“I resonated deeply with this week’s story describing the loneliness of carrying a private, ‘shameful’ loss”
As someone who has experienced multiple bouts of what is often called “disenfranchised grief,” I resonated deeply with this week’s story describing the loneliness of carrying a private, “shameful” loss. Sometimes when we show up to support someone whose grief is publicly recognized, a complicated feeling appears alongside empathy. We’re genuinely glad they are surrounded by community support, yet quietly aware of how badly we once needed those same hugs, meals, and words. Seeing the contrast can be heartbreaking.
Some grief comes with communal structure. Other grief is harder to explain and comes with stigma and judgment that isn’t worth the cost of opening up.
Over time, I’ve learned that the words we offer others in a shivah house must sometimes be given to ourselves. When no framework exists, we have to create one. Hidden grief may mean buying takeout, lowering expectations, and giving ourselves permission to land softly while we process. It means sitting with our pain and validating that it is real, even without public acknowledgment.
After leaving a friend’s shivah one day, I found myself reflecting on the words we say to mourners: Hamakom yenachem eschem. We don’t say, “I comfort you,” but “May Hashem comfort you.” Human beings can’t always reach the places where certain pain lives. In every shivah room there may be dozens of hidden mourners alongside the avel on the low chair, people carrying losses that are too complicated or too sensitive to share so publicly. It’s painful when some grief never receives a public shivah. Yet Hashem is always Menachem Avel, even for quiet and unconventional pain.
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