I'm Sorry to Hear That

Creative non-fiction

By Justin Lai

Of late, I keep finding myself the bearer and recipient of bad news. I hope this shift is not a correlate of age — though I suspect that may be the case.

It's always the same. Halfway through a meal, the act is dropped. A friend, having assessed the small talk sufficient, finally gives voice to the heaviness that nestles uncomfortably within. Their throat clears, the forced smile fades and their now vacant eyes focus on some unseen point just beyond the table. 

"Sarah and I broke up"

"My application was rejected"

"The results came back — Mum has cancer"

We deliver our grief in hushed tones, not unlike an apology. Perhaps it is because we recognise grief to be an aberration to the carefully constructed illusion of normalcy. Sorrow, when shared, has a way of stripping Life of her glitzy apparel, revealing her disproportionate nose, bad teeth and poor figure. We reason that the show must go on. So often, it does. 

Or perhaps we hesitate because the person sitting across the table cares for us. To share our pain would be to make it theirs. How cruel it is - that Love is both suffering shared and suffering withheld. We protect the ones that feel for us. So we keep our sorrows hidden until they become too great for us to bear alone. 

And yet, when the moment comes, how do we respond to bad news? 

I attended a funeral a couple years ago. There was an air of awkwardness though we all knew the script by heart. In uneasy lines, guests shuffled uncomfortably towards the fractured shadows by the casket. Glances are traded and weary arms embrace. I found myself watching the woman in line ahead of me. She leaned in close to the widow, and with the impeccable timing of a seasoned comedian, landed the punchline. Things will get better. I winced. 

At the time, I couldn’t understand why her words unsettled me so deeply. Why did something seemingly kind feel profoundly wrong? I see things clearly now: this was but one of many platitudes — the clumsy companions of grief. 

Consider the others:

There are plenty of fish in the sea. 

Sure, but the school of common herring won’t replace the angler’s prized catch.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. 

Does it? Or does it leave scars that ache in the quiet hours of the night?

Everything happens for a reason.

Shall we then encourage the wailing mother to celebrate the untimely death of her firstborn? It will ‘build character’ after all. Or maybe there’s some hidden meaning she can look forward to uncovering in the future. 

And perhaps most absurd of all: Good things come to those who wait. 

They don’t. Good things come to those who capricious Fortune chooses to dwell with - until the moment she fancies otherwise. 

These cliches fail because they are dishonest. False comforts falter, precisely because they are just that — false. Why then do we unhelpfully rush forward with blunt instruments to hack away at the pain of others? 

The answer is simple: these fables serve the speaker more than the listener. Life's obscene injustice shines with painful brilliance, and we frantically place the fallen scales back over our eyes. We offer them not to heal others, but to comfort ourselves. And in doing so, we heap more weight onto the already burdened.

With ragged breath, we recite these well-worn lines with mantric fervour. 

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger — so we compel the grieving to learn resilience. 

Everything happens for a reason — so we coerce them to unearth the purpose of their despair. 

Good things come to those who wait — so we force them to yearn in silence for blessings that may never arrive.

Grief is not a problem to be solved, but a truth to live with. She demands no solutions, only witnesses. And until she is seen, she will clamour to make herself known.

So what should we do when someone trusts us enough to share their pain?

Start here:

I'm sorry to hear that. 

Simple words, devoid of pretence.

No wit, no wisdom — nothing. 

Only the truth. 

In these words, there is no attempt to mend what cannot be mended. We selflessly surrender, let the scales slide off, and gaze upon the grotesque reality, together. 

I’m sorry to hear that.

Do you feel its quiet weight? These words are a gentle request to be allowed into another’s pain. They ask, May I sit with you here? May I join you in your pain?

I never understood why we dismiss such honesty as unsubstantial. Is it not clear that offering a solution is no solution at all? Clever phrases and hollow reassurance are imperceptible to those who hurt. But sincerity travels at a wavelength that even the heartbroken can hear. 

Grief desperately calls for companionship. She only asks that we see her and stay. So let us sit together in the suffocating darkness. No promises of a better tomorrow. No attempts to fill the silence. Even when the air feels too heavy to breathe. Even when it begins to press in from all sides. Find the courage to stay, and be sorry to hear that. 

At that moment, we abandon our worn-in sandals, for the itchy fabric and biting soles of someone else's ill-fitting clogs. We walk their path, not because it is comfortable, but because it is right. And in doing so, we finally stop lying to ourselves, and each other.

Hope can feel so distant, but even then, we glimpse its faint outline. There is an ocean beyond the sea, and in its depths, we place our fragile confidence. There is a forest beyond the trees, and in its verdant undergrowth, there lies the promise. But for as long we remain here, we must offer the little we can.

No false answers. No problematic solutions. Just this: 

"I’m sorry to hear that”.

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Justin Lai a creative non-fiction editor for Burnings. Find out more here.