight during Covid that the extreme fear some people experienced was really fear of death. I remember a person from an indigenous culture saying that in their culture, they welcome all, even pathogens, as 'visitors', because all is connected, not separate. Grief can be a very lonely journey because of other's discomfort and inability to just 'be' alongside the person grieving. We can't 'fix' death and I think medics are trained to save lives at all cost, which is why they are often so uncomfortable about allowing death to happen naturally, without trying to 'fix' it.
Wow, PJ, the insight from Indigenous culture is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it here. I agree - I think the fear surrounding many issues we face as humans centers on our fear of death. Most of us do not want to confront the inevitability of our mortality or the fact that each of us stands on the edges of death every day. Every second. That's hard to keep in the back of one's mind.
Also, the words "passed on" seem to me a softer way of communicating this very real aspect of life. Death sounds so... harsh, so real. And it is. It seems to me that each of us has our own quite intimate feelings surrounding death. It's a personal conversation. It touches us each differently.
I couldn’t agree more, PJ. We have a long way to go as regards accepting the fact of death.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful analogy ✨
Jane and Jeannie,
I large factor in starting my Substack was to counter the American experience of denying grief.
Those who grieve eventually stop talking about it with their friends when they start encountering their resistance. I have watched people subtly shut down grief acknowledgement long before I was ready to stop "move on."
In fact, I hate hearing anyone say "move on" in relationship to the death of a loved one.
It is like denying I ever had three daughters. I'm moving forward in my life without her physically present, but I will not "move on" from her.
Jane, I appreciate your openness with your own experience of loss.
Jeannie, thank you for holding space for Jane.
Nancy, I just want to tell you what a privilege and honor it has been to get to know Sheila through you. You're right that there is no "moving on" when someone we love dies. It's my hope that this prevailing attitude is shifting these days. I think it might be, however slowly.
It is so good to have you here in this space. I always feel blessed by your presence and words. Thanks for supporting Jane and her story today.
Thankyou Jane for your vulnerability and courage in sharing your grief journey with us. My condolences but also my admiration for your honesty and what your honesty about your first marriage made possible within you and in your second marriage. I hear you when you ask why people won't speak of death. Perhaps for health professionals it feels like they didn't get it right as they may feel their "job" is to make people better. How much kinder for everyone if "their job" was to walk beside in the healing journey, even when the body will not heal. Honest, difficult conversations are so important. How powerful that you allowed the onslaught (and passing) of each emotion, and that you learnt to see the gift presented to you in wrapping you may never have chosen.
Melanie, you bring up such an important point in this conversation. I once read from Henri Nouwen, one of my favorite spirituality authors, that a movement from cure to care is how healing takes place in community. When we move away from a model of fixing someone or something and instead accompany them where they are, as they are, there is great freedom and power in that quiet acceptance and unspoken love.
'From cure to care' - I've never heard that before but I do just love it! The amazing thing about the freedom you speak of is that this is where healing happens (regardless of whether it happens on the physical plane or not). And it all starts with acceptance.
Melanie, thank you. I love that you suggest the kindness involved in health professionals taking a different slant to their work. As regards end of life care, this will be less likely to happen until the medical schools train doctors/nurses in this. But you and me and Jeannie and others speaking up about it is part of the journey towards that happening. So again, a huge thank you to you.
I think end of life issues are a whole separate arm of the conversations surrounding death, Jane. Again, I am just astounded at the depth and layers of these comments. Just blows me away! You are all incredible!
Yes, the end of life planning/care/training/preparation is all a huge other subject, and yet can't be addressed unless people are willing to face the fact that one day they will die.
An 82 year old friend of mine told me recently that he's just not going to die. He laughs about it, but he's actually quite serious too. He just can't take in this fact of life coming to an end.
Whoa. That’s kind of sad, Jane, that he cannot face his mortality. I think if we learn to do this, we can somehow have a beautiful death. That’s what I hope for myself, at least. It may not be an easy death. It may be hard. But I hope it is beautiful.
So beautiful and pivotal. <3
I love this! And as someone who writes about grief and death and loss somewhat regularly, this is SO needed. These frank conversations. Also, sorry to Jane, for your loss. Sending you big hugs and lots of love ❤️
That’s so kind, Caitlin! Thank you for the affirmation you shared for Jane.
