Making Space for Sorrow

Rachel Naomi Remen, in her profound book Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories that Heal, writes:

"The expectation that we can be immersed in suffering and loss daily and not be touched by it is as unrealistic as expecting to be able to walk through water without getting wet. This sort of denial is no small matter. The way we deal with loss shapes our capacity to be present to life more than anything else. The way we protect ourselves from loss may be the way in which we distance ourselves from life and help. We burn out not because we don’t care but because we don’t grieve. We burn out because we’ve allowed our hearts to become so filled with loss that we have no room left to care."

Her words are both a truth and a challenge for me. I’ve spent much of my life avoiding the weight of pain and grief, both my own and others’. Instead of walking through sorrow, I’ve often tried to fix it, to make it tidy and bearable. But in doing so, I’ve denied the reality of suffering—and, in many ways, life itself.

When my partner has had a hard day and just needs me to listen, I’ve found his pain intolerable. My discomfort compels me to problem-solve, to steer the conversation toward solutions instead of simply being present.

When a friend lost her beloved pet, my instinct was to rush in with gifts wrapped in shiny bows, hoping to distract her from her grief.

When my children faced rejection, whether from not making a team or encountering a bully, I would try to put a sunny spin on their pain, denying them the space to sit with their feelings and process the reality of disappointment.

In all these moments, my refusal to be fully present with pain—my own or others’—has created a barrier. It’s an attempt to shield myself from the discomfort of grief, but it has also distanced me from life’s deepest connections and lessons.

Avoiding sorrow might feel easier in the moment, but it carries a significant cost:

1. Emotional Disconnection: By avoiding pain, we isolate ourselves from others, missing opportunities for authentic connection.

2. Burnout: As Remen writes, burnout isn’t about a lack of care—it’s about hearts too full of unprocessed grief.

3. Physical Strain: Suppressing grief takes a toll on our bodies, leading to chronic stress, fatigue, and illness.

4. Spiritual Stagnation: Avoidance stifles our growth, keeping us from the transformative lessons that suffering often brings.

5. A False Sense of Control: By trying to “fix” everything, we deny the truth that some pain cannot be solved, only carried.

So how do we begin to create space for sorrow? How do we let grief flow through us instead of bottling it up until we burn out?

Here are five practices I’ve found helpful:

1. Acknowledge the Pain
   Instead of dismissing or minimizing pain, name it. Whether it’s your own suffering or someone else’s, saying, “This is hard, and it hurts,” can be incredibly validating.

2. Sit with the Discomfort
   Resist the urge to fix or distract. Allow yourself to feel the sadness, anger, or disappointment fully. Remember, emotions are meant to be felt—not avoided.

3. Grieve Together
   Grief is a shared human experience. Whether through conversation, rituals, or shared silence, find ways to grieve in community.

4. Practice Self-Compassion
   Treat yourself with kindness as you navigate sorrow. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed or unsure. Remember, you’re human.

5. Engage in Meaningful Support
   Seek spaces and practices that help you process grief. This might include therapy, support groups, spiritual direction, or even mindful physical activities like yoga or walking.

Rachel Naomi Remen’s words remind us that our relationship with grief shapes our relationship with life itself. By allowing ourselves to feel loss—to truly grieve—we open the door to deeper presence and care.

Life’s beauty and sorrow are intertwined. When we deny one, we diminish the other. But when we make space for grief, we find that it doesn’t consume us—it transforms us. It softens our hearts, deepens our connections, and reminds us of the shared humanity that binds us all.

I’m still learning to walk through sorrow instead of running from it. But each time I choose to stay present—to grieve instead of fix—I find myself more alive, more connected, and more at peace. After all, life isn’t about avoiding the water. It’s about learning to move through it, knowing that even when we’re wet, we’re still whole.