Years ago, an ex-boyfriend asked me to share my wildest dream. I remember giving him a skeptical look. “Are you sure you want to know?”
He nodded, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
So, I leaned closer, whispered my deepest wish: all I ever wanted was for someone to tell me that everything was going to be okay in a way that made me truly believe it.
The look of disappointment on his face told me he was expecting something more glamorous. But that was my truth.
The phrase “everything is going to be okay” is a comforting mantra, one I’ve repeated countless times to my loved ones, especially after becoming a parent. I found myself saying it over and over to my kids: “everything is okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” all in a soothing sing-song to calm them down during moments of distress, whether it was sadness, fear, or just the frustration of not being able to wear that dirty sock on their head to school. Heck, I even find myself mumbling it in my sleep when they stir beside me; it’s become as instinctual as checking the toilet seat before I sit down.
I’ve chanted this mantra to myself through awkward teen years, job losses, and heartbreaks. But when my mom passed away, it fell flat. It just didn’t ring true.
I tried to convince myself: “Everything is going to be okay,” I would utter while lying on the bathroom floor—the only lockable place in the house where I could let my tears flow without alarming my kids.
“Everything is going to be okay,” I whispered to my youngest son the moment he was born, struck by the realization that he would never meet his grandmother.
But those words felt empty. In grief, there’s no such thing as “okay.” There’s only the void left by the person you lost. That emptiness doesn’t magically fill up again; time might dull the pain but it doesn’t replace what was lost. Even three years later, I sometimes catch a glimpse of my mom in the corner of my eye—perhaps in a crowded grocery store or while driving. What I can hope for is that the jagged edges of my heart will someday heal over.
That’s why people often struggle to find the right words when someone is grieving. What do you say when you can’t promise that everything will turn out alright? How do we comfort one another amidst life’s harsh realities and the constant pain of loss? Am I misleading my kids by always assuring them that everything will be okay when, truthfully, that’s not a guarantee?
Last night, my youngest—who resembles his grandmother but will never know her—ran to me with a fresh bruise on his forehead after a playful tumble. I scooped him up, held him close, and instinctively started to say my usual mantra. But then I paused and inhaled deeply, inhaling the faint scent of his baby shampoo mixed with yogurt from dinner. He was crying, clutching my shirt with tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m here,” I said softly. It felt genuine. “I’m here,” I repeated, a bit louder this time, and he relaxed into my embrace, finding solace in my presence.
There is room in my heart for him, for his siblings, for their father, and for all the loved ones who carry their burdens. We can create space together for the weight that is too heavy to bear alone. Witnessing someone’s pain means we are loving them, and sometimes that love is more than enough.
So, if anyone ever asks me what my wildest dream is now, I’d simply say: Just be there for me. Make space for me.
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Summary
The article reflects on the challenges of finding the right words to comfort those who are grieving. It emphasizes the importance of presence and love over empty reassurances. Instead of promising that everything will be okay, simply being there for someone in their time of need can be the most powerful support.