What Mourners Need Most
My stepmother of twenty-five years passed away suddenly on Shemini Atzeret in 2022. She was healthy, vibrant, and full of life. None of us expected to lose her so soon.
As I traveled from my home in Connecticut to spend shiva with my father in Maryland, I realized something I had never fully understood before: losing someone close changes you forever. As a friend told me, “The pain never goes away and there is a hole in your heart. You just learn how to carry it.” There is a “before” and “after” when experiencing the death of a loved one, and once you’ve crossed that threshold, you become much more aware of how people respond to grief.
As we move away from Tisha B’Av, a period of intense mourning, and begin the month of Elul—a time for reflection and personal growth—it’s worth asking ourselves: How can we become better at comforting those who mourn?
Judaism gives us beautiful halachot for nichum aveilim (comforting the mourner). We know not to begin speaking until the mourner does, and we know the traditional words of comfort. But beyond the halachah lies the human experience. Most of us want to help. We simply don’t always know how.
After reflecting on my own experience and speaking with others who have walked this path, several lessons stand out.
Show up.
The overwhelming message I heard was simple: come.
Whether you’re a lifelong friend, a coworker, or someone the mourner only knows casually, your presence matters. Mourners remember who showed up far more than they remember exactly what was said.
If you truly can’t attend, call or send a text. Even a brief “I’m so sorry. I’m thinking of you,” lets someone know they are not grieving alone. And if you can’t make it, resist explaining how busy or overwhelming your own life has been. A mourner should never feel responsible for making you feel better.
Presence is more comforting than perfect words.
Many people walk into a shiva house convinced they need to say something profound. They don’t.
If the mourner wants to talk, let them lead. If you knew the deceased, tell a story about who they were and how they impacted your life. One of the greatest gifts you can give a mourner is helping keep the memory of their loved one alive.
If you didn’t know the deceased, ask about them. Where did they grow up? What were they passionate about? What made them special?
Don’t worry about filling every silence. Simply sitting together communicates care in a way words often cannot. As a friend of mine said, “embracing the awkward silence is your gift to them and shows them that you’re with them even when it’s uncomfortable.”
This isn’t about you.
Grief has a way of making visitors uncomfortable, and discomfort sometimes leads people to say things that unintentionally shift the focus away from the mourner.
Avoid comparing their loss to yours unless they specifically ask about your experience. Don’t ask for details about how the person died, who found the body, or what treatments might have been possible. Don’t speculate about what surviving family members will do next (they often don’t know) or offer unsolicited advice about their future. Those questions often satisfy our curiosity more than they comfort the bereaved.
Similarly, if you are overcome with emotion, take a few moments to compose yourself before entering. It’s natural to cry, but mourners shouldn’t find themselves comforting their visitors.
Perhaps the simplest question to ask yourself before speaking is: “Is what I’m about to say for them—or for me?”
We don’t need to explain God’s plan.
Well-intentioned people often reach for phrases like, “It’s Hashem’s plan,” or “Hashem takes the good ones.”
Most mourners already know the theology. What they are struggling with is the heartbreak.
Our job is not to explain suffering. It is to accompany someone through it.
Kindness is most meaningful when it is concrete.
“Let me know if you need anything” is one of the kindest phrases people offer—and one of the least useful.
People in the middle of grief are often too overwhelmed to identify what they need, let alone ask for it.
Instead, offer something specific.
“I’m bringing dinner Thursday.”
“I’ll pick the kids up at two.”
“I’d like to organize meals for Shabbat.”
“I can pick up prescriptions or groceries.”
Sometimes, if you know help is needed, it’s appropriate to take gentle initiative rather than waiting to be asked. Whatever you offer, follow through. Asking for help is hard enough without wondering whether someone will actually come.
Communities can also help by organizing themselves. One practical suggestion I heard repeatedly was to have a dedicated WhatsApp group to coordinate shiva minyanim so mourners never have to worry about whether there will be a minyan or whether they’ll be able to say Kaddish.
Don’t assume grief has one face.
Every family is different.
Don’t assume relatives were close simply because they were related. Don’t assume one sibling’s grief is greater than another’s because of birth order, gender, or family circumstances. Don’t assume grief should look like tears or silence or strength.
People mourn differently, and they heal differently. Our responsibility is not to judge how someone grieves but to create space for whatever their grief looks like.
Shiva is not the end of mourning.
When shiva ends, dinners stop arriving, visitors return to their routines, and everyone else resumes normal life.
The mourner doesn’t.
For many people, the week after shiva is even harder. Reality begins to settle in. Returning to work feels exhausting. Everyday tasks—shopping, cooking dinner, keeping a household running—can feel overwhelming.
This is when your presence and help matter most.
Check in periodically. Send a text that simply says, “Thinking of you.” Offer to meet for coffee or go for a walk. Bring a meal after everyone else has stopped bringing meals. Stock their refrigerator with basic groceries. Continue remembering them on difficult days, not only during shiva.
Grief lasts far longer than seven days. Our compassion should too.
None of us will comfort mourners perfectly. We will all say the wrong thing from time to time. We will all feel uncomfortable walking into a shiva house.
But perhaps that’s the point.
Nichum aveilim has never been about finding perfect words. It is about showing another human being that they do not have to bear unimaginable pain alone.
As Elul calls us to examine our relationships and become more compassionate people, perhaps one meaningful area for growth is learning to be more thoughtful companions to those who mourn. We cannot remove their grief. But through our presence, our humility, and our willingness to simply show up again and again, we can make sure they never have to carry it by themselves.
With heartfelt gratitude to Maya Beck, Sarrit Kovacs, Rena Levy, Bracha Poliakoff and Rebecca Remson for generously sharing their experiences, allowing me to learn from their stories, and offering insights that will help our community comfort mourners with greater sensitivity and compassion.