5 Reasons Why You Can’t Cry After a Loss—Even If You’re Sad

Grief can make reading hard. Want to listen to this article instead? Find its corresponding podcast episode here.

Tears aren’t the only sign of grief—but when they won’t come, it can feel like something is deeply wrong.

Many of my grieving clients and students worry when they can’t cry, and since you’re reading this, I imagine the same might be true for you too.

You might feel broken, detached, or even guilty. If you’re grieving a death-related loss or a breakup, you might start to wonder if you didn’t love your person enough. Or maybe you're afraid this means the loss hasn’t "hit you yet"—and when it does, it’ll be an onslaught of emotion you won’t survive.

But here’s the truth: Tears are just one expression of sadness—not the definition of it.

If you're not crying, it doesn’t mean you’re not grieving. It doesn’t mean you don’t care. And it absolutely doesn’t mean you’re doing grief wrong.

Here are five reasons why you might not be able to cry after a loss—even if you're heartbroken.

1. Crying Was Never Your “Grief Language”

Some people cry easily and often. For others, tears have never been part of their emotional toolkit.

It’s worth asking yourself: Do you have a history of crying when things feel hard? Has crying ever been a natural response for you to sadness, anger, longing, or overwhelm?

If not, it makes sense that tears wouldn’t be your first stop in grief either.

You may express grief in other powerful, cathartic ways:

• Screaming, shrieking, or punching a pillow

• Journaling or ranting out loud alone

• Listening to sad music or watching emotional movies

• Finding beauty in theater, poetry, or orchestral music

• Zoning out, going numb, or diving into productivity

• Creating something with your hands—art, crafts, spreadsheets, or cleaning

And perhaps you’re a person who only expresses big emotions under specific circumstances. For instance, a former coworker of mine used to cue her emotions by watching military reunion videos. Other grievers I’ve connected with cry only at live music shows—but never at funerals. I personally tend to take myself to a local pier and scream when the emotions of a loss well up inside me. It might sound unhinged to others, but it’s my body releasing the overwhelm.

It’s important to remember that crying is one of a thousand expressions of grief—not the proof of it.

Reflection question: Do I usually cry when life feels hard?

2. You’re Still in Shock or Numbness

Grief has layers—and often, shock comes first.

Whether your loss was sudden or expected, it can take time for the weight and permanence of it to fully land in your body.

The initial days, weeks, or even months after a death can feel oddly quiet or flat. You might feel like you’re watching your life from outside your body—going through motions but disconnected from your feelings. (More on that in my blog about why year two of grief can often feel harder than year one.)

You might not be crying because your nervous system still has you in lockdown.

Or, instead of sadness, you might feel rage, panic, confusion, exhaustion, or irritation. Quite a few of my students inside Life After Loss Academy report feeling angry and on-edge instead of sad—with their default being snippiness instead of, as one student put it, “lying in a puddle of tears on the floor.” Grief rarely moves in a straight line—and while the emotional response of crying might make logical sense to you, your grief may have other plans.

There is no correct timeline for when tears "should" arrive. There is only what’s happening in your body right now—and that deserves your trust, not your judgment.

Reflection question: Could I still be in shock from my loss?

3. You Don’t Feel Safe Enough to Cry

Here’s something we don’t talk about enough: Tears require safety.

Crying is vulnerable—especially in a society that perceives them as a sign of weakness, femininity, and an inability to “hold it together.” Tears a release that asks your body to soften—and if the world around you doesn’t feel safe, softening won’t happen.

Here’s a few examples of environments that may be blocking your tears:

• An unsupportive family or friend group where your grief is judged or minimized

• A workplace that expects you to “power through”

• A friendship that has change after loss and isn’t welcome of your grief

• A therapist or support group that doesn’t really feel aligned

• Global or political trauma that’s already pushed your nervous system to the edge

When there’s too much going on—too much pressure, too much pain, too much survival mode—your body won’t let you collapse into tears. It’s not a personal failure. It’s your body’s way of protecting you the best way it knows how.

