The Elephant in the Room: Why We Don't Talk About Grief (And What It Costs Us)

There's an elephant in the room.

Everyone can see it.

But no one wants to talk about it.

It's massive. It takes up space. It shifts the air, changes the energy, and makes everything feel heavier.

And yet, we pretend it's not there.

We smile.

We ask, "How are you?"

We wait for the scripted answer: "I'm fine."

We move on.

The elephant is grief.

And our collective silence around it is making us sick.

The Cultural Silence Around Grief

We live in a culture that doesn't know what to do with grief.

We're taught to hide it.

To "be strong."

To "move on."

To get back to normal as quickly as possible.

There are unspoken timelines for how long you're allowed to grieve.

A few weeks, maybe a month or two if the loss was significant.

Then people start getting uncomfortable.

"Aren't you feeling better yet?"

"It's been a while…"

"You need to start moving forward."

As if grief runs on a schedule.

As if loss has an expiration date.

As if you can just decide one day to stop missing someone, stop feeling the ache, stop carrying the weight of what's no longer here.

So we learn to perform.

We learn to say "I'm fine" even when we're breaking.

We learn to smile in public and save our tears for the shower.

We learn to make others comfortable by pretending the elephant isn't there.

When You're the One Carrying the Elephant

When you're the one grieving, you feel the elephant everywhere.

It follows you to work.

It sits with you at the dinner table.

It's there in the silence of your home, in the middle of conversations, in the spaces where joy used to live.

You can't unsee it.

You can't ignore it.

It's too big, too present, too real.

But everyone else?

They look right past it.

They change the subject when you mention your loss.

They offer platitude: "Everything happens for a reason." "They're in a better place." "Time heals all wounds."

They ask how you're doing but don't actually want the real answer.

Because the real answer is uncomfortable.

The real answer doesn't fit into polite conversation.

The real answer makes people squirm.

So, you stop sharing.

You stop being honest.

You carry the elephant alone.

And that—more than the grief itself—is what breaks you.

The Cost of Silence

When grief goes unspoken, it doesn't disappear.

It goes underground.

It settles into your body.

Into your nervous system.

Into the places where words can't reach.

Unspoken grief becomes:

Chronic tightness in your chest.

Shallow breathing you don't even notice anymore.

Exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix.

Anxiety that feels like it came out of nowhere.

Disconnection from yourself, from others, from life.

Numbness.

Because if you can't feel the grief, maybe you won't feel anything at all.

The body keeps the score.

And when we're not allowed to speak our pain, our bodies carry it for us.

This is the cost of the silence.

Not just for the person grieving.

But for all of us.

Because we all carry loss.

We all know grief.

We've just been taught not to talk about it.

Why We Avoid Grief

So why don't we talk about it?

Why do we tiptoe around the elephant, pretend it's not there, change the subject when someone gets too real?

Fear.

Discomfort.

Not knowing what to say.

We're afraid that if we acknowledge someone's grief, we'll make it worse.

We're afraid we'll say the wrong thing.

We're afraid we'll open a door we don't know how to close.

And maybe—if we're honest—we're afraid of our own grief.

The losses we haven't processed.

The pain we've been avoiding.

The versions of ourselves we've buried.

When we see someone else's grief, it reminds us of our own.

And that's terrifying.

So, we look away.

We offer surface-level comfort.

We keep things light.

We pretend the elephant isn't there.

But here's the truth:

Avoiding grief doesn't protect anyone.

It isolates the person who's grieving.

And it keeps all of us disconnected from the very thing that makes us human—our capacity to feel, to love, to lose, and to heal.

What Changes When We Name It

Something shifts when we finally name the elephant.

When someone asks, "How are you?" and you tell the truth.

"I'm struggling."

"I'm not okay."

"I'm grieving, and it's really hard."

There's a moment—just a breath—where the air changes.

The performance drops.

The pretending stops.

And suddenly, you're in real conversation.

Not everyone can hold that space.

Some people will still look away, still change the subject, and still offer platitude.

But some won't.

Some will lean in.

Some will say, "Thank you for being honest."

Some will say, "Me too."

And in that moment, the isolation breaks.

Because grief, when named, becomes something we can hold together.

It's no longer just your elephant.

It's ours.

And that changes everything.

Breaking the Silence is an Act of Courage

It takes courage to name your grief.

To stop performing.

To let people see that you're not "over it" yet.

To refuse to make others comfortable at the expense of your own truth.

But when you do - when you break the silence - you're not just healing yourself.

You're creating permission for others.

Because every time someone speaks their grief out loud, it cracks open the collective silence just a little bit more.

It says: You don't have to pretend.

It says: Your pain is real, and it matters.

It says: There's space here for all of it—the heaviness, the ache, the nonlinear mess of healing.

This is what I mean when I say my healing is for the collective.

Not because I have it figured out.

But because I'm willing to name the elephant.

To talk about grief when it's uncomfortable.

To be honest about my process, even when it's messy.

And in doing that, I create a little more space for you to be honest too.

What Would Change If We Stopped Pretending?

Imagine a world where grief wasn't something we had to hide.

Where we didn't have to perform strength.

Where, "How are you?" was met with real answers, not scripted ones.

Where loss was acknowledged, not avoided.

Where we could say, "I'm grieving," and people would respond with presence, not platitude.

What would change?

We'd stop carrying so much alone.

We'd stop thinking something was wrong with us for still hurting.

We'd stop numbing, disconnecting, and pushing through.

We'd learn to be with our pain instead of running from it.

And in that being-with, we'd find something unexpected:

Community.

Connections.

The reminder that we're not broken.

We're just humans.

And grief is part of the human experience.

The Invitation

If you're reading this and you've been carrying an elephant, no one wants to acknowledge - this is your permission.

You don't have to pretend anymore.

You don't have to make others comfortable.

You don't have to say "I'm fine" when you're not.

Your grief is real.

Your pain matters.

And you deserve spaces where you can speak your truth without apologizing for it.

That's what I'm committed to creating spaces where the elephant is welcome.

Where grief doesn't have to be hidden.

Where healing doesn't have to look polished.

Where you can show up exactly as you are, in all your messy, nonlinear, beautifully human grief.

Because the silence is costing us too much.

And the world needs more people willing to name what's true.

So let's talk about grief.

Let's stop pretending the elephant isn't there.

Let's hold space for each other's pain, and in doing so, create pathways for collective healing.

One honest conversation at a time.

Reflective Practice

Close your eyes. Place your hand on your heart.Whisper to yourself:

"I don't have to hide my grief. I choose to speak my truth. I am worthy of being seen in all that I carry."

And let that be enough.

Because the deepest healing begins when we stop pretending and start naming what's real. And it may just be one of the bravest steps you take through and Beyond Grief.

If these words speak to your heart, know you are not alone. Through and beyond is the space I've created for those walking with loss, healing, and transformation. Through my book, sound healing journeys, and grief companionship, I offer tools and practices to help you soften, breathe, and begin again. The journey inward is not easy, it is sacred, and we don't have to walk it alone.

Together we RISE in VIBRATION. 

One Sound, One Breath at a time. 

The FREQUENCY is LOVE. 💚

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