When Words Won’t Come: On Grief and Storytelling

For better or (and) for worse, I am rarely at a loss for words. My colleagues and the people in my personal life know that if there is something hard to be said, I’m usually the one to do it in the moment. Once the crisis has passed and they have taken over the conversation, I’ll take my turn at being quiet.

Not now.

My mom died peacefully in her sleep on April 28th. Her passing came during a rare moment of reprieve from the intense pain that managed to outpace her medications so many times. Her insistence on doing things her way could no longer defy her medical team’s predictions that the end was nearing. My family and I told her we loved her and to let go when she was ready to begin her next adventure. True to form, I did most of the talking.

And I kept talking for the first two days, sharing the news, making arrangements, reminiscing, caring for others, journaling. That’s how I go through a major life event: an abundance of words.

Suddenly Silent

But in the days since the initial outpouring of language, I’ve noticed a strange phenomenon. Words won’t come.

I find myself silent (which isn’t uncommon for me, either, but rarely lasts this long in the comfort of my home). My journal remains closed. No new notes on my phone. Not even a sticky note.

When I contemplate talking to people, replying to texts, or writing in my journal, I feel a clear energy inside telling me: No words. Stay silent. It is visceral communication, and I have no trouble recognizing its message.

I’ve learned to honor that inner welling over the years, to trust that the non-intellectual parts of myself have wisdom to share whenever I’m willing get out of my brain and pay attention.

And so, I’ve stayed silent. I’ve refrained from interrogating why the words won’t come. I’ve noticed how solid and grounded my body has felt when I accept and embrace this silence.

This disconnect from language? This is a new way of grieving, unlike anything I’ve experienced in my many wanderings through this territory.

Grieving When Words Won’t Come

Instead of writing, I sorted through old photos and pulled aside those that tell tales about who my mom was. I played the Pete Fountain and Benny Goodman albums that formed the background music of my childhood.

I researched what kinds of flowers I might plant in my yard in honor of her, looking for hearty varieties since I will never have her dedication to gardening. I replicated my mom’s routine of nursing a cup of black coffee through the morning news and quickly recalled why I don’t start my day with the news.

But definitely with black coffee.

And yes, as you can see, the words are coming back to me. I knew they would.

Storytelling and Grief

At my core, I am a storyteller. A historian of everyday people. Words possess magic, and that magic is my home. I could never get lost for long when there are more stories to tell.

Grief is a story we are constantly writing.

We write the story of our grief with the salt of our tears, the tumult of emotions and the absence of feelings that strike with equal force.

Our grief story is born through the emptiness in our chests, the heaviness of our limbs, the aching loneliness that companions us through sleepless nights. It grows through heavy embraces and shared anecdotes.

The story of our grief blossoms in the furtive laughter that emerges to cut the tension, inevitably drawing disapproving looks from those who aren’t ready to write that chapter.

And yes, grief is a story we write with words.

Telling Your Grief Story, Your Way, Is Essential

My mom was an intensely private woman. I’ve already broken about a thousand family rules by sharing this much of her story and my own. But I have no regrets. I was always the family rebel.

A storyteller presumes an audience. Stories are meant to be shared. Grief stories are no exception.

If you are grieving, no matter what the timeline or nature of your loss, I hope you find ways to craft your story and share it with a receptive audience. You deserve to be part of that most human ritual of sharing stories. There are so many online grief communities if you, like many people, are struggling to find a safe place for your grief.

If your grief feels too intense to bear, reach out to a mental health emergency service near you to speak to someone who is trained to support people through a grief crisis. In the United States, you can call the 988 Lifeline for free, confidential, 24/7 support.

You might find some ideas to support you in my articles on grief and overwhelm and grieving complex losses during the pandemic, even though the subject of your grief stories may differ. I also have a workbook on grieving hidden losses that I’m making available for free in honor of my mom.

Just remember that I cannot tell you the right way to tell your grief story. No one can. There are an infinite number of ways to grieve, each reflecting the uniqueness of our losses and our lives. Trust yourself to grieve in the best way for you and ignore any suggestions or commentary that feels unhelpful or misguided.

Allow your grief process to be in alignment with the story you need to tell. That’s what I’ll be doing, too, with my black coffee in hand.