Grief carries a weight that changes everything. For me, it’s the loss of my son Caleb to suicide, the two babies we never held, and the other calamities that have left their mark on my life. When I mention Caleb to someone I haven’t seen in a while, their face often shifts to unease, as if I’ve unveiled an elephant in the room that they’d rather not see. They search for words or look away, unsure how to respond to a pain so raw.
I’ve grown used to the silence that follows. If I say Caleb’s name in a crowded room, the conversation falters. If I share a light memory, perhaps how his quirky humor could light up a moment, people stiffen, as if my grief is too much to bear. They try to sidestep it, to pretend the elephant isn’t there. But for me, ignoring it is impossible. Caleb is my son. His laughter, his struggles, his life are woven into my heart. The same is true for our lost babies, whose brief existence left an ache I carry always. To stop speaking their names would be to deny their place in my story, to erase a love that still burns brightly.
It hurts when people who claim to care pull away at the mention of Caleb. Even when I share a joyful memory, like his knack for making me laugh with a silly joke, I feel their retreat. I give them space, stepping back from their lives to spare us both the discomfort. Yet, I wonder if they see what their distance does, how it feels like abandonment. I’m not asking them to heal my pain, only to sit with it, to listen, to let Caleb’s name live in the conversation.
I think of shows like Hoarders and My 600-lb Life, where suppressed grief festers until it overwhelms. That’s not a path I can take. Holding in my love for Caleb or my sorrow for our losses would suffocate me. Instead, I choose to speak, to let my grief breathe, even as I wrestle with God over the why of it all. Doubt creeps in, but so does a quiet hope that God is still writing a story through this pain.
I learned something remarkable about elephants. Beyond their size, they are tender and fiercely loyal. When one of their herd dies, they linger, gently touching the bones as if to honor the life lost. My grief is like that elephant: a heavy presence, but also a testament to love, carrying Caleb’s memory in every step. Perhaps I’m a bit like that elephant too, guarding his story with a heart that refuses to let go.
To those of you carrying your own elephant, perhaps the weight of a loved one lost to suicide or another tragedy, I see you. Your pain and your love are real, and you don’t have to hide them to make others comfortable. Keep speaking their names. To those who pull away when I mention Caleb, I ask you to see the cost of your silence. I don’t need you to fix my grief. Just ask about him, share a memory, or listen. That’s how you acknowledge the elephant, how you show me I’m not alone.
In my faith, I grapple with God, asking hard questions about all we’ve endured. Yet, I hold on to the truth that love endures beyond death. Caleb’s life, his humor, his spirit remain part of me. The elephant in the room is not just my grief; it’s my love, my story, my son. If you carry an elephant too, let’s sit together, share our stories, and give voice to those we’ve lost. Perhaps then others will find the courage to see the elephant and embrace it.
This is eloquently expressed and so true! I lost my daughter, last brother and husband within 4 years starting in 2011 to 2015. I also lost two younger brothers from suicide when they were 28 and 33 in the early 80’s. I am 81 now and it’s been 10 years since my beloved husband John died. I talk about him all the time still. But those first years after the 3 losses were hard to endure because it scares people. They think your sorrow and loss is catchy, or that you will fall apart if they talk about your lost loved one. Thank you for writing this.
Thanks Tomi for your encouraging words! Some do think it is catchy! Some kids in the neighborhood who used to play with my (then 10 years old) daughter were told by their parent they could not play here any more because her brother died by suicide.
Thank you, David, for continuing to express how grief works and looks for you. I saw something recently regarding grief, “It [grief] needs community. It needs kindness.” You have always been an advocate for people to have an understanding of what happens in the lives of those who lose a cherished loved one too soon. Your love for Caleb is so BIG and beautiful. Thank you for always sharing it!
Thanks Jamie! As we’ve mentioned to you and Will before, we had close people stop interacting with us because we talk about Caleb. You’re right that grief needs community and kindness. It must be witnessed. I co-facilitate in-person and online groups to give space for that community. The nay-sayers try to shut me down but encouragement from people in the suicide loss community and advocates like you keep me going. Love you!