3 Painful Beliefs Grieving People Carry—And How You Can Support Them Through Loss
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Grief is not just about what happened. It’s about what we believe it means for our lives.
In the wake of a devastating loss—whether a death, a divorce, a diagnosis, or another major life event—grievers are not only navigating emotional pain; they’re also confronting a series of internal stories. And those stories can be relentless.
If you’re someone who wants to support a grieving friend, partner, client, or family member, understanding what your griever believes about themselves, their pain, and their future can radically shift how you show up for them. Because beneath every heavy silence, tearful confession, angry rant, or statement of “I’m fine” lies something deeper: a story they’re telling themselves about what this loss has done to them—and who they are now because of it.
Over the last nine years of coaching people through life after loss, I’ve discovered that nearly every grieving person is carrying one (or more) of these three painful beliefs:
“I’m crazy.”
“I’m alone.”
“My life will be like this forever.”
These stories aren’t obvious on the surface. You probably won’t hear them word-for-word from your griever’s mouth. But if you listen closely, you’ll hear their echoes in nearly every conversation about their loss.
Understanding these stories is one of the most powerful ways to offer meaningful, grounded, and effective comfort to the grieving people in your life.
Let’s unpack each belief—where it comes from, why it shows up, and how you can show up in response.
Belief #1: “I’m Crazy”
This story sounds like:
“I should be over this by now.”
“Why am I still crying?”
“Something must be wrong with me.”
“Other people don’t feel this way.”
“I feel like I’m not getting grief right.”
After a major loss, life is no longer familiar. Grieving people report things like erratic sleep, forgetfulness, spontaneous crying, total numbness, a failure to focus, social anxiety, motivation gone missing, and a distinct lack of joy or interest in things that used to feel happy or fun. One of my clients once said, “I don’t recognize myself anymore.” And many grievers say at some point, they start to wonder: What is wrong with me?
Your grieving friend’s story of “I’m crazy” is born from a societal lie that grief has a fixed timeline—and that it should look neat, linear, sense-making, or productive. We live in a culture that rewards stability and punishes emotional messiness and uncertainty. So when grief breaks those rules, grieving people assume they—not the society they live in—must be defective in some critical way.
In my book Of Course I’m Here Right Now, where I go into detail about the three stories, I write:
“These stories are running on repeat inside of a grieving person’s mind, torturing them endlessly with the lies that loss has somehow made them abnormal, not fit to belong, and permanently broken.”
Well-meaning supporters often try to reassure grievers with the statement, “You’re not crazy!” But here’s the thing: those words clash with the story already rooted in a griever’s mind. And when you challenge that story too directly, it rarely sticks. It slides off, like eggs off a Teflon pan.
The alternative? Validation without contradiction. Instead of trying to talk your grieving person out of their feelings, try reflecting them gently:
“Of course this is hard.”
“It makes sense that you’re feeling this way.”
“Sounds pretty normal to me.”
These small phrases affirm the reality of grief without requiring your griever to explain, defend, or even erase their pain. It gives them permission to feel exactly what they’re feeling. And that is a profound way to comfort them.
Belief #2: “I’m Alone”
This story sounds like:
“No one gets it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Everyone’s moved on without me.”
“I don’t belong anywhere now.”
“Nobody remembers I’m grieving.”
Your grieving friend’s story of “I’m alone” is constructed from tons of tiny interactions—forgotten grief anniversaries, someone changing the subject once the loss is mentioned, being told they need to “get over it”—that reinforce the narrative that they need to deal with their loss alone.
In Of Course I’m Here Right Now, I describe these moments as micro-traumas:
“Teeny tiny emotional wounds add up. Subtly hurtful experiences accumulate over time and can eventually change the way we see ourselves as humans, measure how safe we are in the world, and connect to our sense of well-being.”
On top of that, being met with toxic positivity such as “At least he’s in a better place!” or shallow distractions like “Let’s get you out of the house!” reinforces the idea that no one can hold the real truth of your griever’s experience. It teaches them to pull back. To stay quiet. To self-protect.
After my mom died in 2013, I absolutely told myself the story “I’m alone.” People around me said things like, “Be grateful you got 21 years with her!” and “You can’t grieve forever!”
