Why I Practice Saying My Son Died
Speaking plainly about grief can open the door to something deeper than small talk
This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
Grief never ends, but four years later, I’m learning to look forward more often than back.
In:
Empty nester grieving the loss of my youngest child.
Entering:
Still figuring it out, but I'm trying to cultivate fun and creativity.
I recently found myself a few steps beyond the crowd at a hotel ballroom reception, gingerly wading into conversation with a professional acquaintance I’d emailed countless times but barely knew in person. It was a business setting, an event designed to bring together people with common interests and backgrounds. As the evening went on, this acquaintance and I shared the basics: where we were from, how long we’d been with our companies, where we had attended college.
Then she asked the question. “You mentioned having daughters. Do you have any other children?”
Not so long ago, this simple question would have brought me to my knees. But that night, I remained upright. “Yes, I have two daughters in their twenties, and my son Charlie died a few years ago.”
Her response was soft, but unflinching. “I’m very sorry to hear that. May I ask how he died?”
Mind you, this woman is the epitome of Southern grace and professional decorum. I had not skirted or glossed over the truth of my loss, so this follow-up question was completely within bounds. Plus, I respect the courage required to continue this particular kind of conversation, even for the most adept conversationalists.
Since my son died, I’ve learned that talking about grief is a skill, and it’s one I have to continuously work on.
“The summer before his senior year of college, my son killed himself,” I said. There. Done. Out with it. Into the air and off my chest.
Then she shared that her brother had died of an overdose.
“Oh, kissing cousins, those two, suicide and overdose. You and I have this awful thing in common,” I said.
From there, the discussion bloomed. We shared worries and harsh realities about life and family, saying aloud what was truly on our minds. In other words, we stopped making polite conversation about trivial matters like traffic or the view from the hotel ballroom. We agreed to meet for lunch soon. And just like that, an acquaintance drifted into friend territory.
Don’t get me wrong, small talk is important. It’s an essential social lubricant for establishing connections and building rapport. And sometimes, I lack the stamina or steadiness to speak openly about my loss. Or I sense that the person I’m speaking with may not be able to handle my reality. In those moments, it’s a blessing to stick to the weather and the latest sports news.
Still, grief is a mute participant in every conversation I have, and it’s taken practice to learn how to bring it into the room. I trained myself to speak about it, standing in the mirror and saying, “My son died.” “I lost my son.” “I have three children, but one died.” Charlie’s death is the most defining fact of my life, yet getting those words out of my mouth is not easy.
I’ve found that when I say the hard words, other people do too.
I took the first step toward practicing this approach several months after Charlie died. Unsuspecting repairmen and contractors became my practice dummies. Little did they know that when they accepted a service call to the Stephenson residence, they were walking into my personal scrimmage as I tried to build the strength to reenter the world.
First up was a gentleman who’d come to repair our fence. After the typical greeting and confirmation of the job scope, I took a practice swing. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I cry a lot. I lost my son. That’s why I break into tears in the middle of discussing gate hinges. It’s not you.”
Predictable pauses and weight shifting ensued. He then pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed the corner of his eye, and said, “I know how you feel. I lost my son too. It was a long time ago. But I know how you feel.”
A few weeks later, I tried again with the HVAC engineer. He acknowledged my statement with a quiet nod before turning to a problematic thermostat. I retreated to the living room to read. Several minutes later, I looked up to see him in the doorway. “Thank you for saying something. I lost my wife. I don’t know why people don’t talk about this stuff more. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Then there was the time I found myself making light conversation with a handful of women I met at a luncheon. As is often the case with women, the chatter turned to children. One mentioned her child had graduated from the same high school Charlie had attended. In that moment, I was feeling sturdy, but I had a decision to make: do I step into the flow of the discussion and risk generating an uncomfortable splash by raising the topic of my dead child, or do I let the conversation flow without me?
I jumped in. “My son graduated from the same school, years later.” That was it. I didn’t tack on “but he’s dead now,” or “he loved that school, but he killed himself,” or “that school has been tremendously supportive since he died.” After a friendly acknowledgement of a superficial shared experience, the chatter bubbled along.
Shared experiences take countless forms, including shared grief. Communicating about grief—in whatever form or format feels comfortable—can help build the connections that power the resilience to continue moving forward after loss. Talking about grief doesn’t just ease isolation for the person carrying it, it gives others permission to share their own losses, too. And all of that takes practice.
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