The paradoxical suffering in vicarious grief

What happens when the suffering’s not yours but it’s another’s you care about and love?  Very much a parent’s and a grandparent’s domain when a child or a grandchild is suffering and there’s little relief we can bring.

There’s also a vicarious grief that children suffer when their parents are suffering or when they can’t make sense of suffering—when it’s impossible for adults to make meaning of suffering, how much harder is it for children?

Then there’s the guilt the grieving suffer for what others are vicariously suffering.

As such, we don’t suffer the same when a little removed from the loss, but it is a vicarious form of pain, and it can feel less resolvable.

It doesn’t take much as a person in that position of bearing vicarious grief to imagine the worst occurring in our loved one’s life and then to live out of that anxious place.

I’ve been there so many times, yet I’ve also noted others in my life bear that place for me—my parents when my first marriage failed, and both my wife’s parents and mine, and my growing/grown children, when Sarah and I lost Nathanael.

We are all bearing a fair amount of vicarious suffering at present for the people of Ukraine, as we watch and witness families being torn apart, civilian losses, environmental catastrophes, and beautiful cities being destroyed by war.

Vicarious grief by its very nature has even less control over loss than the people bearing the losses directly (which is often zero control).  Though the pain may not be as raw, there’s a real sense of helplessness about the second-hand grief of grieving for the one who’s grieving.

Whilst it may not be crushing in and of itself, it can certainly be debilitating as our minds are consumed for the ones whose lives are strewn and vanquished.

Our burden is to do all we can, even if we think that what we can do isn’t enough.  It is.  It is enough.  We can know that we’re doing our best.

Our best is good enough because it’s all we can give.  It has to be good enough.  And it is.

There is comfort in the concept that at least our loved ones who are bearing the direct brunt of grief have us, they have our support, our love, our prayers, and concern, even if we privately wonder if we’ve got the energy to sustain it.

Vicarious grief, in being one step further removed, helps us through perspective.  We may feel like we’ve got nothing to say, nothing to add, nothing to contribute, but at least we’re there for when we’re truly needed.

I recall two salient moments when I was contemplating the end, not knowing how I could go on, and on both occasions, God used my parents to save me.  On both occasions, the turnaround was stark; from the depths I reached and received a love that both times proved instrumental for hope.

They might say, “We don’t know what we said that made such a difference,” but the point is it’s not really always about the words.  It’s about the presence of loving support.

If you’re in that situation now, fretting for someone in particular, a family, a country, or the terrifying realities that are playing out in your life and time, give yourself space to know that you’re not alone.  Between the pandemic, thought of wars, natural disasters, etc, the people of the world already have a higher ambient level of stress.

Loneliness and mental health concerns abound, and while that’s not good, what is encouraging is we’re not alone.  Like always, we’ll get through it, and best when we get through it together.

It can be a real gift, even in our overwhelm, to covet empathy for others.

Vicarious grief is of itself a trauma of its own and it deserves to be validated as real and necessary of its own support.

If you’re in that season of life, my prayer for you is that you’d have that support available to you and that you’d reach out and receive it.  It’s not a weakness to reach out for support, it actually takes vulnerability and trust, and those are strengths.