The Art of Being Uncomfortable: Why We Try to Fix Grief

We live in a world that is constantly asking us to solve problems.

If something hurts, we look for a remedy.

If someone is sad, we search for the right words.

If life feels uncertain, we instinctively reach for certainty.

It’s how many of us have been taught to care for one another. We want to help. We want to ease suffering. We want to make things better.

But grief doesn’t work that way.

As an End-of-Life Doula and Grief Coach, I’ve had the privilege of sitting with people during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. I’ve learned that the moments people remember most are rarely about the “right” thing someone said. They’re about who stayed. Who listened. Who wasn’t afraid of their tears, their silence, or their pain.

Grief has a way of making us uncomfortable.

Not because we’re doing something wrong, but because grief asks us to face things we spend much of our lives trying to avoid: loss, uncertainty, change, and the reality that we don’t have control over everything.

That discomfort isn’t limited to the person who is grieving. It belongs to all of us.

We often feel pressure to say something profound when someone shares their heartbreak. We reach for phrases like, “Everything happens for a reason,” or, “They’re in a better place,” hoping they’ll bring comfort. These words usually come from a place of love. But sometimes, what the grieving person hears is that their pain needs to be softened or moved past.

The truth is, grief rarely asks us for answers.

It asks us for presence.

I’ve come to believe that one of the kindest things we can offer another person is our willingness to stay with them in their discomfort without trying to rescue them from it.

That can feel incredibly difficult.

Silence can feel awkward. Tears can make us feel helpless. We may worry that we’re saying the wrong thing or not doing enough. But what if “enough” isn’t about finding perfect words? What if it’s simply about being willing to sit beside someone and say, “I’m here.”

Presence is powerful.

It tells someone, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Over the years, grief has taught me something unexpected: the more I stopped trying to fix grief, the more I was able to truly witness it. And in witnessing it, I discovered that grief isn’t an enemy to be conquered. It is a reflection of love. It is evidence that someone mattered. That something meaningful existed.

This doesn’t make grief easy.

But it does make it human.

One of the greatest shifts in my own life happened when I stopped asking, “How do I get rid of this grief?” and started asking, “How do I walk alongside it?”

That question changed everything.

Rather than fighting every wave of sadness, I began to notice what my grief was asking of me. Sometimes it needed tears. Sometimes it needed quiet. Sometimes it needed me to tell a story, look at a photograph, or simply acknowledge that I was missing someone I loved.

The more familiar I became with my grief, the less frightening it felt when it returned.

It became less like an unexpected intruder and more like an old companion who visits from time to time to remind me of the depth of my love.

I don’t believe our goal is to become comfortable with losing the people we love.

I do believe we can become more comfortable with the discomfort that grief brings.

And perhaps that’s where healing begins.

Not when the pain disappears.

But when we stop believing it has to.

If you’re grieving today, I want you to know this:

You are not grieving wrong.

There is no timeline you have failed to meet.

There is no finish line you should have crossed by now.

There is only your relationship with your loss, unfolding one day at a time.

Be gentle with yourself.

Grief doesn’t need to be fixed.

It needs to be witnessed—including by you.