We Bury the Dead, But We Also Bury the Grief.

It’s funny, not “ha ha” funny, but strange how death makes us hurry. One moment, a heart stops. The next, phones are ringing, caskets are ordered, and graves are dug. Programs are printed, flowers arranged, and before the week ends, the earth has swallowed another life. We dress in black, shed a few tears, say a few prayers and then, almost immediately, life tells us to carry on.

The closest I have ever been to that kind of stillness was not death itself, but a fainting spell after donating blood. I remember that moment vividly: I could hear people moving around me, their voices urgent, their steps quick, but I was trapped in stillness. My mind was awake, my body refused to listen. I wanted to open my eyes, to speak, to let them know I was still there but I couldn’t. It was a brief, fragile taste of helplessness.

And that is what grief often feels like. Not for the one who is gone, but for those left behind. A kind of suspended helplessness. Yet our society doesn’t give that helplessness any room to breathe. We rush it. We wrap it in: “Be strong.” “Don’t cry too much.” “Time heals.” But time doesn’t always heal. Sometimes it just buries what was never truly faced.

Funerals themselves often feel like races, a checklist to complete: wash the body, find the cloth, write the tribute, dig the grave, throw the sand, shake the hands, share the food. And then, as if grief runs on a stopwatch, the world moves on. Work resumes, friends stop checking in, the condolences thin out. But for the ones left behind, the silence only begins when everyone else has left.

Why are we so uncomfortable with mourning? Why do we treat grief as a phase to “get over,” instead of a journey to live through? Maybe because grief reminds us that we are not in control. Not of life, not of death, and certainly not of how long the ache lasts.

What would it look like if we did it differently? If funerals were not just events but spaces. Spaces to fall apart, to remember, to pause life for a moment without guilt. If workplaces offered real time, not token leave. If friends checked in a month later, not just the first week. If we stopped pretending that moving on quickly means moving on well.

Death will always come. We cannot change that. But how we honour the living who remain, that is still up to us. Grief is not weakness. It is proof that love existed, and where love has lived, a little time, a little space, and a little kindness should not be too much to give.