Why Grief Feels So Lonely in the Western World—and How We Can Change That

AI Generated Image via DALL-E

Grief and the Struggle to Accept It in Western Society

Death is one of the most natural things in the world. It’s as inevitable as birth, as much a part of life as breathing. And yet, in much of Western society, we pretend it’s something distant, something that happens far away, something we don’t need to think about until we have no choice. When death does touch our lives, we are expected to acknowledge it briefly, grieve quietly, and then return to normal as if nothing has changed. But the truth is, grief doesn’t work like that. It isn’t something we can schedule, control, or pack away neatly. It lingers, it shifts, it changes us. And yet, so many people feel like they have to hide it because the world around them doesn’t know how to hold space for it.

There’s an unspoken rule in Western culture that grief should be quick and private. Funerals are often brief, polite affairs where people dress in black, say a few words, and then try to move on. There’s a sense that crying too much, talking about loss for too long, or openly showing pain makes other people uncomfortable. We have bereavement leave at work, but it’s often only a few days, as if a handful of days is enough to process losing someone you love. Friends check in once or twice, then assume you’re okay. And when you’re still not okay - when the weight of grief is still heavy months or even years later - you’re left feeling like you should be. Like you should be better by now. Like something is wrong with you for still carrying your loss when the world has long since moved on. This discomfort with grief isn’t just a personal failing; it’s woven into the culture itself. Western societies, particularly in places like the U.S., Canada, and much of Europe, tend to prioritise productivity, individualism, and emotional restraint. There’s a deep-seated fear of death, and because of that, a deep-seated discomfort with mourning. People don’t know how to sit with pain, especially someone else’s. And when we don’t know how to engage with grief, we do the easiest thing - we avoid it. We tell people they need to be strong. We try to cheer them up instead of letting them feel what they need to feel. We offer phrases like “at least they’re in a better place” or “they wouldn’t want you to be sad” because we don’t know how to say, “I know this hurts, and I’m here with you in it.”

This avoidance makes grief an incredibly lonely experience. Even when people mean well, their inability to sit with someone else’s pain can make the grieving person feel like they’re a burden, like their feelings are too much. If you’ve ever been in deep grief, you’ve probably felt that shift - the way people slowly stop asking about your loss, how the world around you expects you to “get back to normal” even though nothing feels normal anymore. You might find yourself holding back your sadness, nodding along when someone tells you it’s time to move on, learning to keep your pain to yourself because it seems like that’s what’s expected.

And this doesn’t just affect individuals; it shapes the way families and entire communities process loss - or fail to. In many Western households, grief is something hidden behind closed doors. Children are often shielded from death, as if pretending it doesn’t exist will somehow protect them. Adults whisper about loss instead of talking about it openly. Funerals are quiet and restrained, and once they’re over, the expectation is that life goes on as it was. But grief doesn’t work that way. It seeps into everyday life. It lingers in the spaces our loved ones used to fill. And when it isn’t acknowledged - when it’s brushed aside or carried in silence - it becomes even heavier.

In contrast, many cultures around the world embrace grief as a communal, shared experience. In Mexico, Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is a celebration of loved ones who have passed, a time to remember them with joy rather than avoidance. In many Indigenous traditions, mourning is an open and extended process, involving the entire community in rituals of remembrance. In places like Ghana, funerals are not just solemn events, but vibrant gatherings filled with music, storytelling, and collective mourning. These traditions recognise something that Western cultures often fail to: that grief is not something to be handled alone. It is something to be held together, something that needs space, time, and acknowledgment in order to be fully processed.

But in much of the Western world, the grieving are often left to fend for themselves. They are given a short window to express their sadness before they are expected to "move on," as if grief is something that can be neatly wrapped up and put away. Those who continue to grieve openly after that window closes may feel ashamed or broken, wondering why they can’t seem to recover as quickly as society expects them to. This is where complex grief often takes root - when people feel they are mourning the “wrong” way, when they suppress their emotions instead of processing them, when they feel isolated in their pain rather than supported. In reality grief doesn’t have an expiration date, it’s something you learn to live with. It doesn’t mean you stop missing the person you lost. It means you find ways to carry them with you. It means their absence becomes part of you, shaping the way you see the world. But when grief isn’t given space - when it’s forced into silence, rushed along, or met with avoidance - it becomes something much harder to bear. It becomes isolating. And that loneliness can make the pain of loss even deeper.