Jane and Jeannie,
This is such a poignant, honest piece. You are right, Jane; people avoid the Death and Dying words so much, even medical professionals. It's ridiculous. I loved how you advocated for your husband. If we don't advocate for ourselves and our loved ones, who will advocate for us?
I'm so grateful for when you said our thinking changes. It's true. If we think about life and our thinking as just stagnant, that's not a realistic view. We change as time moves on.
We do indeed change as time moves on. That’s one thing I hadn’t realised after Philip died. I didn’t want to be a different person but I was, because of what I’d gone through and would go through.
The person I am now is very different to who I was then. I like her better, for a start!
Oh wow, Jane, such a powerful point here: “I didn’t want to be a different person, but I was.” That summarizes grief so well in one sentence! We are changed by grief, though we wish we weren’t. Once grief enters our lives, it never goes away.
Thanks Jeannie. Too right about grief entering and staying.
I just had an amazing conversation with Dina Bell Laroche. Do you know her? She speaks about grief so beautifully.
So funny you ask this Jane, because I just saw a Note pop up by Dina, and I commented on it!
I think you will like each other!
Thank you Beth. You always bring up such excellent questions and offer compassionate, encouraging support.
"What you feel, you can heal." Louise L. Hay's words, as you shared, resonate so deeply with the often-misunderstood journey of grief. There’s this pervasive idea in society that at some point, we should just "get over" grief, or "move on" from it. But your experience, and this profound quote, beautifully challenge that notion. It suggests that true healing isn't about bypassing or suppressing emotions, but rather about fully experiencing them, allowing them to flow through us like a turbulent river, knowing that eventually, the waters will calm.
It’s a powerful invitation to lean into discomfort, to trust the process, even when the tears don't immediately bring relief. I've often found that the feelings we try hardest to push away are the ones that cling to us most stubbornly, often manifesting in unexpected ways. Your "front door, back door thinking" model is a wonderfully practical and insightful approach to emotional processing, giving permission for the messy, contradictory nature of human feeling without judgment. It reminds us that grief isn't a problem to be solved, but a profound human experience to be honored and felt.
I loved the “front door, back door” idea that Jane wrote (and drew!) to describe grief, too!
Alex, what you said about the feelings we try to run away from or resist in some way are precisely the ones that beg our attention (I am, of course, paraphrasing here) really resonates. I have experienced that most of my life, and it wasn’t until I began to informally pray, “Help me to see myself honestly” that I could actually confront the ugliest thoughts and feelings, admit them, and ask what they were trying to teach me.
That process has spilled into my writing. And Jane’s story here is one of such deep-seated wisdom. I am thrilled it resonated with so many!
I remember when we were talking about palliative care for my mom and about how she wasn’t really eating anymore but if we wanted to, they could place a feeding tube but it sounded like it would cause more trouble for her and be really uncomfortable. My aunt, her sister, was fighting hard to have them place it but I shut that down. Like I get it, knowing that she wasn’t going to be here with us for much longer was sad and scary but I wasn’t going to make her life miserable just to keep her here for another week. It’s been two years now and while part of me is glad she isn’t here anymore, LONG story, I don’t think I’ll ever really be used to her being gone.
I understand that dilemma so well Stephanie. It's like you both want them to be there with you, and yet because that can't happen, you're glad they're not. It's a very weird thing to try to hold juxtaposed together.
Stephanie, what you wrote here illustrates how complicated our feelings about death can be. There's a paradox in nearly everything, I think, about grief. We can learn to hold two seemingly dichotomous realities together - the relief and loneliness, the doubt and closure, the sorrow and nostalgia. It's all okay. It's all part of the human experience.
I remember when we were talking about palliative care for my mom and about how she wasn’t really eating anymore but if we really wanted to, the could place a feeding tube but it sounded like it would cause more trouble for her and be really uncomfortable. My aunt, her sister, was fighting hard to have them place it but I shut that down. Like I get it, knowing that she wasn’t going to be here with us for much longer was sad and scary but I wasn’t going to make her life miserable just to keep her here for another week. It’s been two years now and while part of me is glad she isn’t here anymore, LONG story, I don’t think I’ll ever really be used to her being gone.