Mourning someone I never met

The first time I ever went to a funeral was to mourn a person I never met.

I went because my friend, and roommate, asked me to. She’d lost someone close to her, and though I didn’t know the person who had ed, I’d heard stories of the person she was.

At 21 years old, I consider myself lucky to have avoided this kind of personal loss. I’d never experienced the strange, weighted silence of a funeral home or the collective grief of people brought together to say goodbye. Death, for me, had always been an abstract concept, something I’d only ever seen in movies and books.

But standing outside the church that day, meeting the family of the person who was no longer with us, I realized I had stepped into a space where death was real, immediate, and impossible to ignore.

The morning of the funeral, I opening my bedroom door in my student house, staring down the hallway, and feeling an odd sense of disconnection. I was preparing to enter a world I didn’t fully understand, one that I hadn’t been part of yet.

My roommate was already awake—she hadn’t gotten much sleep to begin with—dressed in somber black with a pop of colour to honour the liveliness her loved one brought into the world. I could see how exhausted she looked, as  if she were holding herself together with only the thinnest threads of strength.

I took my time picking out an outfit, borrowing a top from my roommate that felt understated and respectful. I called my mom while she was on her way to work, and I continued to get ready. Her familiar voice was everything I needed as I was preparing for this unfamiliar experience. It was a short call: I asked her what to say and how to my friend in a situation that felt beyond anything I knew.

Choosing her words carefully, my mom told me that being there was enough. I didn’t have to know the right words. So, I fell back on the one thing I knew to do when I was uncomfortable: make jokes, break the tension, and try to bring some normalcy into an abnormal situation. But today felt different—humour felt out of place, and I knew there was a line I shouldn’t cross.

Still, before leaving the house and while we were in the car, my other roommate and I tried to make her smile. I made a joke about… God, I can’t even what it was now, but it was silly and random. She gave a soft laugh, just a quick glimmer of her usual self, and that was enough to make me feel like I was helping in some way, even if it was small.

As we walked up to the church, the silence between us felt like a fragile bubble, filled with the weight of everything unsaid. The air around the church was thick with grief. People moved slowly, embracing each other, nodding in quiet recognition of their shared sorrow. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged, each gesture loaded with a shared understanding, a language of grief that didn’t need words.

Inside, we walked down the aisle, our arms linked, and settled into one of the long wooden pews, the varnish slightly worn from years of families just like this one, sitting here in moments just like this one. We found a seat near the middle, close enough to feel part of the service but not
too close to the front.

The service began, and I listened as family and friends stepped forward to share stories, painting a picture of someone who had brought light and love into the world. As each person spoke, I felt like I was seeing a patchwork quilt of memories come together—a story of a life that had woven with so many others.

I glanced at my friend every so often, seeing the weight of these memories wash over her, watching her shoulders shake with the quiet sobs she tried to hold back. I held her arm as the choir started singing her favourite hymn. I’m not Catholic, nor am I even religious, but in that moment, the song felt like something sacred, connecting everyone in the room through shared emotion, regardless of faith or background.

I could feel my friend’s grief in the way her hand held onto mine. I realized then that even though I didn’t share this connection to the hymn or the faith, I could still share in her sorrow, her reverence, and her love for this person who was gone.

We kneeled when the congregation did, the old wooden kneeler creaking under us. I followed the motions around me, not out of obligation, but out of respect for the ritual that was so meaningful to my friend and to those who had loved the person they were there to mourn. I found myself listening to the prayers and hymns, feeling oddly comforted by the steady rhythm that had been spoken at funerals for generations.

After the final blessing, we stood, filed out, and made our way to the parking lot outside of the church. It was a sunny fall morning the light outside bringing me back to the reality of the day. The world continued on, even though a part of my friend’s world had changed irrevocably. The contrast felt surreal—the brightness of the sun and the weight of the sorrow we carried.

As we reached the car, my friend turned to me, her face still pale and eyes red, but there was a small, grateful smile on her lips as she thanked me for coming. Not knowing what to say, I cracked another joke.

In that moment, I realized that sometimes, the most meaningful way we can show up for someone isn’t through grand gestures or perfectly chosen words—it’s simply by being there, by bearing witness to their pain and letting them know they’re not alone.

I always imagined the first funeral I’d attend would be for someone I knew well, a family member or one of my parents’ friends. Instead, it was for a stranger, someone I never had the chance to meet but who had left a mark on someone I care about deeply.

Since that day, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to someone through loss. It’s easy to believe that empathy requires shared experience, that only those who have suffered the same pain can offer true comfort. But standing beside my friend at a stranger’s funeral taught me love and comion often don’t need understanding, just presence.

There are no “right words” that make it easier—all we have are these small gestures, like holding hands in a pew, lending a shoulder, sharing a laugh even when things feel impossibly heavy.

I still can’t exactly what I said to her in the car, but I do her small, grateful smile. I her squeezing my hand in the church and the way her shoulders relaxed, just slightly, when she felt my . I realizing sometimes, the greatest gift we can give someone is simply our company, our willingness to sit with them in silence, to help shoulder the weight, however briefly.

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grief

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