Grief, Grace & New Beginnings

Grief has a way of teaching you things you never signed up to learn.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is this: not all support feels the same, and not all intentions are as pure as they seem.

After losing Jason, I was suddenly surrounded by people, texts, calls, messages, and words. So many words. And while I know so many of them came from a place of love, I quickly realized that just because someone shows up does not always mean they are showing up in the way you actually need.

When you are walking through something as heavy as losing the person you love, you begin to notice the difference between people who are with you and people who are simply watching you go through it.

That’s where the difference between empathy and sympathy becomes more than just words. It becomes something you feel.

Sympathy is easy to recognize. It often sounds kind and looks supportive on the surface.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

And while those words are not wrong, there were moments after Jason died where they felt distant. Like people were acknowledging what happened, but not really sitting in it with me. Sympathy sees your pain, but it often stays at arm’s length. It doesn’t always stay long. It doesn’t always sit in the silence that grief brings.

Empathy is different.

Empathy shows up and stays.

It listens more than it speaks.

It doesn’t try to fix what cannot be fixed.

After Jason, the people who impacted me the most were not the ones who had the perfect words. They were the ones who sat beside me when there were no words at all. The ones who didn’t rush me to be okay. The ones who let me say his name, over and over again, without changing the subject or trying to make it easier.

Sometimes empathy sounds like nothing at all. Just presence. The kind that makes you feel a little less alone in a world that suddenly feels empty.

Empathy steps into your pain with you without trying to rush you out of it.

And when you are grieving someone like Jason, that kind of presence is everything.

But there is another side to this that we don’t talk about enough.

Sometimes, in the middle of your most vulnerable moments, you will come across people who don’t offer empathy or even true sympathy. Instead, they take something from your pain.

At first, it can be hard to recognize.

It might look like constant checking in, but it feels more like needing updates than offering support.

It might sound like concern, but it slowly turns into conversations about themselves.

It might feel like help, but it leaves you more drained than comforted.

I remember moments after Jason passed where I would walk away from conversations feeling more exhausted than I did before. Not because I didn’t appreciate people caring, but because somehow I ended up holding their emotions too, on top of my own.

And there is something else I learned that was hard to accept.

Just because someone was a friend of Jason does not mean they are a friend to me.

Grief has a way of blurring lines. People show up connected to the person you lost, and for a moment it feels like that connection should automatically mean something safe, something trustworthy. But that is not always the case.

Some people come around because of proximity to the loss, not because of genuine care for the person left behind.

And even harder to say, some people will take advantage of that space.

There are moments where vulnerability becomes visible, and not everyone handles that with integrity. There are people who will insert themselves, gain trust, and take more than they give. Sometimes that looks emotional. Sometimes that looks like attention. And sometimes, if you are not careful, it can even look like monetary gain or benefiting from your situation in ways you may not immediately recognize.

That truth is uncomfortable. But it is real.

And when you are already trying to survive the loss of someone like Jason, that extra weight becomes unbearable.

So how do you notice the difference?

Empathy leaves you feeling seen, even in silence.

Sympathy may feel surface level, but still kind.

Taking advantage leaves you feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, or like you are carrying more than your own pain.

Empathy respects your space.

Taking advantage pushes past it.

Empathy listens.

Taking advantage redirects.

Empathy stays steady.

Taking advantage comes and goes, usually when it benefits them.

Grief is already heavy enough without having to carry other people too.

One of the hardest but most necessary lessons I learned after losing Jason is that you are allowed to have boundaries, even in your pain. Especially in your pain.

You are allowed to step back.

You are allowed to question intentions.

You are allowed to say no, even when you are hurting.

Because real support will never make you feel smaller, more tired, or more alone than you already are.

Real empathy does not take from you. It gives you space to breathe when everything in you feels like it is suffocating.

And the truth is, when you are grieving someone you love, you don’t have extra pieces of yourself to hand out.

You are already carrying the weight of missing them.

The weight of memories.

The weight of all the things you wish you could still say.

So if something feels off, if someone leaves you feeling heavier instead of held, listen to that.

If someone uses your pain as a way to insert themselves, take from you, or benefit in any way, you do not owe them access to your life.

Protecting your peace is not wrong.

It is necessary.

Because in the middle of losing Jason, I learned that the people who truly loved me did not need anything from me.

They didn’t make my pain about them.

They didn’t ask me to carry more.

They didn’t take advantage of a moment where I was at my lowest.

They sat with me.

They stayed.

They let Jason still be a part of every conversation, every tear, every memory.

And sometimes, it takes time to find that kind of person. Sometimes it takes a year and a half to find someone who is truly empathetic, someone who protects your heart in a way you didn’t even realize you needed.

Someone who not only loves you, but loves Jason too. Someone who will sit with you in the memories and instead of only tears, you find yourselves laughing. Remembering. Speaking his name without hesitation.

And that kind of love is different.

That kind of love is safe.

It is selfless.

It is patient.

And it is something that cannot be forced or faked.

It is something you feel.

It is something you recognize.

And it is something that, after everything you have lost, you will never take for granted again.

Because in a season where so much has been taken, that kind of love does not take from your grief.

It protects it.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.”

-1 Corinthians 13:4