A Grief Moment

Written by Tiff | A Grief Moment

During my undergraduate studies in psychology, I learned about theory of mind.

At the time, I understood the concept intellectually. Years later, a personal experience helped me understand it in a different way.

In simple terms, theory of mind is the understanding that other people have thoughts, beliefs, emotions, and internal experiences that are different from our own. It is the recognition that just because I think or feel something a certain way does not mean someone else does.

We are not all operating from the same internal landscape.

Years ago, I accompanied a dear friend to an MRI appointment. She told me she was afraid. I remember being present with her. I supported her. I sat beside her.

And cognitively, I understood that her experience was different from mine.

I knew she was afraid.

I knew the machine made her uncomfortable.

I knew the enclosed space triggered something for her.

That was theory of mind.

I recognized that her internal state existed and that it was not the same as mine.

But I did not fully feel it.

Years later, I found myself on that same table, being rolled into that same machine.

Up until that moment, my mindset had been practical. I needed the MRI. I wanted answers. I was focused on results.

But as I lay there and looked up at the narrow opening of the machine, my mind shifted.

I placed my hands across my chest. The technician said I could position them however I liked. I chose that position without thinking much of it.

Then I looked up at the enclosed tunnel.

And something clicked.

The space began to resemble a coffin.

My mind, almost instantly, imagined being buried alive.

And in that moment, I felt fear.

Not theoretical fear.

Not observed fear.

But embodied fear.

The loud sounds of the machine intensified it. The enclosure felt tighter. I suddenly understood why they give you a panic bulb to squeeze if you need to stop the test.

Because your mind can take you somewhere your body reacts to as real.

In that moment, I moved from cognitive understanding to emotional empathy.

I was no longer simply aware that someone could feel afraid in that space.

I felt how that fear might arise.

Now, I want to be clear. I do not claim to know exactly what my friend experienced. Theory of mind does not give us mind-reading abilities.

But it does allow us to consider another person’s perspective, imagine what an experience might be like for them, and recognize that their internal world may differ from our own.

And in that process, empathy can grow.

What I learned is that theory of mind provides a foundation for understanding others. It allows us to recognize differences in thoughts, feelings, and perspectives. Empathy can deepen that recognition by inviting us to consider another person’s emotional reality (Dvash & Shamay-Tsoory, 2014).

Years ago, I had theory of mind.

In that MRI machine, I experienced what I understood as embodied empathy.

And that experience reshaped how I understand both concepts.

Sometimes we understand something intellectually.

And sometimes life places us in the very position that allows us to feel it.

But What About the Experiences We Have Never Had?

This experience left me thinking about something else.

Do we have to experience something ourselves before we can truly empathize with someone who is experiencing it?

I think this is an especially important question when we talk about grief.

At some point in our lives, many of us will experience grief. We may lose someone we love, experience a significant life transition, or find ourselves mourning something we never imagined we could lose.

Yet, even when grief becomes part of our own story, our experiences will not necessarily look the same.

We may both lose a parent, for example, and still experience that loss differently. Our relationships are different. Our histories are different. What that person represented in our lives is different. And the circumstances surrounding the loss may shape our experiences in ways that are not immediately visible to someone else.

One person may feel the weight of an empty house. Another may struggle with unfinished conversations. Someone else may find themselves grieving not only the person they lost, but also the future they imagined sharing with them.

The loss may have the same name, but the experience can be profoundly different.

So, if even two people who experience a similar loss cannot fully know what grief feels like for one another, what does that mean for those who have never experienced that particular kind of loss?

Does the absence of firsthand experience mean the absence of understanding?

I don’t believe it does.

We Don’t Have to Experience Someone’s Grief to Acknowledge It

My experience in the MRI machine helped me understand how being in a particular situation could deepen my emotional awareness of someone else’s fear.

But I did not need to lie on that table to recognize that my friend was afraid. I did not need to feel her fear in my own body to take it seriously, sit beside her, or offer her support.

My firsthand experience added another layer to my understanding. It did not create my friend’s right to be understood.

And perhaps grief asks something similar of us.

We may never know exactly what another person is experiencing. We may never have the same relationship with the person they lost, carry the same memories, or understand the full meaning of what has changed in their life.

We may not understand why a person is grieving a relationship that others believe was unhealthy. We may struggle to understand why someone continues to mourn a loss years later. We may not immediately recognize the grief associated with a move, a life transition, a change in identity, or the loss of a future someone once envisioned.

But unfamiliarity does not make another person’s grief less meaningful.

We can listen.

We can ask questions without assuming we already know the answers.

We can acknowledge another person’s pain without trying to measure it against something we have experienced ourselves.

And we can resist the urge to make someone’s grief about our own experiences simply because we are searching for a way to connect.

Sometimes, in our effort to show understanding, we say, “I know how you feel.”

We may mean well. We may be trying to communicate that the person is not alone. We may be drawing on our own experiences to find common ground.

But do we really know how someone else feels?

Even when we have experienced a similar loss, we cannot assume that our emotional experience is identical to theirs.

Perhaps a more meaningful response is, “I may not know exactly what this is like for you, but I want to understand.”

There is humility in that statement. It acknowledges the limits of our knowledge without withdrawing our willingness to care.

Empathy does not require us to have lived someone else’s experience. It requires us to recognize that their experience matters, even when we cannot fully know what it feels like.

Making Room for Grief Beyond Our Own Experience

I think this is where theory of mind and empathy become particularly important in how we approach grief.

Theory of mind reminds us that other people have internal experiences that we cannot automatically access or fully know. Empathy invites us to consider those experiences with curiosity and care. Compassion encourages us to respond in ways that respect the person and what they are going through.

These ideas are connected, but they are not interchangeable. We can recognize another person’s distress without experiencing the same emotions ourselves. We can also offer meaningful support without having lived through the same circumstances.

We do not have to pretend to understand everything.

We do not have to find the perfect words.

And we do not have to wait until life places us in someone else’s position before we decide that their pain deserves our attention.

Instead, we can approach grief with a willingness to listen, an openness to experiences that differ from our own, and an understanding that no two people have to grieve in exactly the same way.

Perhaps the goal is not to understand another person’s grief as if it were our own, but to make room for their grief without requiring it to resemble ours.

Because the truth is that we can spend our lives learning about grief, studying its theories, exploring its emotional complexities, and reflecting on our own experiences, and still encounter someone whose grief is unfamiliar to us.

That does not mean we have nothing to offer.

Sometimes, what we offer is our presence.

Sometimes, it is the willingness to listen without correcting, comparing, or rushing someone toward healing.

And sometimes, it is simply allowing another person to tell us what their loss means to them.

We may not always understand the depth of someone else’s grief.

But we can respect it.

We can make room for it.

And we can choose to meet it with compassion.

We do not have to experience someone else’s pain to recognize that it matters.

Sometimes, empathy begins not with knowing how someone feels, but with being willing to understand what we do not yet know.

Give yourself a moment to pause, reflect, and process.

References

American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Grief. https://www.apa.org/topics/grief/

Cacciatore, J., Thieleman, K., Fretts, R., & Jackson, L. B. (2021). What is good grief support? Exploring the actors and actions in social support after traumatic grief. PLOS ONE, 16(5), e0252324. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0252324

Dvash, J., & Shamay-Tsoory, S. G. (2014). Theory of mind and empathy as multidimensional constructs: Neurological foundations. Topics in Language Disorders, 34(4), 282–295. https://doi.org/10.1097/TLD.0000000000000040