Better to Face the Sorrow When It Comes
On Worry, Vigilance, and the Courage to Live Without Grieving in Advance
Some people grieve before anything has happened.
They imagine the loss while what is good is still present.
They see illness while the body is still functioning.
The farewell while the other person is still sitting at the table.
The breakup while the relationship is safe.
The catastrophe while the day is calm.
They think:
It is better to be prepared.
If I have already imagined the worst, I will not be so overwhelmed if it happens.
If I do not allow myself too much joy, the fall will be smaller.
If I begin grieving now, perhaps I will be spared some of the grief later.
This may seem reasonable. A person who has experienced safety suddenly turning into danger does not easily learn to trust a good day. She knows that life can break. That the person she needs may fail her. That the body can remember something the mind believed was over.
Vigilance therefore has a history.
It did not necessarily arise because the person was pessimistic or unwilling to live. It may have been a way of surviving.
But the person who always tries to grieve in advance risks living through the loss several times:
before it has happened,
while it may never happen,
and once again if it actually does.
Perhaps there is another possibility:
To face the sorrow when it comes.
When Danger Could Not Be Predicted
Children who live with insecurity often learn to pay close attention.
To sounds.
Facial expressions.
Footsteps in the hallway.
The tone of a voice.
Doors opening.
The silence between adults.
A small change may signal danger.
The child becomes attentive to signs that others do not notice.
Is he angry?
Has she been drinking?
Is someone coming in?
Is it safe to fall asleep?
This vigilance is not irrational.
It is adapted to a world in which the unexpected may truly be dangerous.
The problem arises when the same vigilance continues after the world has changed.
The adult is sitting in a safe room, but still listens for footsteps in the hallway.
The partner has not withdrawn, but the person examines every word for signs of an approaching breakup.
A medical test is normal, but the body is still searched for warnings of illness.
The child has become an adult.
But the waiting continues.
Worry as an Attempt at Control
Worry can provide a sense of activity.
At least I am doing something.
I am assessing the risk.
I am thinking through every possibility.
I am not being naïve.
When life is unpredictable, thought may become a system of surveillance.
It moves through future scenarios:
What if he becomes ill?
What if she leaves me?
What if I lose my work?
What if something happens to the children?
What if my body fails?
The mind tries to create safety through preparation.
If every catastrophe has already been imagined, none can arrive entirely without warning.
But worry has no natural ending.
Every answer produces another question.
Have I thought of everything?
What have I overlooked?
What if the greatest danger is precisely what I cannot imagine?
Control thus becomes limitless.
The more the person tries to secure the future through thought, the more clearly it becomes apparent that the future cannot be secured.
Grieving in Advance
Anticipatory grief may look like care.
I imagine my partner dying because I love him.
I worry about the children because they mean so much to me.
I fear losing my health because life still has value.
It is true that sorrow grows from attachment.
We fear losing what we love.
But when grief is taken in advance, love is continually accompanied by an imagined funeral.
The other person sits alive before us while we are already feeling the absence.
The child goes on a trip, and we see the accident.
The partner is asleep, and we think of death.
A good day becomes a warning that it cannot last.
What was meant to be protected partly disappears in the fear of losing it.
“I Must Not Become Too Happy”
Many people know this thought.
Do not rejoice too soon.
Do not say aloud that things are going well.
Do not trust the calm.
Because then life may hear it.
Then the punishment will come.
The thought may resemble superstition, but it often has an experiential background. Perhaps the violation occurred precisely when the child believed it was safe. Perhaps good moments were followed by danger. Perhaps joy was ridiculed or used against the person.
Then the good may feel like an exposed position.
To feel joy is to lower one’s guard.
To lower one’s guard is to risk being taken by surprise.
The person therefore holds something back.
Not because she does not want joy, but because joy makes her vulnerable.
When Safety Becomes a Sign of Danger
For a person who has lived in vigilance for a long time, calm may feel abnormal.
When nothing happens, the body begins to wait.
It is too quiet.
Something must be wrong.
The person may become restless on a peaceful day.
Begin a conflict.
Search for symptoms.
Examine the partner’s mood.
Worry restores a familiar state.
Unease is painful, but understandable.
Calm is good, but unfamiliar.
Safety may therefore paradoxically awaken a sense of danger.
