The Solidarity of Sorrow: How My Best Friend Helped Me Navigate Grief

“My mum just died. I feel empty.” 

The first message I sent after the worst day of my life. And those were the only words I could think to send. The recipient of the message was my best friend, Ryan—and I knew he’d understand. 

Ryan had lost his mum a few years earlier. He knew what it was to lose the person that mattered most. And what it was like to have every feeling numbed and every thought consumed with sorrow. 

I knew he’d understand—because he knew what it was like to feel empty. 

Cancer: The Destroyer of Worlds

We both lost our mums to the cruellest of diseases. And both lived to see the brightness extinguished by the toll it placed upon them. 

Grief is often attributed only to the moment of loss. But there is a deeper trauma in seeing the person you admire most face unbearable pain. 

I hated it—I felt helpless—and I struggled to contain those emotions throughout her battle. But I did for the most part, because I rationalised that at least mum was still there. 

I could hug her and pretend.

But the journey in no way prepared me for the destination. 

There were no more hugs. No more pretending. Just a sea of emptiness—and no way to rationalise it away. 

The End of Normal

Grief affects all people in different ways. And I can speak only to my own experiences. 

For me, grief was darkness; an oppressive void that defined my existence for months. 

It consumed me. And it changed me. 

I felt nothing for so much of that time. Endless nothing. 

Looking back, it was an internal defence mechanism for fending off the intensity of the pain. To lock up all the hurt until I was in a place to deal with it. But it soon became its own burden. I was just existing, not living. From moment to moment, I was just there—and I wasn’t even doing that right. 

Even now, there remain moments of that time that I don’t recall—I know that physically I attended events; birthdays and alike, but emotionally and mentally I was somewhere else. 

I was there, but not really. And because I wasn’t getting much enjoyment out of it, I didn’t really know why I was there in the first place. 

But Ryan did. 

He knew what I didn’t. That you can’t get from empty to full on your own. 

So he kept coming to get me. Picking me up in his car and taking me somewhere or other. To be around people. So I’d be in good company. 

And day-by-day—though I didn’t know it—he was showing me what life felt like on the other side of the worst day of my life. 

Light Through the Dark

For the most part, I put up with it but didn’t enjoy it. How could I?

I didn’t want to be around people. I wanted to do nothing and feel nothing. That, I decided, was what was left for me. All other aspirations felt meaningless when I couldn’t share them with the person whose opinion really mattered. 

But I put up with it. Most probably because I had so little energy to fight. And because Ryan is persistent—a quality which I still never give him credit. 

Occasionally, I’d make up an excuse that I was busy. But that would work only for a morning or afternoon. Inevitably, I’d find myself back in that car, and on the way to who-knows-where. 

That car—formerly his mum’s—with its cherry pine air freshener became the place where I first was able to process the loss of mine. And it has always struck me as a strange sort of serendipity.

But as weeks turned into months, process I did. First, inwardly, and then, vocally—which is what really helped lift me out of my internal struggle. 

It took me a long time to really speak about it. I am cursed, like many men are, with a distinct inability to talk about my feelings, even with my best friend. 

But it helped that Ryan knew what I was going through. And as soon as I said something about it, it felt easier saying everything about it. 

I cannot express how much easier it was to discuss grief with someone who has been through it. I could say what I was feeling, and he could expand upon it with his own experiences—ones I’d felt but hadn’t yet found the words to articulate. 

Our conversations usually started in this way. 

I’d say something like: “I had a dream where she was still alive, and then I woke up.” And then he’d say something like “I still have those dreams, but it’s nice to feel that connection is still there.” 

When he did, I reframed my feelings towards it. I had previously felt like that dream was mocking my reality. And when I woke up, I felt only bitterness. Ryan saw it as a gift; a positive reminder of the connection he still shared with his mum, and he took comfort from that bond remaining unbroken.

It didn’t make things better; nothing ever would. But it did help shift my axis from what I’d lost to what I’d had—and it was the impetus I’d needed to feel something again. To shift my internal thoughts away from the pain of grief, toward the peace that comes with reflection. 

Back From Empty

After what felt like a long time, Ryan stopped picking me up. I had suggested we go off and do something. The first time I’d felt like I wanted to do something—and feel something—since that sorrowful February evening. 

But it was a turning point.

So, I picked him up. And off we went, in a car that I had just inherited from my mum. Yet more serendipity. 

And while I am still yet to ever feel full again. In the time since, I have yet to feel as empty either.

So, if you’re struggling with grief, get yourself a Ryan. I think that’s the moral here. Or, at a minimum, reach out to someone to share the burden—preferably someone who really understands what you’re going through. 

Because you can’t get from empty to full on your own. 

And nobody should feel empty.