Gentle guides

No stages. No lectures. Just what helps.

Written by and for people carrying a loss. Read one, ignore the rest, come back when a different day arrives.

The first two weeks

Sleep, eat something, answer nobody you don't want to answer. Practical things that can wait, and the few that can't.

  • Let one trusted person handle calls and messages for you.
  • Keep a folder for paperwork; you don't have to open it today.
  • Eat small and often, even when nothing tastes like anything.
  • Say no without explaining. “Not right now” is a full sentence.

Going back to work

Grief doesn't stay home while you're at your desk. Ways to get through a shift without pretending you're fine.

  • Pick one colleague who knows, so you don't have to keep explaining.
  • Plan a five-minute escape: a car, a stairwell, a walk around the block.
  • Expect focus to come and go. Write things down more than usual.
  • Decide in advance what you'll say to “How are you?”

Holidays, birthdays and anniversaries

The dates that hit hardest are usually the ones on everyone else's calendar too.

  • Choose one tradition to keep and one to let go of this year.
  • Tell people your plan early so nobody has to guess.
  • Set the day up with an exit: your own car, a shorter visit.
  • Save the date in Dates That Matter so it doesn't arrive by surprise.

When the grief is old but still loud

Years later, a song in a grocery store can undo you. That's not going backwards.

  • Waves are normal. Frequency fades long before intensity does.
  • Name the trigger out loud; it gets smaller when it's named.
  • Tell someone who knew them. Shared memory carries weight better.

What to say to someone grieving

Share this one with the people who love you and don't know how to help.

  • Say their person's name. It's not a reminder — they never forgot.
  • Skip “at least…” and “everything happens for a reason.”
  • Offer something specific: Tuesday dinner, a ride, the laundry.
  • Keep showing up in month three, month six, month twelve.

Grounding for a hard hour

For the moments when it comes on suddenly and you need your feet back.

  • Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for six. Ten rounds.
  • Name five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear.
  • Cold water on your wrists and the back of your neck.
  • Then log a check-in — heavy days deserve to be recorded, not hidden.

You don't have to read alone

Someone in a circle is having the same kind of day. Say it out loud there, or ask for one person who understands.