The body has learned that the quiet moment does not last.
It therefore tries to get ahead of the danger.
The Imagined Catastrophe and the Real Body
A catastrophe does not need to happen for the body to react.
It is enough that it is imagined vividly.
The heart beats faster.
Breathing becomes shallow.
The stomach tightens.
Sleep disappears.
Muscles prepare.
The body does not always clearly distinguish between what is happening and what is repeatedly described to it through thought.
A person may therefore live physically inside a future disaster that does not yet exist.
This is not imagination in the sense of unreal suffering.
The suffering is real.
But its cause lies in a possible future scenario.
This makes worry particularly demanding.
The body pays now for something life may never require.
Preparation or Repetition?
Some planning is wise.
We write a will.
Take out insurance.
Go to the doctor.
Talk about what we want if we become ill.
Secure the house.
Agree on who can help.
This is concrete preparation.
It has a beginning and an end.
Worry is different.
It repeats the same possibility without bringing us closer to action.
I have already thought through what I will do if my partner becomes ill.
Even so, I continue imagining the illness.
I have received the test results.
Even so, I examine my body again.
I have called the child.
Even so, I see the accident before me.
A useful question may be:
Is there anything concrete I should do now?
If the answer is yes, the action can be taken.
If the answer is no, perhaps the rest is not preparation.
It is suffering in advance.
Worry’s Promise
Worry carries a hidden promise:
If you keep me going, I will protect you from surprise.
But the promise cannot be kept.
Life always finds new forms.
What actually happens is rarely identical to what we imagined.
Some catastrophes never come.
Others come from a direction we did not see.
And when sorrow truly arrives, it is not made smaller because we practised it every night.
Perhaps we are simply more exhausted.
Worry cannot make us immune to the price of love.
The person who loves may lose.
There is no thought capable of abolishing this.
The Fear of Being Unprepared
Putting worry aside may feel irresponsible.
What if I relax just before something happens?
What if I should have noticed the sign?
What if the disaster could have been prevented if I had been more attentive?
For people who were not protected earlier in life, responsibility may become limitless.
They try to see everything in advance.
Not only for their own sake.
For the partner.
The children.
The family.
Everyone who may be harmed.
If something happens, self-accusation follows:
I should have understood.
Even when there were no signs.
In this way, worry makes the person responsible even for the unpredictable.
The Child Who Learned to Keep Watch
Some children never slept completely.
They listened.
Watched over younger siblings.
Kept an eye on the adults.
Made sure that nothing would happen.
This child may later become the adult who never fully lies down in life.
She rests, but part of her remains on guard.
She is on holiday, but studies the exits.
She is with someone she loves, but watches for signs of rejection.
She has done everything that can reasonably be done, but the guard says:
Do not sleep yet.
Someone must keep watch.
It may then be necessary to meet this guard with respect.
Not say:
You are irrational.
But:
You learned to stay awake because no one else did.
You tried to hold the world together.
But perhaps you do not need to keep watch all night any longer.
Laying Down the Watch
The guard cannot simply be dismissed.
It needs signs that someone else now carries responsibility.
The door is locked.
The arrangement has been made.
The doctor has been contacted.
The partner will say if something happens.
The children are adults.
The helper will return.
There are telephones, neighbours, services, and other people.
The person may say to herself:
I have done what is possible today.
The rest does not belong to this night.
This is not complete control.
It is limited responsibility.
An acknowledgement that no person can hold the whole future under watch.
Trusting That One’s Future Self Also Exists
Worry often assumes that the future person will be helpless.
If something happens, I will not manage.
Therefore, I must solve it now.
But the future person will not be entirely alone.
She will have the knowledge, help, and experience that exist then.
She will be able to ask.
Act.
Grieve.
Seek support.
Perhaps we can extend some trust towards her.
Not because she will be invulnerable.
But because she will meet the real situation when it exists, instead of the present self having to solve every possible situation in advance.
I do not need to live the whole future tonight.
The person I am when something happens will take part in what must then be done.
Grief Cannot Be Paid in Advance
There is no account from which early suffering can reduce later sorrow.
One cannot think:
I have already spent five years grieving over the possibility that you may die, so if it happens, the loss will be smaller.
Grief does not follow such an economy.
It arises in the encounter with the actual absence.
