Recently, I found myself deeply moved while sitting with a family grieving their 98-year-old matriarch. As they shared their stories—some bringing laughter, others bringing tears—I saw in their faces a reflection of my own experiences with loss. I knew the rugged path of healing that lay ahead for them, and part of me wished I could fast-forward time—past the sting of fresh grief to a moment when memories bring more warmth than pain, when the smiles come just as freely, but the tears don’t cut as deep.
The room was filled with love, gratitude, and an undeniable sense of loss. Every lighthearted tale carried with it the unspoken weight of knowing that no new memories would be made. Their grief was palpable, their love profound. And as I listened, the emotions tugged at something deep within me—memories of my own goodbyes to the matriarch of my family nearly 15 years ago.
And there, amidst their collective remembrance and my own quiet reflections, I cried with them.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t forced. It was simply real.
In that moment, holding back felt wrong. Because grief is real. Love is real. And the impact of a life well lived—especially one that spanned nearly a century—is undeniable. She had lived a life of significance, one filled with laughter, love, and stories worth telling. A life worth grieving. A life worth celebrating.
The Fine Line Between Professionalism and Compassion
In deathcare, professionalism is often equated with composure. We are taught to be the steady hand, the calm presence, the guide through a family’s darkest hours. And while maintaining professionalism is crucial, we sometimes forget that it’s not about keeping an emotional distance. Families don’t need us to be unbreakable walls; they need to know we genuinely care.
This profession thrives on human connection. We do more than provide a service—we walk alongside people in their grief, helping them find peace in their decisions. And sometimes, the most powerful connection we can offer is to simply feel with them.
But there’s a difference between being moved by a family’s grief and being overcome by it.
Crying with a family is okay when it happens naturally, when it comes from a place of genuine empathy. It’s okay when it deepens the connection, when it affirms that their loved one’s life mattered beyond their own circle.
But it’s not okay when our own emotions overshadow theirs. When the focus shifts from their loss to our reaction. Families turn to us for support, not to feel like they need to comfort us. If our emotions become overwhelming, if we feel ourselves losing composure to the point where the family notices and shifts their attention to us—that’s a sign to step back, take a breath, and regain control.
Because while it’s okay to cry, it’s not about our grief. It’s about theirs.
Holding Space Without Taking Space
Finding the balance between professional composure and genuine compassion is key. We are not just service providers—we are witnesses to love, loss, and the legacies left behind. And sometimes, showing our humanity is the most professional thing we can do.
So yes, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to let families see that their loved one touched your heart. It’s okay to feel.
But always remember: We are there to support their grief, not to shift the weight onto them.
Have you ever found yourself navigating this balance? How did you handle it? I’d love to hear your thoughts and experiences.
