The journey through grief is one of the most profound and challenging experiences in human life. As someone who walked this path after losing my husband, I’ve learned that grief isn’t something we “get over” but rather something we learn to carry. The most healing moments often come not from grand gestures, but from simple acts of presence and understanding.

When we’re grieving, our brain chemistry literally changes. Decision-making becomes difficult, routine tasks feel overwhelming, and even basic self-care can seem impossible. This is why what I call “grief groceries” can be such a meaningful form of support. When neighbors brought paper products and simple foods after my husband’s death, I found myself weeping over toilet paper—not because I particularly loved bathroom tissue, but because someone had thought about my needs when I couldn’t think for myself. These mundane items represented a profound understanding of grief’s disorienting effects and showed love in a tangible, practical way.

The concept of witnessing is central to grief support. Research shows that one of the primary needs of a grieving person is simply to have others witness their pain and help them not feel so alone. This is beautifully illustrated in the children’s book The Rabbit Listened. In this book, various animals try to help with solutions and advice, but only the rabbit—who simply sits in silent presence—truly helps. When we’re grieving, we don’t need someone to fix our problems or tell us how to feel. We need someone to sit with us in our pain, to acknowledge it without judgment, and to hold space for our experiences without trying to rush us through them.

What doesn’t help in grief is judgment, comparison, or excessive talking. When someone asks, “Are you over it yet?” or says, “I know exactly how you feel because I lost my dog,” they unintentionally diminish the unique nature of our grief. Grief isn’t a competition, and comparing losses rarely brings connection—instead, it often leaves both parties feeling misunderstood. Similarly, when well-meaning friends rush to fill silence with words or advice, they miss the opportunity to provide what the grieving person truly needs: a listening ear and warm presence that counters the profound coldness and loneliness of loss.

The most meaningful support I received came from people who acted without asking, people who showed up consistently without expectation of response, and people who simply witnessed my journey without trying to redirect it. One was a friend who texted daily for months without requiring replies. Another was someone who helped me relearn to drive while giving me space to process my emotions. And there was also a community who started a fundraiser without making me ask. These people understood that grief requires witnessing more than words, presence more than solutions, and connection more than advice.