I write in the book:
“I was convinced that I would feel precisely this way forever-and-ever-for-the-rest-of-all-time-amen. I could see no way out, and there seemed to be no one who understood me in my grief.”
When you try to fix, cheer up, or reframe grief, you risk pushing your grieving friend further into isolation. But when you simply stay by their side in the awfulness of loss, you interrupt the story of “I’m alone.”
Instead, try saying: “I’m here.” This could sound like:
“I haven’t forgotten that you’re grieving [insert loss i.e. your mom, your marriage, your cancer diagnosis].”
“You’ve lost so much. You will not lose me.”
“I’ll keep checking in with you. No need to reply.”
These phrases are a gift to grievers who feel alone, because they’re reminders that someone else out there—you—care about the fact that they’re grieving. They don’t erase the darkness of loss, but they do offer a second light inside of it. And when you’re supporting someone grieving, that tiny, glowing presence is evidence they don’t have to go it alone.
Belief #3: “My Life Will Be Like This Forever”
This story sounds like:
“I’ll never be happy again.”
“This is just how life is now.”
“I don’t have a purpose anymore.”
“I feel stuck.”
“What’s the point of anything?”
When grief storms through, the future vanishes, joy feels unattainable, and hope feels like something that died along with the loss. The life your grieving friend was building collapsed, and all that’s left is the wreckage.
In Of Course I’m Here Right Now, I describe it like this:
“In my mind’s eye, I picture a person whose gentle gold cords of connection have been severed, trailing in shreds and fragments around their body… The future looks grim, support has become difficult or impossible to access, and what was once solid is now just clouds of dust.”
Your griever’s story of “My life will be like this forever” is often born out of overwhelm, exhaustion, and the reality that some losses, like death, really are forever. But again, when supporters rush to contradict this pain—saying things like “You’ll find happiness again!” or “Time heals all wounds.”—it doesn’t bring comfort. It brings disconnection. It feels hollow and trite, like you’re serving positivity for dinner without noticing that your griever is already stuffed full of pain.
Why? Because grieving people aren’t living in “later.” They’re living in now.
That’s why the most healing thing you can say is: “Right now.” Consider grounding yourself and your grieving friend in the reality that this is one painful moment out of many of life’s moments by saying something like:
“Right now, this absolutely hurts.”
“In this season, I know it feels like you’ll never be happy again.”
“I can see how this feels like way too much right now.”
These phrases don’t necessarily agree with your griever’s despair and hopelessness. They just frame it through the soft lens of temporariness while acknowledging what’s happening in this moment. It’s contextualizing where they are today without demanding they paint everything with a coat of positivity.
Closing Thoughts: Why Understanding These Beliefs Matters
Grievers are not always aware they’re telling themselves these stories. But these three stories shape everything: how they talk about their loss, how they relate to others, and how they make meaning of their pain.
As someone supporting a griever, you won’t always be able to identify the belief right away. You won’t know what to say in every single moment. But if you’re present and if you’re listening for the stories under the surface, you’ll find your way.
By using the three phrases “Of course,” “I’m here,” and “right now,” you’ll strengthen your relationship with the grieving person in your life while also offering them comforting words that really help. Not platitudes or toxic positivity or clichés—but real, honest language that honors their grief, helps them feel seen and heard, and reminds them that they are not alone.
In Of Course I’m Here Right Now I write:
“That’s the paradox of comforting someone in grief: the more you try to lift them out of their pain, the more likely you are to make them feel misunderstood, unheard, or alone. Grievers don’t need you to counteract their reality; they need you to witness it.”
In witnessing your grieving friend’s reality, you offer them something much better than a cheesy sympathy card: your heart alongside theirs, through life’s hardships and struggles.
Want even more scripts and tools for supporting someone grieving?
In my book, Of Course I’m Here Right Now, I share how these three stories shape a grieving person’s inner world and offer tangible scripts and practices to help you as a supporter suss out the dominant story and offer meaningful comfort—without fixing them, minimizing their pain, or walking on verbal eggshells.
Inside, you’ll find a dedicated section called “Suss Out the Story” that teaches you how to notice the beliefs your grieving person is carrying and how to respond with language that heals instead of harms.
Grab a copy of the book now, and let’s help you become someone who knows how to hold space for grief—in all its complexity and truth.
