Walking Alongside Someone in Their Grief

Today I listened to a beautiful podcast I hadn't discovered before called The Obliterated Place. 

The Obliterated Place with Kaye Steinsapir - YouTube

It is a series of wise, vulnerable conversations exploring grief and the many ways we learn to live alongside it.

The first episode I listened to featured Colin Campbell (https://colincampbellauthor.com), author of Finding the Words: Working Through Profound Loss with Hope and Purpose. Seven years ago, Colin's teenage children, Ruby and Hart, were killed by a drunk driver. The conversation between Colin and host Kaye Steinsapir was marked by extraordinary honesty, grace and generosity. There was so much wisdom shared that I wanted to capture a few reflections that have stayed with me.

One of the first ideas that resonated was how our collective discomfort with grief has left us with very little communal grief literacy. Kaye and Colin both described feeling isolated—not simply because of their loss, but because people often seemed afraid of them. Their grief made others uncomfortable, and in turn they felt "othered."  If we are to support grieving people well, perhaps we need to become more willing to learn about grief before we find ourselves standing beside someone we love. One resource I often recommend is What's Your Grief (https://whatsyourgrief.com/), which offers thoughtful, practical education about grief and how we can better support those experiencing it.

This naturally led into a discussion about the well-meaning platitudes many of us reach for: "There are no words," or "I don't know how you're doing it." Colin and Kaye acknowledged the kindness behind these phrases, while also reflecting that saying "there are no words" can unintentionally close down conversation rather than invite it. Colin noted his internal response to this was often, "Then let's find some words."  Rather than striving for the perfect thing to say, they spoke about the power of being personal, honest and present. Perhaps instead of saying "There are no words," we might say, "I'm struggling to know what to say, but I'm here with you." Those few words acknowledge our discomfort while refusing to step away from theirs.

The conversation also highlighted how practical support often speaks louder than questions. Colin reflected that asking someone who is grieving, "What do you need?" can feel overwhelming—they often don't know themselves. Instead, making a specific offer can remove the burden of decision-making: "I'm free to walk with you tomorrow morning at 10. Would that be helpful?"  Kaye shared the story of a friend who came every Sunday to clean out her refrigerator and manage the constant stream of meals people had lovingly delivered. More importantly, she kept coming long after the casseroles stopped arriving. Her consistency became an expression of love that words alone never could.  It reminded me of a story Simon Sinek tells (https://www.youtube.com/shorts/3wzZBsALb94) about a man who texted his grieving friend to say he would call every morning at 9:45 a.m. There was no expectation that the phone would be answered; the call itself became a quiet reminder that someone was steadfastly present. It is a beautiful example of what real support can look like.

Another powerful thread throughout the conversation was the idea that grief needs to be witnessed.

David Kessler writes:

"Each person's grief is as unique as their fingerprint. But what everyone has in common is that no matter how they grieve, they share a need for their grief to be witnessed. That doesn't mean needing someone to try to lessen it or reframe it for them. The need is for someone to be fully present to the magnitude of their loss without trying to point out the silver lining."  There is perhaps no simpler illustration of this than the children's book The Rabbit Listened (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rBjAWkog9n0). It gently reminds us that when someone is overwhelmed by sorrow, anger or fear, they rarely need us to fix the feeling. They need us to stay, to listen and to bear witness.

Colin and Kaye also explored the importance of ritual in grief. Drawing on Jewish traditions, they reflected on the practice of sitting Shiva and the way structured rituals provide rhythm, connection and community when life has been irreversibly altered.  While Colin also talked to  his journey of establishing a Wind Phone at his grief retreat. Inspired by the original Wind Phone (https://www.mywindphone.com/) established by Itaru Sasaki in Ōtsuchi, Japan, it is a disconnected telephone where people can speak to those they have lost, allowing the wind to carry their words. It is a simple yet profoundly moving reminder that continuing bonds with those we love do not end with death.

Perhaps the idea that stayed with me most was Colin's description of not "moving on" from grief, but growing a life around it. So often we hear that grief fades with time. Instead, he spoke about learning to carry it—to integrate it into the life that continues around it. The grief remains because the love remains.

After listening, I became curious about the title The Obliterated Place and discovered it comes from one of my favourite writers, Cheryl Strayed. In her Dear Sugar column (https://therumpus.net/2011/07/01/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-78-the-obliterated-place/ ), she writes with remarkable tenderness to a father grieving the loss of his son, describing grief as "the obliterated place"—that landscape forever altered by profound loss.  It feels like a fitting image to end with. Grief is not a problem to be solved or a journey to complete. It is a landscape we learn to inhabit. Perhaps the greatest gift we can offer someone walking through that landscape is not advice or answers, but our quiet willingness to walk beside them.