When grief comes to town

Published 1:30 am Tuesday, February 3, 2026

As a child, I remember singing a song adapted from the poem “No Man Is an Island” by John Donne:

“No man is an island / No man stands alone/ Each man’s joy is joy to me / Each man’s grief is my own.”

The verse carries a lovely sentiment—one I believe to be true. But empathy and connection come with a price.

When I heard last week that two of my island friends had lost their daughters in the tragic Lake Tahoe avalanche, I keeled over and screamed: Nooooo!

How, I wondered, can anyone bear such pain?

The answer may be complex, but my simple response is this: together.

The news of the tragedy traveled swiftly around the island, carried by the local newspaper and a network of friends who love the parents, Ted and Vicki Clabaugh. Their daughters had grown up here, so the grief surrounding the loss of these two wonderful middle-aged mothers was palpable.

Sharing in such grief gives us an opportunity to learn about it—and to reflect on how we ourselves want to meet it, knowing it is something we will all face. Yet many of us in North American culture are not very practiced at being with grief.

While I am not a grief expert, I have learned a great deal by witnessing my own experiences and those of others.

My bottom line is this: there is no one right way to grieve. And when grief comes to town, there is no point in telling it what to do. Grief arrives with its own agenda. Sometimes grief crashes through the walls of our lives with one terrible announcement.

Other times, grief waits in the wings for years, showing up intermittently as a loved one slowly drifts away. That was the kind of grief I felt for two years as my mother slipped away, a few ounces at a time.

Grief can attach itself to many emotions—sorrow, frustration, anger, rage, even moments of unexpected joy.

It can taste sweet or incredibly bitter.

It may visit for weeks or stay for years.

It may arrive as a compassionate companion or a relentless taskmaster. Grief takes many shapes. It carries its own marching orders, and it leaves on its own timetable.

I would never presume to tell anyone what to do with their particular grief after great loss. But if asked, I would say this: there are many paths, and your grief will be uniquely your own.

You may choose to let grief be a companion, or you may try to box it away. But grief that is

hidden still lives within us. For that reason, I believe it is often kinder to let it out of the closet.

You may want to share your grief with others—or you may not. Sometimes the burden of loss grows lighter when others help hold it with you.

What you need may change over time.

Ask your heart, again and again: My dear broken one, how can I help you bear this grief?

The answers may shift from one hour to the next. Perhaps you need a hug and a circle of loving friends. Perhaps you prefer silence and solitude.

You might want to talk about what happened. Or you may need a period of not talking—or moments of that brief respite we call forgetting.

Perhaps you want to get busy. Or languish in a long bath and do nothing.

My heart’s grief often wants dark chocolate.

Years ago, I read a book I often recommend: It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine. The subtitle says it all: Meeting grief and loss in a culture that doesn’t understand.

She makes a compelling case. Most of us simply don’t know how to do grief. And it is hard enough to face terrible loss without also having to navigate other people’s discomfort with it.

Most of us genuinely want to help our friends who are grieving. If someone you love is in the depths of loss, you may wonder what to say or do.

It is OK not to know. In fact, not knowing may be the best place to begin.

Listening and simply being present are often far more helpful than speaking. By listening, you can discover what might truly support your friend.

Would they like flowers? A cup of coffee? Food? Help around the house?

It all depends. Tune yourself carefully to what your friends need. Make gentle offers and see what is most welcome.

What you don’t want to do is tell people what they should feel. Never that. All feelings—however complicated—are welcome.

Pontificating wears thin very quickly. And telling a grieving person that their loved one has “gone to a better place” can sometimes irritate more than comfort. (Exceptions apply. If you share that language within a mutual faith tradition, it may land differently.)

Don’t try to fix the grief, and don’t rush to offer a silver lining. If your friend finds something genuine to be grateful for, welcome it. But the silver-lining reflex is often a way of saying, I’m uncomfortable with your pain.

Avoid offering timelines. Grief takes as long as it takes. Even the private thought they should be over it by now only muddies the water.

And while compassion is a great virtue—and your own losses may inform how you show up—remember that your friend’s grief journey belongs to them.

In the end, listen and love.

And know that on our island, no one needs to stand alone.

Sally Jean Fox is a Vashon writer, artist and mentor. Find more of her writing at sallyfox@substack.com.