On Grieving

June 10, 2026

James Thomson, an 18^th century poet wrote, “One timely deed is worth ten thousand words.” I am reminded of this, especially when someone has experienced loss. When others are grieving, humanity’s universal response is to quickly fix…solve…heal…stop the pain. The search for words for the grieving is not new, even to the seasoned therapist. And. Although, everyone grieves differently…we hope…we pray…for the perfect response that will apply to all individuals. When words fail our hearts pause, our heads hang low…and our search for just the right offering continues.

Today I thought about the people who have experienced loss, that I’ve been privileged to sit with, be they clients or friends. Were words spoken that brought some sort of comfort or relief? I cannot recall, and I doubt that any phrase would truly be powerful enough to console such profound pain.  

Of course, time has its role in managing and subduing grief, and however true, this knowledge offers no relief for the here and now.

Reflecting on my own seasons of grief, there are no “right words” that carried me through, or that I can remember now. What is clear in my memory, are my family…my friends…who were with me during that time. I couldn’t have made it without them.

Perhaps the perfect response is not conveyed through words. Our urge to quickly bind the wound, and our mission to stop the pain may, in fact, impede the recovery process.

Instead, let us consider a deeper understanding and meaning of how we term response. When “one timely deed is worth ten thousand words” - what might that look like? Perhaps it's mowing a yard, bringing over sandwich fixings and milk, paying the electric bill, or taking kids to and from school.

While your therapist can’t do these things for you, our best response to the grieving often includes the absence of words and the presence of a different kind of deed. Deed is witnessed through observing, listening, and the compassionate holding of another’s story. Anyone can do this for another. When words are not easily found, presence is comfort. It’s not flashy, nor busy, nor loud. It’s not dependent on skill or training. It does require the willingness to sit with and even share in someone else’s pain, to be human together.

Presence, coupled with time, are two quiet and free constructs, that indeed provide a salve when words simply cannot, and perhaps, should not.

Brooke Cooper, PhD, LCPC, NCC