Sonya Claire Milam

Note this is the first blog post containing information that did not make it into the book. Be sure to lease your comments about this chapter that did not make it into the book...... Grief in the Workplace Over the past four years, I’ve had the privilege of connecting with many widows and grievers through social media and a coaching group I joined. The stories I’ve heard from these new friends are both heartbreaking and deeply inspiring. At the same time, I’ve become painfully aware of how grief-illiterate our society can be—especially in the workplace. One bereaved mother was asked by her supervisor to remove a small, professionally framed photo of her stillborn daughter from her cubicle because it “made others uncomfortable.” Another widow requested to shorten her lunch break by 30 minutes so she could arrive later and get her children to school—a role her late husband once filled. Her request was denied. One woman used her FMLA time caring for her dying husband, only to be denied leave when her parents later needed her. With her income cut in half after her husband’s death, resignation became her only option. These stories are not rare. And they are not okay. As an employer, supervisor, or coworker, it is crucial to provide a supportive, open, and flexible work environment for those experiencing loss. Start by reviewing your company’s bereavement policies. If none exist, ask questions—because the absence of policy is unacceptable. Even when policies are in place and the laws are being upheld, they often fail to address the ongoing needs of grieving employees after they return to work. This is where breakdowns happen. Expectations go unspoken. Needs go unmet. Awkward interactions increase. Morale declines. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Here are a few ways I have noted that we can make this incredibly hard experience a little more manageable; I would love to hear your ideas and experiences: 1. Acknowledge that loss changes everything. Some deaths drastically alter a person’s role overnight. Flexibility should not be optional—it should be expected. A surviving spouse may now be a single parent with double the responsibility and a significantly reduced income. Someone who loses a parent or sibling may take on caregiving roles within the family. And the loss of a child? That is a life-altering devastation beyond words. Flexible hours, incremental return-to-work plans, telework options, and additional breaks can make a meaningful difference. Grieving employees are not only processing loss—they are often managing funeral arrangements, legal matters, financial transitions, and major life restructuring, all while trying to remain employed. 2. Manage expectations—yours and theirs. Do not assume that when someone returns to work, they are “back to normal.” Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. Research suggests that individuals experiencing intense grief may function at about 70% of their usual capacity in the first six months. Compassion and realistic expectations go a long way. 3. Ask—don’t assume. If someone is widowed, ask what they prefer to be called. I remember an administrative assistant who immediately changed my title to “Ms.” without asking. I am still proud to be a “Mrs.” Small details matter. Let the grieving person define what feels right for them. 4. Make space for their story. If they want to talk about their loved one, allow it. Even better—gently invite it. Ask if they’d like to share. Every grief journey is different. Respect their choices with normalcy and kindness. 5. Check your grief literacy and biases. Avoid comparing their experience to your own—or your lack of one. Saying, “I only took a day off when I lost someone” is not helpful. Grief is not a competition. Be mindful not to project your beliefs onto their experience. And please—don’t “should” on them. 6. Create an exit plan for difficult moments. Work with the grieving employee to develop a simple, agreed-upon way for them to step away when needed. A phrase, signal, or plan can help them leave a triggering situation with dignity. My former superintendent had allowed me to support colleagues returning from bereavement leave—offering my office and even covering their classroom if they needed a moment. She really "got it!" That kind of leadership matters. 7. Respect the line between curiosity and intrusion. There is a difference between compassionate curiosity and harmful nosiness. Grievers know the difference. Before asking a question, check your intention. Are you offering support—or seeking a story to share? Being judged is one of the most common fears among those who are grieving. We can do better. And we must do better! Because grief doesn’t clock out at 5 p.m.

Saturday, I made myself go back. Back to the beautiful Emory campus. A stroll through the quaint and bustling Emory Village and the Candler School of Theology whose outside surroundings became my sanctuary for eight months. A contemplative stroll back to the hospital where my husband lived for 8 months. A place I could not even enter the lobby the first month, then the place where we were finally together yet isolated from the outside world. A place that held both comfort and trauma in the same breath. A place that felt like home and a place that felt like hell all within in same twenty-four hours . A place we finally found answers. I expected something louder when I walked through those doors. I was prepared for grief to rise up to meet me in a recognizable way— sharp, heavy, undeniable. But what I found instead was numbness. And that surprised me! Not emptiness, exactly. Just a quiet flattening of everything. I did what I have learned to do over these past six years: I slowed my breathing. I reframed my thoughts. I stayed present. And underneath it all, and out of nowhere, they came: nervousness sadness gratitude—all existing at once, none asking to be the loudest. Ambiguous! That is the closest word I have. I walked the same halls where I once knew, without anyone saying it, that we were nearing the end— the end of my role as caregiver, the end of his fight, the beginning of something I never asked for: widowhood. I found the alcove where I sat with my sons, preparing them to see their father when finally allowed, despite the weight of COVID restrictions. Those fateful words I began hearing –“Critical. Unstable. Guarded prognosis. Other family members only during end of life care.” I remember choosing my words carefully then, trying to soften something that cannot be softened. During my walk through that place there were small things I didn’t expect to remember— the sound of the elevator, the cafeteria’s familiar scent, the sterile air that somehow still lingers in memory. All of it still there. All of it unchanged. Except the people— I asked about them. The names I had carried with me all this time— the nurses, the valet, the transporters— the ones who held doors, held space, held us together. No one I asked remembered them. This devastated me! Mark, Sandra, Alton, Abachu, Blessing, Ryan, Linda Alton, Julie. But I guess that makes sense. This place has held so many stories, so many families, so many endings. We were one of many. But to me, they were my everything. These were people I will likely never see again, yet they changed me— shaped the way I understand and sit with grief, the way I show up for my clients, the way I love the people still here. They were part of the hardest chapter of my life, and somehow also part of what was most human within it. And even now, I carry them forward—even if I am the only one who remembers their names. Before I left, I stepped into the chapel. There, I noticed a stained glass piece inside a circle; a tree, full of color and life. And then it hit me— I have this same image in my own kitchen window. The same tree. Within a heart. The same reaching branches. The same quiet symbolism of growth. I stood there for a moment, taking it in— how something that once held me in one of the hardest seasons of my life now holds me in the space where I now nourish and gather and continue continue life. A reminder that growth does come. Not in the way we expect. Not without cost. But it comes. For 6 years now, my life has been this quiet pairing of gratitude among trauma and grief, and making do while God makes a way . And maybe the most unexpected truth of all is this: Daring to grieve has been the place where the most growth has happened for me. . It is not the life I would have chosen. But it is the life I have learned to walk in. If you are grieving, or if you are loving someone who is, please hear this: You are not doing it wrong. Even when it feels unclear, uneven, or impossibly heavy— Grief and gratitude can exist together. Love and exhaustion can sit in the same space. And to those walking beside us trying, in all the ways you know how; it matters more than you will ever fully see. We may not always have the words. We may not always show it. But we carry you with us, too.