So why does Western society struggle so much with death and mourning? Part of it is fear. Fear of facing our own mortality. Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of sitting in discomfort. But in avoiding grief, we do more harm than good. We leave people alone in their hardest moments. We tell them, without meaning to, that their pain is too much for us to bear. And in doing so, we make grief even harder than it already is.

AI Generated Image via DALL-E

The Loneliness of Grief: When Others Don’t Know How to Hold Space for Pain

Grief is one of the most isolating experiences a person can go through - not because the grieving want to be alone, but because, so often, the world doesn’t know how to sit with them in their pain. The loss itself is devastating enough, but what makes it even harder is the way people around them react - or more often, fail to react.

When someone dies, there is usually an initial wave of support. Friends check in, send messages, drop off food, offer condolences. People express sadness and sympathy, saying things like, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” or “Let me know if you need anything.” And in those early days, the grieving person may feel surrounded by love, held up by the kindness of others.

But then, the world moves on. The funeral is over, the casseroles stop coming, and the calls and texts slow down. Life continues for everyone else, but for the grieving, time feels frozen. The person they loved is still gone, the weight of their absence still heavy, but suddenly, it feels like no one wants to talk about it anymore. People stop asking how they’re doing. They avoid bringing up the name of the person who died, afraid it will “remind” them of their loss - as if they could ever forget. And so, grief becomes something to carry in silence. This isolation isn’t intentional. Most people don’t mean to withdraw from those who are grieving. More often than not, they simply don’t know what to do. Death is an uncomfortable subject in many Western cultures, and because of that, many people feel unprepared to deal with someone else’s loss. They don’t know how to sit with another person’s pain, so they try to distract them, make them laugh, or encourage them to “focus on the good times.” They want to help, but instead of offering their presence, they offer platitudes - “Everything happens for a reason,” or “At least they’re in a better place.”

But for the grieving person, these words don’t bring comfort. If anything, they make them feel more alone. They don’t need their pain minimised or explained away. They don’t need someone to “fix” their grief or make it easier. They just need someone to sit with them in it, to acknowledge that their loss is real and that their sadness is valid. What makes this isolation even harder is that grief doesn’t have a timeline. It doesn’t disappear after a few weeks or months. It changes shape, but it never truly leaves. And yet, there is an unspoken expectation that people should “move on” within a certain time frame. If someone is still visibly grieving months after a loss, they may feel pressure to hide it. They may worry that others will see them as “stuck” or “not coping well.” They may feel guilty for still being sad when the rest of the world seems to have moved on. This is especially difficult in workplaces, where bereavement leave is often only a few days - nowhere near enough time to process a significant loss. Employees are expected to return to work and function as if nothing has changed, even when they are still drowning in grief. If they struggle to concentrate, break down in tears, or need extra support, they may fear being seen as unprofessional or incapable. The pressure to “get back to normal” is overwhelming, yet grief is anything but normal. It is disorienting, consuming, and exhausting. Expecting someone to compartmentalise their pain and carry on as usual is not only unrealistic - it’s deeply unfair.

Children, too, are often left out of the grieving process. Many adults believe they are protecting children by shielding them from the reality of death. They avoid discussing the loss in front of them, use euphemisms like “they went to sleep”or “they’re in the stars now” instead of explaining what happened, or exclude them from funerals out of fear that it will be too upsetting. But children experience grief just as deeply as adults do, and when they are left in the dark, they may struggle even more to process their emotions. When adults don’t model grief openly, children learn that it is something to be hidden, something shameful or unnatural. They may feel like they shouldn’t ask questions or express their sadness, fearing that it will upset the adults around them. They may grieve alone, not because they want to, but because they don’t know how to do anything else. And without guidance, their grief may manifest in unexpected ways - through anger, anxiety, withdrawal, or even physical symptoms like stomach aches and headaches.

In cultures where mourning is a communal process, grief is not something to be carried alone. There are rituals, traditions, and collective ways of expressing loss that allow people to grieve openly, surrounded by support. In some cultures, crying, wailing, and openly expressing sorrow are expected parts of the mourning process. In others, extended periods of grieving - sometimes lasting months or even years - are built into societal expectations, giving people permission to grieve for as long as they need.

