Finding the right words to console someone in mourning is a daunting task. The intention is to offer solace, yet many struggle to find the appropriate phrases. I've gained this insight through personal experience. My cherished spouse of 23 years passed away in late July, following a two-year battle with stage IV pancreatic cancer. During this time, I've observed friends and acquaintances fumbling for the right words, and I've been taken aback by how even the most considerate inquiries can trigger emotional responses. There's no universal remedy, of course. What brings comfort to me might not suit others, and phrases that I find bothersome might be exactly what someone else needs. However, after discussing with a few individuals who are also grieving, including my own children, I've identified some beneficial actions and five unexpected things to avoid.

You might be surprised at how loaded this simple inquiry can feel. A compassionate friend inquires about your well-being. What could be wrong with that? My children and I realized that the issue lies in the difficulty of providing a definitive answer. Our grief fluctuates by the hour, sometimes by the minute, making it impossible to give a lasting response. Are you asking how I feel at this very instant? I can answer that, but it might change in the next moment. Are you asking how we're managing life? The truth is, we're still figuring it out. We find it easier to respond to less broad questions, such as, how was the college drop-off? How was the first day of school? How was dinner last night? Specific questions are less challenging than existential ones.

I've had to reflect deeply to understand why this generous offer from well-meaning friends feels off. I believe it's because it places the burden on the griever to assist the one offering help. The helper wants to find a solution—but those of us in mourning are not in a position to provide it. We often can't express, and might not even be aware of, what we desire or require. Here's what was effective: neighbors who, without asking, left a tray of lasagna, cookies, flowers, or another thoughtful item at our doorstep. They didn't ring the bell. They didn't call to check if we liked lasagna or if we'd be home. They simply left a gift. One helpful friend arrived at my house, rolled up her sleeves, and started washing the dishes in my sink. She didn't ask; she just began. One morning, as I struggled to find the energy to open the fridge and prepare breakfast for my kids and me, a delivery truck pulled into our driveway. Out came bags of bagels, platters of cream cheese, smoked salmon, fresh fruit, and a carton of hot coffee sent by my colleagues. That morning, I didn't think to say, "You know, I could really go for a bagel and coffee right now," but it turned out to be exactly what we needed.

One of my teenage daughters, who loves theater, explained why this phrase really bothers her: It shows a lack of creativity. She wanted to ask her friends who said this: Really? Have you never imagined losing a parent? Have you ever seen a movie about loss or death? "The Fault in Our Stars," perhaps? How about "The Lion King"? Were you dry-eyed when Mufasa died, or did you cry and feel Simba's pain? My daughter suspects that you can, in fact, imagine a devastating loss, but you don't want to imagine it for yourself or have to consider how sad this is for us. That's understandable. We want to protect you from our pain, too. But the statement unintentionally isolates us on a grief island, as if loss was uniquely ours. So instead of confining our feelings to an unimaginable silo, try to connect with us. Say something like, "I remember when I lost my X and I felt X." Or maybe share a specific memory like "I really enjoyed watching your dad coach you in soccer. I'm going to miss that." A statement like that lets us know we're not alone.

I was surprised when friends, especially those my age, said this. I work in journalism, so my belief in life "being fair" vanished somewhere in the middle of covering yet another senseless school shooting. I've long since stopped thinking of life as being neatly organized into fair and unfair categories. Instead of trying to untangle grief from injustice, I've started practicing radical acceptance. This concept was introduced to my husband and me by our grief counselor immediately after his diagnosis. It goes something like this: Some things in life are glorious, and some things are not. Try to accept life on its own terms and deal with the hand you've been dealt. Radical acceptance has been transformative for me and how I approach the tough stuff. Instead of asking, "Why me?" or "How can life be so unfair?" I say, "This is what I'm dealing with. What's the best way forward?"

Before I was thrust into grief, I wouldn't have understood how a loving gesture from a friend could ever feel uncomfortable. Now I do. Those of us grieving need to pace ourselves. It's draining to grieve for too long on any given day, so we ration the pain. I find myself carefully setting aside time to read condolence cards and respond to sympathy emails because I need to conserve energy to attend to the essentials of life: my children's needs, my work schedule, unpaid bills, returning my husband's leased car. Being enveloped in grief does not allow me to function as I need to. Friends who arrived at my door teary-eyed forced the unintended response of me having to grieve with them on their schedule, rather than my own. Sometimes it felt as though I had to comfort them and help them cope with the loss, which was counterproductive for my mental state. If you feel compelled to visit someone who has just suffered a loss, try to bring laughter and lightness with you to help alleviate the grief load on them.

What worked beautifully for us was receiving a lovingly composed letter, email, or text, expressing someone's emotions. I could read the message on my own schedule, at a time I had chosen for reflection. One dear friend sent a lacquered box where I can store condolence cards and keep coming back to when I want to remember the deep impact my husband had on our community. Remember, it's okay to say you don't know what to say. It's also okay to wait a beat before saying it. Last week, I got a text from an old friend whom I hadn't heard from in the months since my husband's death. She said, "I haven't found the right words to text you." I knew exactly what she meant, and somehow those words felt just right.