“They didn’t mean to hurt me. But they did.”
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Introduction: The Unexpected Hurt
Grief has a way of exposing you — raw, skinless, open to the world. And when you’re in that space, even the smallest touch can hurt. Especially when it comes in the form of words, messages, invitations, or jokes that aren’t meant to be cruel but land like knives anyway.
It’s not always the loud, obvious betrayals that get to you. Sometimes it’s the gentle, well-meaning phrase. The silence where there should have been a word. The invitation that includes you but reminds you more deeply than ever that the person you love is no longer here.
People don’t know what to say to someone who is mourning. That’s just the truth of it. But the real challenge is what they do say — because in the awkwardness and uncertainty, they say things that hurt more than they’ll ever understand.
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The Comment That Stung: “Birthday Parties Are Just Like Funerals”
One morning, while walking the Camino, a message arrived. A friend — perhaps trying to make a thoughtful comparison — said:
“Birthday parties are just like funerals. They’re both celebrations.”
I stopped in my tracks. That sentence, probably written without much thought, stung like salt in an open wound. It tried to reduce death and life to the same thing — and in doing so, erased the agony of the loss.
It’s these moments, these throwaway comments, that bring you to your knees — not because they’re cruel, but because they are so disconnected from the emotional weight you carry. It reminds you of how alone you really are in this experience, how misunderstood grief can be by those who haven’t walked through it.
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The Hollow Where Her Name Should Be
Another example came in the form of a family invitation. It read, “The whole family is invited,” and I knew I was meant to feel included. I knew the intention was kind.
But Angé’s name wasn’t there.
And where her name should have been — where it always used to be — was now just a space. An empty space. A hollow.
Maybe they didn’t notice. But I did. I saw the blank spot like a flashing light. It wasn’t just a forgotten name. It was the loud, echoing silence of someone who should still be there.
It’s not that I don’t want to be with her family. But without her, it’s no longer the same. Her absence is louder than their welcome. The weight of going without her is sometimes too much to carry — especially when everyone else has already adjusted to the new version of the family, and you’re still holding space for the one who’s missing.
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Jokes That Cut
People sometimes try to lighten the mood with jokes. But mourning doesn’t work like that.
• “So, what are you going to do about sex now that you’re single again?”
• “You still sleeping in that double bed, or did you downsize yet?”
They say it with a grin, as if making light of something uncomfortable is somehow helpful. But it isn’t. You want to scream: Do you understand what I’ve lost?
These are the moments that leave you stunned, unsure whether to laugh along just to escape the awkwardness, or to walk away and preserve your own dignity.
Humor can be a lifeline. But not all humor heals. Sometimes, it reopens the wound.
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Empty Promises and Hollow Gestures
Then there are the promises people make — the vague commitments to “catch up soon,” “do something together,” or “be there if you need anything.”
Most of the time, they don’t mean harm. But they also don’t mean much at all.
And it’s not that you expect everyone to show up every time. But when they don’t — when the promise fades into silence — it reinforces the feeling that you’re walking through this alone.
Even worse are the people who make excuses on behalf of others:
• “He didn’t mean anything by it.”
• “She just didn’t know what to say.”
That may all be true. But those explanations don’t soothe the sting. They simply dismiss it.
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Why It Hurts So Much
So why does this hurt so badly?
Because you are already tender. Already broken open. You’re holding your grief together with tissue and tape. And the world keeps poking at it with blunt fingers, thinking they’re offering comfort.
It hurts because it reminds you how invisible your pain is. How much effort you put into just surviving the day. And how easily people can miss that. Or ignore it. Or talk over it.
And it hurts because you want to be seen. You want someone to understand that a simple sentence, or the absence of one, can change the whole tone of your day.
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So What Do You Do?
You can’t control what others say or do. But you can create strategies for how you respond.
1. Pause Before You React
Give yourself a moment. Let the initial hurt settle before you speak or respond. A hurtful message or comment doesn’t need an instant reply.
2. Talk to a Friend
Phone a friend. Text someone who understands. Say, “Can you believe someone said this to me today?” The act of saying it out loud often helps reduce its sting. Being heard can be healing.
3. Journal It
Write the comment down. Write what you felt. Let it out of your system. Sometimes that’s all it takes — to acknowledge it and move on.
4. Confront with Compassion
If the relationship matters and you believe the person would be open, gently tell them:
• “I know you meant well, but that comment really hurt.”
• “I’m grieving. That joke didn’t land well for me.”
Give them a chance to learn. Some will. Some won’t.
5. Decide Who Deserves Access
Not everyone earns the right to be close to your vulnerable self. Protect your energy. Choose wisely who you let in.
6. Build Emotional Armor
This is not about becoming cold or shut down. It’s about recognizing when you need to shield your heart. Some comments don’t deserve your emotional investment. Not every wound needs to be opened.
7. Apply the Plaster
Think of it like a small cut. You don’t need stitches, but you do need care. You need to say to yourself, “That hurt. But I’ll put a plaster on my heart. I’ll keep going.”
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Compassion for the Clumsy
Here’s the hard truth: most people don’t know how to talk to someone who is grieving. They fumble. They freeze. They use clichés. They try to lighten the mood with humor that doesn’t land.
And while that doesn’t excuse the pain they cause, it helps explain it.
When you’re able, when you’ve got the strength, try to extend grace. Not for their sake — for yours. Carrying bitterness only adds weight to your already-heavy load.
That said, grace doesn’t mean silence. You can still draw a boundary. You can still say, “That was not okay.” You can still walk away from people who consistently make your grief harder.
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Your Pain is Real — Even When Others Can’t See It
The world moves on so quickly. People expect you to bounce back, to be strong, to laugh at jokes and show up to events. They don’t see the full story — the slow mornings, the crying in the car, the empty seat next to you at dinner.
So when someone says something insensitive, it’s not just the words — it’s what those words fail to recognize. It’s what they erase.
Your pain is real. Your grief is valid. And just because others don’t see the wound doesn’t mean it’s not there.
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Reflective Questions
1. What’s one thing someone said after your loss that really hurt you?
2. Did you respond at the time? If not, do you wish you had?
3. Who are the people in your life who say things that make you feel safe?
4. What is one boundary you could set the next time someone is unintentionally hurtful?
5. When people say, “Let me know if you need anything,” what do you really wish they’d do?
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Because of Angé…
Because of Angé, I’ve learned that the quietest moments often carry the most weight. When she was around, she didn’t try to fix pain with words. She just was there. Present. Listening. Holding space.
Now, in her absence, I notice even more how many people talk without thinking. Joke without care. Offer promises they won’t keep.
And in those moments, I ask myself:
What would Angé do?
She’d pause. She’d breathe. She’d put a gentle hand on my shoulder and say, “Come. Let’s not let that steal today from us.”
And so I try. I put the plaster on my heart. And I walk on.