But in much of Western society, grief is treated as something private and personal. People are expected to process their emotions on their own, without burdening others. There are no clear rituals or guidelines for how to grieve, and because of that, many people feel lost in their mourning. They don’t know what they’re “supposed” to do or how long they’re “allowed” to feel this way. And when they look around and see others moving forward whilst they are still drowning in sorrow, they may begin to feel like they are grieving wrong. This is where complex grief often develops - when people feel like they should be coping better but aren’t. When they judge themselves for still being sad, for still feeling the weight of their loss months or years later. When they compare their grief to what they think it’s supposed to look like, based on what society has told them. This added layer of guilt and shame only makes the grieving process harder. Instead of being able to fully experience and process their emotions, they may suppress them, avoid them, or feel trapped by them. But those who are mourning don’t need to be told to “move on” or “stay strong.” They need space to feel what they feel, without judgment. They need people who will sit with them in their sadness, without rushing them to heal. They need to know that it’s okay to grieve for as long as they need, in whatever way they need, without fear of being seen as weak or broken.

AI Generated Image via DALL-E

Why Grief Feels So Lonely: The Need for a More Supportive Culture of Mourning

The truth is grief is not linear. It does not follow a schedule or a set of neatly defined stages. It is unpredictable, deeply personal, and different for everyone. Some people may find comfort in keeping busy, whilst others may need time to withdraw and process. Some may cry often, whilst others may not cry at all. Some may talk about their loss constantly, whilst others may struggle to find the words. And all of it is okay. There is no right way to grieve. But in a society that expects people to mourn quickly and privately, many grieving individuals feel like they have to conform to a certain version of grief, rather than allowing themselves to experience it in a way that is natural to them.

So how do we change this? How do we create a culture where grief is not something to be hidden or rushed?

It starts with recognising that grief is not just a personal experience - it’s a communal one. Around the world, many cultures approach grief very differently. In some cultures, mourning is a shared process, one that involves extended family, community gatherings, rituals, and public expressions of sorrow. In these cultures, grief is not something to be done alone; it is something that is held by the people around the grieving person. There is space for sadness, room for remembrance, and an understanding that healing takes time. Western society can learn from these traditions. We can start by normalising grief as an ongoing experience rather than something that has an expiration date. We can practice showing up for grieving people - not just in the first few weeks, but for months and even years after their loss. We can stop expecting the bereaved to reassure us that they are okay and instead allow them the space to not be okay. We can ask how someone is doing without expecting a “better” answer each time. We can remember that simply being present - sitting with someone in their grief without trying to change it - is one of the most powerful things we can do.

We can also change the way we talk about grief with children. Instead of shielding them from loss or pretending it doesn’t exist, we can include them in conversations about death in ways that feel safe and honest. We can model grief openly, showing them that sadness is not something to be ashamed of. We can help them understand that loss is part of life, and that expressing pain is not only normal but necessary.

And perhaps most importantly, we can remind those who are grieving that they are not alone. That there is no timeline for healing. That their grief, no matter how long it lasts or how it manifests, is valid. That they do not have to hide their sadness or pretend to be okay just to make others more comfortable. That mourning is not something they have to carry in silence.

Because truthfully is grief is not something to be fixed. It is something to be felt. It is raw and painful and human. It deserves space, patience, and understanding. And it deserves to be shared. Because grief, at its core, is not just about loss - it’s about love. And love does not disappear just because someone is gone. It lingers. It lives on in the memories we hold, in the stories we tell, in the way we carry those we’ve lost with us. But in order to honour that love, we have to allow grief to exist. We have to stop treating it as something shameful or inconvenient. We have to be willing to sit with it, to acknowledge it, to share in it. Because no one should have to grieve alone.

And maybe, if we can begin to do that - if we can start to talk about death and loss more openly, if we can allow ourselves and others to grieve without shame - we can begin to create a world where mourning isn’t something we have to go through in silence. Instead, it can be what it was always meant to be: a shared human experience, a process that connects us rather than isolates us, a way of keeping love alive even in the face of loss.