“Words have the power to destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world. ~ Buddha
If I tell you that I lost my phone, “I’m sorry for your loss” is a perfectly acceptable response. In this context, I can appreciate the emotion, empathy, and authenticity of this statement. This is my loss and my loss alone. I know you can put yourself in my shoes and know what it’s like to be without this critical piece of equipment, so these words carry a lot of weight.
What about when I tell you that my parents are dead? Maybe not that much. This is because they are monumental deaths that are not easily relatable to most people. You see, my father died of ALS when I was fourteen. My mom then accelerated her unhealthy relationship with food and died of complications from morbid obesity when I was twenty-seven. I am an only child.
When this is revealed, approach me with this filler phrase, my knee-jerk reaction will be a hasty “Uh-huh, thanks.” Anyway…” I don’t mean to be rude (well, I guess I do) of). I know you are doing your best.you know you have to say something Respond to this message. And, chances are, everything you thought about in the milliseconds after this revelation seemed to fall short.
So, the autopilot, reflexive, out-of-office responses float to the top.
That’s why it’s problematic.
Only “my loss”, really?
Not to play semantic games, but my first problem with this filler phrase is that it conveys that these deaths are simply my loss. Yes, I know you are speaking directly to me, not my parents’ siblings, friends, co-workers, or grandchildren. But these—either individually or collectively—are not singular losses.
My grandmother lost the ability to outlive her children.
My father’s friend lost his weekly poker partner.
My mom’s coworker lost the “voice of reason” in the office.
My daughter lost the privilege of knowing her grandparents.
The world was deprived of any future contribution these two men could have made.
My point is that there are a lot of people who lost something over those two days and that loss continues with their absence.
Alienation, party of one
Placing this loss directly on me—or, for that matter, on anyone—also creates a disconnect between us. Yes, this may be a loss in my life rather than yours, but you have now completely divided us.
I am the bereaved; you are the mourner.
When someone mentions the need to die (IMO) the last thing that comes up is a constant reminder that we are different from the rest of you. The clouds are over our heads, not yours.
Grief, loss, and death, not to mention the sadness and melancholy that come with it, are isolating enough. Please don’t amplify this further by putting us on either side of the fence.
comfort, friendliness
My biggest problem with a loss apology is that it doesn’t actually offer anything. There is no source of comfort. There is no correlation. When you’re stuck, there’s no advice to turn to.
For those who don’t know what to say, this is a “break the glass in an emergency” phrase. For me, these are the words I keep swinging and weaving to escape, like a dodgeball torpedo hitting my head.
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I really am not. I know you’ve tried your best. If this is the condolence you most want to express, I just want to give you a reason to pause.
Also, consider yourself lucky. If hearing about this kind of loss and death makes you feel uncomfortable, or even your brain cluttered, it’s probably because you haven’t experienced this kind of grief yourself. This is something to be happy about. Trust me, I’m happy for you. I really am!
Okay, now that we know why this sentence angers victims, what else can we say?
Rephrase apology for loss
Adjust your emotions a little and you suddenly have a phrase that feels real and relatable, at least to me.
I’m very satisfied with:
“I’m sorry you have to…
- Experience it.
- Experience it.
- Dealing with early losses like this.
- To encounter these tragedies so early.
- Figure out how to get through life on your own without your parents.
you understood. Any iteration of this statement works for me for two reasons. First, because it acknowledges my personal experience and not sees death as my loss, but just my loss. Second, because, although you may not be able to relate, by recognizing that these visible losses have a tangible impact, you develop empathy and a sense of authenticity.
share memories
The best condolences I ever received came from a young man I had never met. We were at my mom’s funeral when he came over and introduced himself. He was the son of one of her colleagues, although the name was unfamiliar to her. His presence struck me as a little strange because his eyes were red and his nose was runny, but I had no idea who he was.
He told me that when he visited his mother in the office, he started talking to her. Apparently, they developed a rapport over time. So much so that she was the first person he decided to go to. He told me how she received the news with love, support and a welcome ambivalence that helped him know it was okay to be himself. This new message is no different.
I have tears in my eyes as I write this. To this day, that brief encounter remains the greatest gift anyone has ever given me about my mother. It brings comfort. It lets me know she touched others (and kept something precious to herself). This showed the depth of her loss outside of me.
When you lose a parent to (food) addiction like I did, it’s easy to vilify them. They should know better. Do better. been better one.
And then I thought about that story, and at least in that instance, she was a damn hero in my eyes. Not because of how she learned the news – although she seemed to be handling it well – but because she provided so much support and comfort to the young man that he chose her, of all people, to come out .
Wow. I can’t say I’ve ever left such an impact on someone. It was admirable and the encounter is one I will always cherish.
However, I do want to add a little caveat when sharing stories of those who have died. It’s all about the right place, the right time. If I’m in a conference, about to speak to a crowd, or getting ready to engage in anything that requires my full attention and right thinking, now is not the time to share something that might break me.
This strategy requires you to read the room a little, but if the timing is right, it can be the best condolence you can give.
Leadership Statement
As the example above shows, your statement doesn’t even require an apology. After all, you didn’t kill them, right? If you do this, apologize completely. Hope to get out of jail.
Regardless, I like the primary claim tactic because it gives the aggrieved person a choice.
“That must be hard for you.”
“I’m sure it’s a difficult thing to go through at such a young age.”
These open-ended statements give us choices. If we don’t want to wallow in sadness, we can simply acknowledge them, express gratitude, and then steer the conversation in another direction.
or We can use them as a starting point and say, “This is really hard, and I think the hardest thing is…” Now we’re having a conversation. An exchange. Two people on the same side are discussing an experience. It’s not like I’m receiving an apology for a “bizarre” loss on one hand, and on the other hand you’re nervously scratching your neck and frowning, wondering what’s going to happen next.
And, in case you were wondering, yes, I am absolutely guilty of using this phrase myself. I never like hearing or saying it, but since discussing my parents’ deaths more openly, I’ve recently really begun to internalize how hollow these words are.
So, let’s all strive to do better. I know we can. These encounters would be a lot less uncomfortable if our thoughts were turned more toward what was good for the victim, rather than having the first obligatory phrase we can think of pop out of our mouths.
If all else fails, show us a photo of your dog. They always bring comfort, relevance and connection. Hey, they don’t call them emotional support animals for nothing…
