Thing is, nothing *is* enough. Not really. There’s no line that makes someone less dead. There’s no sentence that fills the space they left behind. I think once we accept that, the pressure lifts a bit. You’re not supposed to fix the pain. You’re just supposed to see it. To show up. To not disappear because you’re scared you’ll say the wrong thing.
And honestly, sometimes you will. That’s okay. People remember the love, not the phrasing. There’s no script. Just honesty. Like, “I don’t know what to say, but I’m thinking of you.” That one? That one works. It’s raw, and real, and enough.
If you’re writing a message—maybe for a friend, a coworker, a family member—you don’t have to be profound. You just have to be present. One sentence can say more than a page of fluff. Something like, “I’m here if you want to talk or if you just need quiet company.” Or “I’m thinking about you today.” Even just “This sucks, I’m so sorry.”
What you *don’t* have to do? Offer explanations. Avoid the “they’re in a better place” stuff unless you know they believe that too. Honestly, when my uncle died, someone said that to my cousin and she straight-up walked away. Grief doesn’t like clichés. It likes truth. Or at least kindness.
I think we want to wrap loss in neat little bows because it’s scary. But grief isn’t neat. It’s weird and quiet and loud and slow and then fast again. Sometimes it’s invisible. Other times it punches you out of nowhere in the grocery store. (That happened. Taylor Swift came on. Don’t ask.)
So if you’re here, scrolling through sympathy messages, maybe don’t just copy-paste. Read a few, see what speaks to you. Then write something with your own voice. Even if your voice is shaky. Especially if it is.
Your words don’t need to be perfect. They just need to show you care. That’s the whole thing. And if you’re still unsure, just say this: “I love you. I’m here. I don’t have the right words, but I’m not going anywhere.” That’s a good place to start.
— Wrote this with coffee, hesitation, and a few memories
