'When my sister died, people asked what I needed. Here is what I wished I had said.'

This article originally appeared on Jamila Reddy's Substack. Read the full version here.

"Let me know if you need anything."

In the days after my sister's death, these words echoed in my ear like a scream into a canyon.

My phone was flooded with unread messages and unplayed voicemails. People I hadn't spoken to in years appeared like apparitions, singing the same one-note song: "I'm sorry for your loss. Let me know if you need anything."

I remember wanting to tell them, "I need my sister not to be dead! I need for this story to end differently. I need to un-feel this pain. I need a miracle."

Instead, I said nothing. I let their words pile up like chores. Responding became just another to-do on the list of tasks the still-alive must complete.

I wanted to be angry with people for not knowing their words felt hollow and useless, but I knew I had joined a club with a set of truths only members would understand.

When people say "death changes you," they mean this literally.

After my sister died, I felt like a stranger in my body. Like I had fallen asleep and woken up in a strange dream.

I remember feeling a deep sense of ambivalence about everything. The things I used to care about? I could not have cared about them if I tried. The goals I had, the friends, the day-to-day routines that had anchored me over the years — all of these, in a moment, changed.

I had to grieve my sister's absence… and the sudden disappearance of the person I was before.

Jamila Reddy realised how unequipped society is at grief when she lost her sister. Image: Supplied.

When my sister died, I did not even know myself, let alone what I needed.

"Let me know if you need anything," became a riddle I could not solve.

I knew I was desperate for peace, for joy, and for relief. But these needs were elusive — not tangible things I could request.

Grief after death is the type of pain that demands your full attention. There were days I could not eat, sleep, or get out of bed. There were times I wanted to disappear and there were times I wanted to be held like a newborn — to wail into the sky surrounded by a circle of people.

It's been eight years since I got that call. Eight years of realising how unskillful most of us are at navigating grief, and how grief-averse our culture is. Most people have no idea how to be present with pain, from the person feeling it, to the people who want to support them.

"Let me know if you need anything" — however well-intentioned — comes across as a shallow and performative gesture of support.

If you are grieving, or supporting someone who is grieving, think critically and compassionately about alternatives to the theatre of care that too many of us find ourselves trapped in, in the aftermath of loss.

Here are the things I could not ask for, but would have, if I had the words:

Witness my sorrow without trying to change it.

Affirm that my pain is valid, and I don't need to rush my healing. Remind me I am loved and worthy of love even if I do nothing but exist right now. Show me my grief is allowed to take up space.

If my tears fall, let them. If yours come, let them.

Don't try to find the silver lining. Don't say "at least…" anything. Don't tell me to look on the bright side.

Remind me it's okay to fall apart. That I am not a burden, my sadness is welcome and my pain not a problem to be solved.

Continue reaching out, even if I do not respond.

Grief is overwhelming and exhausting, and I may not have the capacity to answer or engage. If you feel like I'm ignoring you, please don't take it personally. Be patient with me. I am picking up the pieces of a broken heart.

Affirm there is no pressure to reply to calls or texts.

If I don't pick up, leave a loving message. Honour the paradox — I need space, but I also need to not feel alone. Know that the outpouring of care will fade away as the weeks go by.

Stay in touch beyond the initial days of grief. Set reminders to reach out on birthdays, death anniversaries, or just random days to check in.

"Thinking of you/love you…no need to reply", is better than silence.

Think what might lighten my load.

Instead of, "let me know if you need anything," say:

Jamila Reddy says lighting a candle to honour someone is a nice way to support. Image: Supplied.

Tangible gifts that are useful:

Survival and necessity

Comfort and ease

While well-intentioned, here are things I felt (to me) more burdensome than helpful:

If you aren't sure what to send, send money.

There may be things that I want but don't feel comfortable asking for. Financial resources go a long way. I might take an extra week off of work and need help paying my bills. I can use money to get a massage, pay for therapy, or hire help from a service.

Ask whatever higher power you believe in to keep me in mind.

Support doesn't always have to be "given," it can be practised. If you're the religious or mindfulness type, here are things I would love to hear:

Be good company.

If you have a specific activity in mind, take the lead and facilitate the experience, with dates and times. For example:

Remind me to take care of myself.

When I am deep in a grief portal, I have a hard time motivating myself to eat, move, sleep, and take basic care of my body. I need loving encouragement, positive reinforcement and accountability check-ins. This can look like calling at lunchtime to remind me to eat, or providing tangible support with self-care.

Provide healthy distractions or facilitate the feeling of normalcy.

Even if I can't engage with "normal" life, it means a lot to have things to reach for to momentarily escape the emotional turmoil. For example:

Perhaps this goes without saying, but use your discernment to decide what kind of care would be best received by the person you want to support.

Some of these ideas might feel like a blessing, and to others they might feel like a burden.

There is no right or wrong way to care for someone grieving, and there is no one-size-fits-all.

Grief is an impossible bridge we all have to cross in this lifetime.

The best we can do is be present with one another as we make the journey.

Jamila is offering a grief practice workshop on Saturday, January 24. You can find out more here.

Feature image: Supplied.