What to Say When Someone Dies
I never knew what to say when someone died.
I wanted to offer comfort, to rescue people from their grief. But all too often, I resorted to pre-packaged phrases like“My condolences,” or “I’m sorry for your loss.” While well-intentioned, these platitudes served only to ease my awkwardness — not provide genuine comfort. What they actually conveyed was “I see your pain, but I don’t know how to engage with it.”
My father passed away last November, and my mother followed nearly a year later, just two weeks ago.
In that time, I’ve developed immense empathy for anyone brave enough to speak to me about my loss. I can see the discomfort on their faces and hear it in their voices. It’s difficult, and I am truly grateful and touched that people want to say or do anything at all. Yet, I do often feel like I’m drowning in a sea of “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Each repetition, though well-meaning, feels like another wave crashing over me — kind, but ultimately hollow. Strangely, these words amplify my isolation, casting a stark light on the divide between my grief and the world that keeps moving forward as if nothing has changed.
But two conversations have changed everything, and I hope they can change things for you too.
The first was with my friend Gene. Instead of offering another “I’m so sorry,” he simply asked, “Tell me about the best memory you have of your parents.” Just like that, everything shifted. Suddenly, I wasn’t mired in sadness; I was remembering my dad’s ridiculous jokes, my mom’s uncanny ability to make everyone feel special. I was laughing. Breathing. In that moment, Gene transformed my grief into something more active: a celebration of life. He challenged me to smile, to recall joy amid the sorrow.
The second conversation came from my coworker Job. He didn’t offer condolences or platitudes. Instead, he extended an open-ended invitation: “If you ever want to tell me stories about your dad, I’d love to hear them.” It wasn’t a solution or a distraction — it was an offer to bear witness. Job created a space where my memories could live and my father could continue to exist.
What Gene and Job understood is that grief isn’t a problem to be solved. It isn’t something that disappears with the right phrase or the perfect bouquet. It’s an ongoing experience that requires witnesses, not rescuers.
When Gene asked about my best memory, he gave me a gift. Without saying it outright, he reminded me that my parents were so much more than their final moments. Their lives were full — complicated, rich, beautiful.
When Job offered to listen to stories about my dad, he showed me that my father mattered — not just to me, but to others too. He made me feel like my dad was so remarkable that even those who had never met him want to know him. It wasn’t just my loss — the world had lost something too.
In our discomfort with death, we often try to move past it quickly. But those who are grieving often need the opposite. We want our loved ones to be remembered, to be talked about, to continue existing in the world’s collective memory.
What truly helps in moments of loss isn’t sympathy — it’s invitation. Invitation to share memories. Invitation to speak about the person who died. Invitation to keep them alive through stories.
So to those standing beside someone in grief, remember this: Your role isn’t to fix their pain. It’s to show up, to listen, to remember with them. Resist the urge to fill the silence with a platitude. Instead, open a door. Sometimes, all it takes is a question: “What’s your favorite memory of them?” Sometimes, all it takes is permission: “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
When someone is grieving, you don’t need to exhaust yourself trying to find the perfect words — but you do need to muster the courage to sit with them in their pain and remind them that they’re not alone in carrying it.