The empty chair.
The silent telephone.
The altered everyday life.
Imagining loss is not the same as loss.
This does not mean that anticipatory grief never has meaning. In cases of serious illness, people may gradually understand what is coming. They may say goodbye, speak together, and prepare practical matters.
But even then, the life that still exists also needs a place.
The ill person is not only the one who is going to die.
He is still the one sitting here now.
When the Other Person Disappears in the Fear of Losing Them
When we become intensely afraid of losing someone, we may begin relating more to their possible absence than to the living person.
We monitor their health.
Ask repeatedly whether everything is all right.
Interpret silence as a sign.
Become angry when the other person takes risks we cannot control.
Love becomes mixed with control.
The partner may feel:
You no longer see me.
You see only the dangers around me.
The child may experience:
Your fear makes me responsible for your sense of safety.
In this way, the desire to protect the relationship may make it more constricted.
Loving Without a Guarantee
No close relationship comes with a guarantee.
The other person may change.
Become ill.
Leave.
Die.
We ourselves may also be the one who leaves.
This is not an argument against attachment.
It is the condition of attachment.
To love is to give something significance without being able to secure it forever.
Love therefore requires more than feeling.
It requires the courage to inhabit what is good while it exists.
Not because loss is impossible.
But because the possibility of loss should not become more real than the other person’s presence.
You are here now.
I will try to meet you here, not only the future empty chair.
When Worry Is Presented as Love
We sometimes say:
I worry because I love you.
That may be true.
But worry and love are not the same.
Love may ask:
How are you?
What do you need?
Worry may ask the same thing so many times that the other person must begin protecting the one who asks.
Love may warn of a concrete danger.
Worry may make the world itself dangerous.
Love may tolerate the other person’s freedom.
Worry wants to secure it.
It may therefore be necessary to examine:
Does my unease help the other person?
Or must the other person regulate their life in order to calm me?
Worry as a Bond to the Person Who Suffered
Some people hold on to unease because it connects them to people they have lost or were unable to help.
If I stop worrying, it means that I do not care.
If I sleep well, I have forgotten.
If I move on with life, I abandon them.
But love does not need to be proved through continual alarm.
A person can be remembered in silence.
In a photograph.
An action.
A story.
A yearly date.
A way of living.
The memory does not become weaker because the body is allowed to rest.
When the Body Believes That Calm Is Irresponsible
A person may understand all of this and still feel uneasy.
She tells herself:
There is no danger.
But the body remains tense.
More argument does not always help.
The body needs experiences of calm that are allowed to last.
An evening when the telephone does not ring.
A night when the door is locked and no one comes.
A journey from which the child returns safely.
A relationship that can tolerate distance.
Calm may need to be learned in the same way vigilance was once learned:
through repetition.
Not as a command.
But as a slow experience that sometimes nothing actually happens.
A Day Without Catastrophe
It may be helpful to notice what did not happen.
I was afraid that my partner would withdraw.
He stayed.
I feared that my body would fail.
The day passed.
I was certain that the conversation would end in conflict.
It did not.
This is not proof that nothing painful will ever happen.
But it is proof that worry’s prediction is not always true.
A person does not need to celebrate every disaster that fails to occur.
But she can allow the ordinary day some weight.
Today, what I feared did not happen.
This day was real too.
Being Prepared Enough
Perfect preparedness does not exist.
One more risk can always be imagined.
One more plan.
One more telephone call that should be made.
One more possible illness.
One more door that could be checked.
Preparation must therefore have a limit.
I have done what can reasonably be expected.
Not everything that can possibly be imagined.
This distinction is important.
Reasonable responsibility protects life.
Limitless responsibility consumes it.
Worry’s Theft of Time
Worry claims to be working for the future.
But it uses the present as payment.
The hour at the dinner table.
The night in bed.
The walk in the forest.
The conversation with a child.
The body is in one place, the mind in another.
The future’s possible pain is moved into the only time in which a person actually lives.
In this way, a disaster that never comes may still have serious consequences.
It takes hours, sleep, attention, and presence.
This is not an accusation against the person who worries.
Worry may be difficult to control.
But it shows what is at stake.
Not only inner peace.
Also the life passing while we try to secure ourselves against it.
Returning to What Is Actually Happening
When thought has moved into the future, it may gently be brought back.
