“Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” – Colossians 4:6 (NIV)

And honestly? That’s their problem, not yours.

You know that moment when someone asks how you’re doing, and for once, you decide to tell the truth?

“I’m struggling today. Some days are just really hard.”

Cue the deer-in-headlights look. The uncomfortable shifting. The sudden fascination with their phone screen or the ceiling tiles or literally anything that isn’t your face.

You can practically see their brain scrambling for the right response — the one that will make this awkward moment go away and restore the comfortable fiction that you’re “doing better” now.

What comes out instead is usually some variation of the greatest hits of grief platitudes:

“Everything happens for a reason.”
“At least he’s not suffering anymore.”
“God must have needed another angel.”
“You’re still young — you’ll find love again.”
“He wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
And there you are, standing in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a normal conversation, wondering if you should apologize for having feelings in public.

Here’s what’s actually happening in these moments:
You just made someone confront the reality that bad things happen to good people, that life is fragile and unpredictable, and that all their comfortable assumptions about how the world works might be complete bullsmoosh.

And instead of sitting with that discomfort — their discomfort — they’re trying to fix you so they can feel better.

They’re not offering comfort.
They’re offering damage control.
For their own emotional well-being.

Let me be crystal clear about something: when people say stupid things to grieving people, it’s not because they’re bad people.
It’s because they’re terrified people.

They’re terrified that what happened to you could happen to them.
They’re terrified that love doesn’t actually conquer all.
They’re terrified that sometimes there is no reason, no silver lining, no greater plan — just loss and pain and the brutal randomness of being human.

So they say things that make them feel better.
Things that restore their sense of order and control.
Things that put your pain back in a box where it can’t threaten their worldview.

And you?
You’re left holding the emotional bag, wondering if you’re “too much” or “bringing people down” or somehow failing at being a socially acceptable grieving person.

Not today, Satan. Squelch that noise.

Your grief is not a customer service problem that needs to be resolved with the right combination of platitudes and positive thinking.

Your pain is not a puzzle that other people get to solve with their wisdom about God’s plan or the healing power of time or whatever self-help book they skimmed last month.

Your honest answer to “How are you doing?” is not a burden you’re placing on innocent bystanders.

It’s just truth.
Raw. Uncomfortable. Inconvenient truth.

And if truth makes people squirm?
That says everything about them and nothing about you.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me during those early days when I was still trying to manage other people’s discomfort with my reality:

You don’t owe anyone a performance of healing.
You don’t have to smile and say “fine” when you’re not fine.
You don’t have to pretend you’re “moving forward” when you’re barely moving at all.
You don’t have to protect other people from the reality of what loss actually looks like.
You don’t have to make your grief digestible for people who can’t handle the full meal.

What you get to do is tell the truth.
Even when it’s messy.
Even when it makes people uncomfortable.
Even when they don’t know what to say in response.

Especially then.

Because here’s the thing about awkward silences:
They’re not your responsibility to fill.

If someone asks how you’re doing and then can’t handle your honest answer, that’s their emotional work to do — not yours.

You’ve already got enough on your plate without adding
“managing other people’s feelings about my feelings” to the list.

So the next time someone asks how you’re doing, try this revolutionary approach:

Tell them.

Don’t edit yourself for their comfort.
Don’t add disclaimers about how you know you should be grateful or doing better by now.

Just tell them where you are today, in this moment, without apology.

If they respond with “everything happens for a reason,” you have my full permission to look them dead in the eye and say:

“What reason would that be, exactly?”

If they say “he wouldn’t want you to be sad,” feel free to ask:

“How do you know what he would want? Did you ask him?”

If they suggest “God never gives us more than we can handle,” you’re welcome to point out that suicide hotlines exist for a reason.

Now, I’m not saying you have to be combative.
I’m saying you have the right to exist in your grief without cushioning it for other people’s benefit.

You have the right to take up space with your pain.
You have the right to honest conversations about hard things.
You have the right to expect better from the people in your life than recycled greeting card wisdom.

And if they can’t rise to meet you there?
If they can’t sit with you in the discomfort without trying to fix it or explain it away?

That tells you something valuable about who they are and what they’re capable of offering you right now.

It doesn’t make them terrible people.
But it doesn’t make their limitations your problem to solve either.

Your job is not to make grief comfortable for other people.
Your job is to live through it, honor it, and find your way back to something that feels like life again.

One honest conversation at a time.
Even if nobody knows what to say in response.

Especially then.

✨ Tired of managing other people’s discomfort with your pain?

Ready to have honest conversations about hard things without apologizing?
Let’s talk about how to exist authentically in a world that prefers its grief pre-packaged and easy to swallow.