I witnessed this big-time in 2020, when worldwide COVID shutdowns happened and I received a massive wave of new grief clients who told me, that because their lives had finally slowed down, they had time and space to grieve losses that happened years ago. Without the daily grind of commuting, running errands, attending work meetings, or going to social events they felt safe enough to allow their grief to surface. Of course, this wasn’t everyone’s experience of the pandemic, but it was true for many.

Tears may come when the world quiets down. Or when your body finally feels like it has the stability and security it needs to let go.

Reflection question: Do I feel safe enough to cry? If not, what might be in the way of my tears?

4. You’re Afraid the Tears Will Never Stop

This is one of the most common statements I hear from clients who aren’t crying: “I’m afraid that if I start crying, I won’t be able to stop.”

There’s something about the depths of grief that feels like a black hole. It’s easy to imagine that if you give in—even for a second—you’ll collapse into it and never see the light of day again.

But here’s the good news: Science says that’s not how tears work.

Studies show that most crying episodes last between 8 and 20 minutes before they naturally resolve. Even when you're crying hard, your nervous system is working behind the scenes the whole time to bring you back to a steady baseline.

When I was being trained as a Grief Recovery Specialist® (a grief method I no longer practice, which you can read more about here), the most helpful thing I learned from my instructor was that it’s physiologically impossible to cry forever. Just like a teapot runs out of steam to whistle, so do we humans. Any “extreme” output—such as crying or screaming—can only be sustained at that extreme ouput level for a few minutes.

Yes, you may cry again later. And you may cry again. And again. And again. But each new instance of tears has a peak and a release. Said another way: you won’t be stuck in the middle of a cry forever. It’s literally not possible!

My best friend Tami, who died from COVID in 2022, joked about crying hard: “You’ll either run out [of tears] or pass out [from lightheadedness]!” Basically, in some form or fashion, your body will bring your crying session to an end naturally.

Reflection question: Is my fear of crying forever stopping me from giving myself permission to cry?

5. You’re Telling Yourself That Crying = Caring

Somewhere along the line, we learned—or were taught—that “if you really cared, you’d be crying.”

But here’s the problem with that logic: it assumes that grief looks the same for everyone.

Imagine this: Someone plays a song at an event and people start dancing. You love the song and close your eyes to enjoy it. Maybe you sit down so the full awesomeness of it can wash over you. You’re feeling all kinds of emotions and really vibing in the moment.

Does your lack of dancing mean you don’t care about the song? Of course not.

Just like dancing, stillness, laughter, rage, silence, singing, drumming, clapping, and daydreaming are all valid ways to engage with music—grief, too, has infinite expressions.

Some people cry every day. Others haven’t shed a single tear and still ache with longing. Some laugh while telling stories about a loved one who died. Others can’t speak about them at all, but hold them in their hearts or display pictures of them in their homes. None of these expression of grief are wrong.

Tears do not equal proof of love or caring. Only you can decide what counts as “proof!”

Reflection question: Other than crying, what ways do I show that I care about my loss? What emotions, practices, rituals, or conversations do I have that show it matters to me—even if no one else is around to see them?

Closing Thoughts: Failing to Cry Does Not Mean Failing to Grieve

If you can’t cry—even if you’re devastated—know that you are not broken.

You are not heartless.

And you are not failing at grief.

You’re responding exactly how your body and your nervous system need to respond to your loss right now.

Tears may come later. Or they may not. Either way, they don’t define the depth of your love or the reality of your pain.

So the next time your inner critic says, “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you cry?” Try answering: “Tears or not, my grief still counts as grief. There are other ways I express my emotions, process my losses, and take care of my heart.”

Want support figuring out how you uniquely grieve?

Join my online course + community, Life After Loss Academy, where you’ll get access to on-demand video lessons and live weekly grief support from me. Some of my favorite lessons are about navigating sticky emotions like anger and guilt, developing personalized rituals based on your specific losses, and folding grief into your life in a way that makes the most sense for you.

You can learn more and read student testimonials here. Then join here when you’re ready.