"You're so strong."
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.""You never know how strong you are until you have to be."
"I could never be that strong."
This lionizing of people who have experienced tragedy can be problematic for many reasons. It is so automatic to call the bereaved "strong" that it really doesn't mean anything. Let's break down the strong cliches one at a time.
"You're so strong."
Oh yeah? Assuming this is meant as a compliment, what exactly is being said here? There are many times where this is appropriate and meaningful, but that only happens when someone does something to show will and determination by choice, not as a consequence of circumstance. What happens when we feel weak? When we don't get out of bed or don't make good decisions? Are we not strong anymore? This creates a dichotomy between those who handle tragedy with strength, and those who don't. Even though it is arguably positive, it is a judgment on someone who does not need to be judged.
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
This one has several forms, including "you'll be stronger because of this." Pretty much the only context where these tropes work is motivating people through ordeals of their own choosing. Athletic training or striving for academic excellence are times where setbacks must be weathered and will ultimately be useful in getting to the end goal. With illness and death of loved ones, this cliche is often not true. What doesn't kill us can leave us shells of our former selves, and we may never recover. We very easily can become bitter, angry, and isolated. We can lose all motivation for things that used to make us and others happy. What doesn't kill us makes us different. It changes our perspective, but it doesn't automatically result in a better or stronger person (whatever that means). There is no guarantee that we'll be stronger because our child died than we would be if our son had lived and put us through the daily rigors of parenting a living child.
"You never know how strong you are until you have to be."
It sounds like some sort of call to arms that you now have this opportunity to demonstrate the universal strength you've been hiding all these years. We do not have secret strength reserves to call on. There isn't a secret club that doles out extra strength when bad things happen. Sometimes we carry some strength, and sometimes we don't. Sometimes we can be positive human beings, and sometimes we can't. This cliche makes it sound like some kind of gift to unlock your inner strength. Let us tell you right now that even if all the strength cliches were true and we were now some sort of amped up super-humans, we would trade it in a heartbeat to have a healthy, living baby boy back in our arms.
"I could never be that strong."
Right, because we have those super-secret reserves of strength. What this sounds like (and probably is) is you're glad this didn't happen to you. You are such a delicate flower that you couldn't handle it, or worse, maybe because you think you love your children more than we do. And what, exactly? What are the other options you think we have? Check out early? Believe us, every bereaved parent thinks about this. The reality is, we will probably continue living for a while, and you probably would too. Life would always be different, and you may struggle for days, months, or years to find true joy again. You would probably react differently than we have, only because everyone reacts differently. You might be what others consider strong, you might not. We truly hope you never have to find out.
We hope this helps show some perspective on a common trope that shows up during grief. Instead of making value judgments on people during this fragile, horrifying, difficult time, offer them support. Offer them unconditional love. Something as simple as "I'm sorry" or "I'm here for you" is infinitely better than assigning strength to someone who may or may not really feel that way.
We're already under enough pressure from the usual motivational fluff floating around the world these days. "Make every day count." "Happiness is a choice." We fully accept that these are helpful for other people, and might someday be helpful for us. Right now? It's a success to get through the day. To get through part of the day. Please don't hold us to these ideals you have in your head about how grief-stricken parents should react. If we have a good day or a good moment, don't assume this is the norm (it isn't). If something we do strikes a chord with you, it's nice to let us know. Just please be cautious to reflect on what actually happened, and try not to pressure us to be strong all the time.
It's much easier to count the times we haven't been strong. The times we aren't truly happy for people announcing pregnancies or healthy living babies. When we don't have empathy for those going through something objectively tough even if it's not life and death. The days we don't have the energy to respond to family or friends. The moments we are bitter thinking about people we thought would reach out to us, but haven't. When we expect a lot of others, but don't have the capacity to give of ourselves. The times we pretend to listen to people talk and count the seconds until it's socially acceptable to end the interaction. The many days we don't want to have to pretend to live up to outside expectations (on top of everything else).
We were able to be strong for Obie when was here. It's a comfort to us that we are confident we made the right decisions for him and his care. But he's not here anymore, and we don't have someone to be strong for. We have each other, and we are supporting each other. That's all we've got right now.
By each other's side. All the time.
