Grief Outside the Container.

Artwork: Owen Gent

Redefining Strength, One Heaving Sob at a Time.

The next day came, and it felt absurd that the world kept turning.

I was wading through darkness, my gears switched to slow motion, mocked by the abrasive zoom of normal life.

My dad has just died.

I wanted to scream it. Tear my hair out. Pummel the floor. Be wild. I’d have done anything to press pause… to get someone’s attention.
Some said, “Sorry for your loss,” but others said nothing, somehow managing to ignore the snotty, swollen head that now sat where my own used to be. 

And that’s what pisses me off about Western grief.

The awkwardness of acknowledgement. The way people avoid your pain, in fear of having to observe it. Emotionally contained becomes the objective of the griever. You keep your breakdowns private, move on quickly, and avoid making others uncomfortable. “You’re so strong,” people say, in an attempt to complement.

The discomfort was palpable. The crossed street. The averted gaze. The awkward eyebrows. My pain was “too much,” so I began to shrink it in public spaces. 

Grief in the West is a sad story passed around by third or fourth parties, not something we’re used to witnessing raw and up close.

But living in Mparntwe / Alice Springs, there's a jarring contrast.

I’m far from an anthropologist, and I’m not attempting to position myself as an expert, but my observations of Indigenous expression of grief is that it feels like time bends to accommodate loss. Business-as-usual is paused. Rituals boldly acknowledge what has happened. Wailing puts sound to the weight of it all. There is room for grief to move, to take up space, to be real. It's moving and not at all ambiguous.

Unsurprisingly, the best advice I received came from an Aboriginal woman (and good friend). She told me, simply:
Yell. Scream. Don’t hold back.

That advice cut through years of programming.

Because my dad, a proper British man,  spent his life working hard and not buckling. Stoic. Determined. Never one to make a fuss. His voice often played in my mind when I wanted to call in sick with a hangover: Get on with it. I used to credit my work ethic to him. But when his mental health killed him, I could no longer ignore the cracks in that version of “strength.”

Strong is used as a euphemism for stoic.
But what it really means is: Kindly detach from your emotions.
It means: Return to normal as quickly as possible.
It means: Don't make anyone uncomfortable.

Even the phrase “sorry for your loss” has become a socially acceptable placeholder for real emotional witnessing, a tidy nod to collective comfort at the expense of the griever's healing.

Ironically, the original philosophy of Stoicism has been warped. True Stoicism wasn’t about ignoring emotion- it was about understanding it deeply. Observing it with clarity and perspective. From that awareness, one might choose a response, not repression.

And while I’m at it, this isn’t the first time I’ve questioned our ideas around strength and weaknesses.
I’ve spent the last decade in and around pregnancy, birth, and motherhood, and I’m endlessly in awe of the resilience and adaptability of women. Does not compute with throwing around “pus*y” as a term for weakness.

Artwork: Owen Gent

My interpretation of strength now is completely entwined with vulnerability and resilience.
The willingness to be undone. To cry. To feel the weight of fucking everything.

And of course I wonder, if my dad had been able to explore his vulnerability might he still be here?

Despite the ‘what ifs’ and the crushing pain of missing my Pa, I love my grief. I relish it, I’ve never seen it as a weakness.
It’s a gift to acknowledge the goliath impact of his absence, and a gift to unpick and restructure my understanding through the lens of his experience.

Grief rolls around the house in stories, jokes, dinners at the table and bizarre little sayings. There’s no shying away of tears, and the kids can ask whatever questions that come up. Some are beautiful and reflective and some are jolting- Over the weekend I was woken up at 6am to ask what had happened to his heart… where is it? specifically.
I’m proud that my kids have a meaningful connection with their grandad, especially my youngest who was just six weeks old when he died, never met him. She tells me she misses him, and I believe her. Her age will always represent the time with grief but it doesn't feel like a closure, it's a bond continued.

Whats Helped Me Stay With Grief:

• Rejecting the social politeness I had no control anyway, so why fight it?

• Journaling A space for messy thoughts and word vomit. Sometimes prompts can help

• Leaning into little reminders Talking, sharing if that feels right. Nothing is insignificant.

• Do what feels good, theres no need to rush the process or try and meet anyone else’s timeline

How To Support Someone Else’s Grief?

• Follow their cues grief is deeply personal and intimate. Maybe they don’t want to explore at all, don’t force it.

• Be curious ask them questions about the person. What did they teach you? indirectly or directly? What will remind you of them?

• Be a witness not a fixer