Not by proving that everything will go well.
No one can know that.
But by asking:
What is happening right now?
Is the person I am afraid of losing sitting here?
Is the body ill now, or am I afraid that it may become ill?
Is there an action that needs to be taken today?
What do I see in the room?
What do I hear?
What are my hands doing?
This is not a denial of the future.
It is a return to the time in which action is still possible.
“But What If It Really Happens?”
This question often stops every attempt at calm.
What if the worry is right?
Yes, some of what we fear may happen.
People become ill.
Relationships end.
Children are exposed to danger.
Death comes.
The goal is therefore not to convince oneself that life is harmless.
The goal is to distinguish between the possibility of future pain and the necessity of living inside it already.
If sorrow comes, it will have its time.
It will be real.
It will require help, tears, action, and slow adjustment.
But it does not need to borrow every day before it arrives.
Facing the Sorrow When It Comes
This sentence may sound easy.
As though one could simply decide.
But for someone who has lived in vigilance, it is demanding.
It means:
I will not spend today’s strength on every possible loss of tomorrow.
I will do what can reasonably be done.
Then I will try to return to what is here.
If sorrow comes, I will not flee from it.
I will face it then.
This is not indifference.
It is another distribution of courage.
Not the courage to control everything in advance.
But the courage to trust that I can meet the real when it becomes real.
Sorrow That Does Not Need to Be Prevented
Some people have learned that strong feelings are dangerous.
Once sorrow begins, it will never end.
Loss must therefore be prevented through control.
Or sorrow must be taken in small doses in advance.
But grief is not merely a collapse.
It is also a human capacity.
We grieve because something had value.
Sorrow changes.
It comes in waves.
It can be carried with others.
It can live alongside work, food, sleep, laughter, and new relationships.
Trusting that sorrow can be faced when it comes is also trusting a little more in the human capacity to grieve.
Receiving Help When the Real Sorrow Comes
The person who worries often imagines standing alone in the catastrophe.
But when something actually happens, help may be mobilised.
Family.
Friends.
Health services.
Neighbours.
Colleagues.
Religious or humanist communities.
Practical arrangements.
Professional helpers.
This does not mean that help is always sufficient.
But the future sorrow does not need to be carried entirely by today’s solitary thought.
Perhaps something may be entrusted to the people and resources that will actually exist if the situation arises.
When the Helper Joins Every Catastrophe
Helpers may be tempted to respond to worry with reassurance.
Everything will be fine.
You do not need to be afraid.
Nothing is going to happen.
But such promises cannot be kept.
They may calm the person for a moment, but make uncertainty greater later.
More sustainable help says:
I cannot promise that life will always unfold as you wish.
But we can examine what you need today.
We can distinguish between what is actually happening and what you fear.
We can make a plan for what is concrete.
And we can practise letting the rest wait.
The helper should not enter every imagined catastrophe as though it were already real.
She should help the person return to the ground on which she stands.
Not Making Worry Shameful
The person who worries often knows that the thoughts may appear excessive.
She may feel ashamed.
Others grow tired.
You must stop thinking so much.
Pull yourself together.
Everything always turns out fine.
Such responses may intensify the unease.
The person must now both carry the worry and hide it.
A better beginning may be:
It makes sense that you are trying to be prepared.
This vigilance helped you earlier.
Let us see whether it helps you in this situation, or whether it keeps you trapped in something that has not happened.
In this way, worry is understood without being allowed to govern.
Examining What Worry Is Trying to Protect
Behind worry there is often something valuable.
Love.
Responsibility.
Belonging.
The wish to protect.
The fear of being alone.
Worry may therefore be met with questions:
What is the most important thing you are afraid of losing?
What would the loss mean?
What do you need from the relationship now?
Is there something that should be said while you still have time?
Sometimes imagined sorrow may lead back to life.
I am afraid of losing you.
Therefore, I want to be more present with you now.
Not monitor.
Not control.
But participate.
Say It While the Time Is Here
Worry may be a signal that something needs to be expressed.
I love you.
Thank you for what you have been to me.
I am afraid of losing you.
There is something I want us to talk about.
We do not need to wait until the farewell to say what matters.
But the words should not turn every encounter into a goodbye.
They may make presence clearer.
