I knew for two years — from the moment I saw images from his colonoscopy scans — that my husband Rich was going to die. So 10 months after we buried him, it’s the silence that has surprised me more than the loss.

I expected the house to be quiet. I knew I would no longer hear him shuffle into the kitchen to make his tea in the morning, or keep me company with stories about the latest book he was reading. That silence, I had prepared for. The silence I didn’t expect was from other people.

I can count on two hands the number of phone calls I’ve received in the past year — roughly one a month. That level of loneliness is unbearable. To be fair, I’ve received hundreds of texts over the last 2 years and 10 months, from Rich’s initial diagnosis to his death. But when I receive a text message asking, “How are you?” I never know how to answer.

It is an impossible question when your person has died. How could I possibly express my broken heart and loneliness with my texting thumbs?

I regularly hear the ding of a text that says, “Thinking of you.” And then… nothing. No way to hear the care or concern in someone’s voice. No space to feel accompanied.

I try to respond politely: “Thank you, it’s been so hard.” Sometimes I send a heart emoji. Sometimes I send my favorite grief emoji: tears in the eyes.

Over time, I’ve realized that we have replaced the most human form of care — voice — with the safest and most distant one — text. And when someone is grieving, that shift matters more than we want to admit.

The problem with the “How are you?” text is this: What does the sender expect a grieving person to type back?

“I’m shattered.”
“I’m crying in the frozen pizza aisle.”
“I miss driving together, holding hands, and singing along to the Beatles station.”
“I eat 90% of my meals alone now.”

Instead, we default to performance:
“I’m hanging in there.”
“Doing OK, all things considered.”
“Taking it day by day.”

Texting offers no space for long pauses before the truth emerges. No way to hear when a voice cracks. No room for tears. No space for the sacred awkwardness that often precedes real connection.

Texting doesn’t just limit expression — it actively encourages emotional containment. And in grief, containment is the opposite of what heals.

Texting protects the sender, not the grieving. I say this with compassion, because I’ve been on both sides. But the uncomfortable truth is that the choice to send a text is often less about caring for the grieving person and more about managing the discomfort of the person who is reaching out. Sending a text message requires no vulnerability, no emotional risk.

To the grieving person, texting can send a message of: “I want to show I care. But I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing. I don’t know how to handle your pain. I don’t want to hear you cry.”

But grief doesn’t need perfection or protection. Grief needs presence. Grief needs to be witnessed.

There is something sacred about hearing someone’s voice. When someone calls after a loss, something different happens. You hear care and concern in their tone. You hear sincerity. You hear love. And they hear you. They hear when your voice trembles. They hear when you go quiet. They hear when the brave façade slips. They hear you mention your loved one’s name.

Even when we say, “I’m OK,” our voices tell the truth our words cannot. This allows for healing. Text allows for avoidance.

Boomers and Gen Xers remember a time when we picked up the phone. We sat on the couch with the cord stretched across the room, talking to people who mattered. Bad news traveled through our voices, not screens. Grief was met with conversation, not three dots and a heart emoji.

I’m not saying texting is bad. It’s just not enough. Not for grief.

If you care about someone who is grieving, just make the call. And not just once. Not only in the first few weeks. Grief lasts far longer than most people’s attention spans.

One of the most meaningful things my sister-in-law Ellen asks when she and my brother call is, “How are you doing right now — today?” Other questions you might ask include: “What’s been hardest this week?” Do you want to talk about him?” “Do you want distraction or company?” Let the grieving person lead.

People mean well, but some phrases unintentionally wound: “He’s in a better place.” “At least you had time to say goodbye.” “You’re so strong.”

When people tell me I’m strong, I feel pressure to perform strength instead of honesty.

• “This is unfair.”
• “I’m so sorry.”
• “I miss him too.”
• “I can’t imagine how hard this is.”
• “I’m not going anywhere.”
• “Tell me more about the time you and Rich…”
  

Early in grief, curiosity can feel like intrusion:

“What are you going to do with your finances or taxes?”
“Will you get a job, sell the house, move?”
“Did you get a mortgage or pay it off?”
“Do you think you’ll remarry someday?”

Be mindful of the difference between questions that open the door and questions that put one foot in the door when you haven’t been invited in.

Accept that discomfort is part of love. Calling someone who is grieving will feel awkward. You may sit in silence. You might hear tears and not know what to do. That discomfort is not failure. It is the cost of caring.

If someone is in your inner circle, call them. Keep calling or schedule a call. If someone is a close acquaintance, text — but consider leaving a voice message too. If the grieving person has ever shown you kindness, return that kindness during the worst season of their life. Let them hear your voice. Let them know they are not alone.

Most of us were never taught how to show up for grief. But we can choose differently. We can choose to call. We can choose to listen. We can choose to risk awkwardness.

Because years from now, the grieving person will not remember the texts. But they will remember who called. They will remember who showed up. They will remember who stayed. And sometimes, when we feel alone in our grief, the sound of another human being saying, “I’m here,” is the only thing that still connects our hearts.

Kim Brandt is a writer, yoga therapist and Pilates instructor whose work explores grief, healing and human connection. After losing her husband to colorectal cancer in April of 2025, she began writing about caregiving, love, and life after loss. She lives in Illinois, where she is building a wellness community focused on resilience and repurposing life’s transitions.

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