When the Right Words Didn't Feel Right Anymore

I used to be the person who said, "He's in a better place." I meant it with love. I believed I was offering comfort, something meaningful to someone who was hurting. Then Ryan died, and suddenly I understood how those words could land on a grieving mother's heart. I didn't need someone to tell me about heaven. I believed in heaven. I needed someone to understand that believing Ryan was there didn't make me want him here any less.

What took me longer to recognize was that I had been doing something similar to myself. When my thoughts began taking me places I didn't want to go, I held tightly to what I knew to be true: God is always good. Ryan is safe. Love never dies. Every word of it was true, but I wasn't always saying those things because I was at peace. Sometimes I was saying them because I was afraid of what might happen if I allowed myself to feel everything underneath them. The anger, the unanswered questions, and the sadness I didn’t know what to do with. I thought I was leaning into my faith. What I couldn't see was how often I was using it to avoid the very grief I needed to acknowledge.

It Has a Name

When I first heard the term spiritual bypassing, I recognized it immediately. Psychologist John Welwood introduced the term to describe using spiritual beliefs and practices to avoid facing difficult emotions and unresolved wounds. I realized I hadn't always been drawing strength from my faith. Sometimes I was using it to avoid what I was afraid to feel. Looking back, I think part of me was afraid that if I stopped trying to hold everything together, the grief would completely overwhelm me. I wasn't questioning my love for Ryan or my trust in God. I just didn't know what to do with everything I was feeling.

But the truths themselves wasn’t the problem. God's goodness wasn't the problem. Scripture wasn't the problem. Believing Ryan was in heaven wasn't the problem. The problem was using those truths to silence the pain they were never meant to erase. And sometimes the most damaging spiritual bypassing wasn't coming from anyone else. It was coming from me.

I found myself asking questions like, Shouldn't I be stronger by now? Why am I still struggling? Can’t you just get it together?

I began questioning myself for having the very emotions that came with losing my son. I could love God and still wonder why He hadn't intervened. I could believe in heaven and still feel angry that Ryan wasn't here. I could be grateful for the years we had and still ache for all the years we wouldn't. But somewhere along the way, I had started believing those feelings were things I needed to correct rather than acknowledge.

When We Learn to Silence Ourselves

Sometimes spiritual bypassing isn't even a sentence. You mention your child, and someone changes the subject. You express anger, and someone offers a Bible verse. You ask a difficult question about God, and the room becomes uncomfortable. Eventually, you begin to recognize which parts of your grief people are willing to hear. You share the gratitude but keep the anger to yourself. You reassure everyone that you're okay because it's easier than explaining why you're not. And sometimes, they stop asking altogether.

I remember deciding not to sugarcoat what was really going on inside me. When someone asked how I was doing, I admitted that I wasn't okay, that I was really struggling. The response was a quick, "I'll pray for you," followed by an uncomfortable exit. I wasn’t asking them to fix anything. I just needed someone willing to hear the truth. It had taken a lot for me to admit how much I was struggling, and their discomfort only added to what I was already dealing with. I think some of us have been taught that encouraging someone means helping them move away from their pain. We offer Scripture, remind them of God's promises, and try to point them toward something positive because we believe that's what faith calls us to do. I know I did. What I didn't understand was that acknowledging someone's suffering isn't the opposite of encouraging them.

I began realizing how uncomfortable people can become when they can't do anything to make someone's pain better. Sometimes we reach for the familiar words because we genuinely don't know what else to say. Other times, I think those words help us avoid our own discomfort. I don't believe most people intentionally dismiss someone's grief, but when our response makes a grieving mother feel like she needs to hide what she's experiencing, even well-intended words can leave her feeling more alone.

I don't say that to blame anyone. I had been that person, too. And now I understand the cost of continually responding to grief by trying to move someone away from what they're feeling. A mother may stop speaking honestly, begin feeling ashamed of her questions, or learn to silence herself before anyone else has the chance. And perhaps one of the more painful consequences is that she may begin questioning not only her own faith, but also why she feels so misunderstood by people who share those same beliefs. When the people and places she once turned to for comfort no longer feel safe enough for her honesty, she may begin pulling away. Not because she's lost her faith, but because she's tired of feeling like there isn't room for her grief.

What Changed for Me

I didn't begin finding my way through grief because someone gave me a better explanation. Something changed when I stopped demanding one from myself. I began allowing my grief and my faith to exist together. I worshiped through tears, learning that I could trust God and still have questions I might never have answered. I started recognizing the difference between faith that supported me and faith I was using to avoid my feelings.

Not every day looked the same. Some days I prayed. Some days I cried. Sometimes I needed to talk about Ryan, and other times I simply needed someone to sit beside me without trying to make anything better And when someone did, what a difference it made. Maybe it was the simple relief of not having to explain myself or reassure someone that I was okay. Maybe it was knowing that my grief didn't make them uncomfortable enough to leave. Whatever it was, their willingness to simply be there, rather than try to fix something they couldn't, made me feel a little less alone. I didn't have to hide what I was feeling or make it easier for someone else to hear. They gave me the gift of space to just be, without feeling responsible for anything other than being honest about where I was.

Even now, I have to recognize those moments when I'm reaching for an answer instead of acknowledging what's happening inside me. Faith doesn't require me to pretend. And I believe God can meet me in my sorrow just as surely as He can meet me in my joy.

Maybe you've heard the same familiar words. Maybe you've been told your child is in a better place, that everything happens for a reason, or that you should focus on what you still have. I want you to understand that your grief is not evidence that your faith is failing. You can love God and still be angry. You can believe in heaven and still desperately wish your child were here. You can have questions without needing to answer them for anyone else's comfort, and you don't have to accept the shame that sometimes comes wrapped in well-intended encouragement.

For those who love a grieving mother, I'm not asking you to stop praying, sharing Scripture, or believing in heaven. I'm asking you to notice whether your words open a conversation or close it.

There is a difference between saying, "I believe he's in heaven, and I know you miss him," and "He's in heaven, so you shouldn't be so sad." One makes room for both faith and grief. The other asks her to choose.

Say her child's name. Ask about the memories. Let her talk about what she misses. When she tells you something difficult, resist the urge to immediately follow it with something positive. And please, don’t make her regret trusting you with the parts of her heart she was afraid to share. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is remain present in a conversation you cannot fix.  

I still believe God is good. I still believe Ryan is safe with Him, and I know love doesn't end with death. Those truths haven't changed. What has changed is my understanding of what faith can look like in the middle of grief. I don't have to use those truths to silence the part of me that wishes Ryan were still here. I can believe every one of them and still cry when I say his name.

I used to think the right words could make suffering a little easier to bear. Now I understand that sometimes those words can keep us from hearing what someone is really trying to tell us. I've learned to listen differently, both to my own grief and to the grief of others. And maybe that's where we begin to understand what it truly means to love someone through their suffering.

With Love & Hope,

Kim