When what matters has been said, the person may perhaps rest a little more in the fact that the relationship is actually being lived, not only feared lost.
Living with Mortality
Death is not only a future event.
It is a condition that gives life its finitude.
We know that the people we love will not be here forever.
We too will disappear.
This knowledge may create anxiety.
But it can also make presence clearer.
Because time is limited, this day matters.
Because we cannot keep one another forever, we must meet while we can.
Living with mortality does not mean thinking about death all the time.
It means allowing the knowledge of it to make life more real, not less.
Sorrow Belongs to the Future, Love Belongs to the Present
When someone we love is still here, there are things we can do now.
Listen.
Go for a walk.
Prepare food.
Sit together.
Disagree and repair.
Say thank you.
Say no.
Say yes.
Worry moves attention towards what may disappear.
Love may bring it back to the person who is actually here.
This does not mean ignoring illness or risk.
It means allowing care to have a present form.
Not only:
I am afraid of losing you.
But:
How can I be with you today?
The Unfinished Life
People often wait for a safety that never becomes complete.
When this examination is over.
When the children are adults.
When the finances are secure.
When the relationship is guaranteed.
When the body can no longer fail.
Then I will live.
But a completely safe life never arrives.
Real life is unfinished and exposed.
It contains risk, loss, and change.
To face sorrow when it comes therefore also means ceasing to postpone life until it becomes risk-free.
A Sentence for the Child Who Keeps Watch
Perhaps the child within the adult needs to hear:
You paid attention because no one else did.
You learned to notice danger early.
It helped you.
But you do not need to carry every future disaster tonight.
The door is locked.
You are not alone.
You may lie down.
If something truly happens, the adult you are now will wake and act.
You do not need to keep the whole of life awake in advance.
A Sentence for the Person Who Grieves Before the Time
Perhaps the adult needs to hear:
You cannot protect love by beginning to lose it now.
Worry does not make you more loyal.
It merely makes this moment less available.
Do what can be done.
Say what should be said.
Seek the help that is needed.
And let what has not yet happened remain in the future.
If sorrow comes, you may face it then.
You do not need to pay for it in advance.
When Worry Returns
No one lets go of worry once and for all.
It returns.
At night.
At a sound.
A delayed message.
A new symptom.
A good day that seems too good.
The person may then practise a simple movement:
I notice that I am beginning to live through something that has not happened.
Is there something concrete I should do?
If yes: do it.
If no: return.
To the breath.
The room.
The person beside you.
The task in your hands.
This is not a victory over all anxiety.
It is a repeated return to life.
From Vigilance to Trust
Trust does not mean assuming that nothing painful will happen.
Nor does it mean giving up judgement.
Trust may be more modest:
I do not need to foresee everything in order to meet life.
I can act when action is possible.
I can ask for help.
I can grieve when there is a real loss.
I can allow a good day to be good without demanding a guarantee for the next.
This trust is not directed first towards a world that is always safe.
It is directed towards the human capacity to live in a world that can never be completely secured.
Better to Face the Sorrow When It Comes
Sorrow will come in every human life.
We lose people.
Places.
Work.
Bodily abilities.
Possibilities.
In the end, we also lose our own lives.
No exercise can remove this.
But perhaps we can refuse to make every possible loss into a present reality.
We can allow the living to remain alive.
Allow the good day to remain whole.
Allow the body to rest when it is not in danger.
Allow love to be more than the fear of farewell.
When sorrow truly comes, it should not be rejected.
It should be given time.
Language.
Silence.
Tears.
Care.
It should be carried as well as possible.
But until then, life may be allowed to keep its days.
This is not irresponsible.
It is not forgetting.
It is an acknowledgement that a person should not only prepare to lose.
A person should also be present while there is still something to have.
Perhaps this is the most realistic form of hope:
Not the belief that nothing painful will happen.
But the decision not to grieve everything before its time.
To do what can be done.
To love while the other person is here.
To rest while the night is quiet.
And to face the sorrow when it comes.
To rest while the night is quiet.
And to face the sorrow when it comes.
This essay was developed through a new reading of the focus-group discussions and in-depth interviews that formed the foundation of my doctoral dissertation, A Study of Shame (2009). The text is part of the series Conversations About Shame and was written in conversation with OpenAI/ChatGPT.
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