After a child dies, people often say the same things.
“I understand.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I know how you feel.”
Most of the time, they mean well. And most of the time, they’re wrong.
Not because they lack empathy. But because some experiences don’t translate.
The difference people don’t realize they’re making
Empathy tries to imagine.
Recognition already knows.
Empathy reaches across a distance.
Recognition just removes it.
When someone says they understand because they’ve lost a parent, a spouse, a friend, or a grandparent, they’re offering empathy. That matters. It counts. It’s human.
But it isn’t the same thing.
Losing a child doesn’t sit beside other losses. It changes the structure of time, identity, and expectation. It rewrites the future you were already living inside. You don’t “process” it. You carry it.
How recognition shows up
Recognition doesn’t announce itself.
It shows up quietly.
Once, a patient I had never met before began crying as soon as she was seated. She told me her daughter had died, and that she was now raising her granddaughter. When she said it, she added, “There’s no way you can understand.”
I told her I did.
There was a pause. Then something shifted. No explanations followed. No details were needed. The rest of the appointment moved differently. Not lighter. Just steadier.
That’s recognition.
It can also sound like:
“No. They don’t understand.”
And when a parent who has lost a child says that, there’s no debate. No clarification. Just agreement.
You don’t nod because you’re bitter.
You nod because it’s accurate.
Why explanations feel exhausting
After loss, there’s an unspoken pressure to translate your grief into something others can hold. To soften it. To package it. To make it less uncomfortable.
Recognition removes that burden.
With the right person, you don’t have to explain why certain days are harder, why joy feels different, or why time doesn’t heal in the way people expect.
Nothing needs to be justified.
Nothing needs to be taught.
The language is already shared.
What recognition does not require
Recognition doesn’t need constant contact.
It doesn’t ask for emotional back-and-forth, or shared stories, or even staying in touch.
Sometimes it happens once, in a single moment, and you never see the person again.
That’s okay. That’s still what it is.
Recognition isn’t a relationship, not really.
It’s a kind of knowing.
Why this matters
When people confuse empathy with recognition, they sometimes feel rejected. As if they’re being told their care isn’t enough.
That isn’t what’s happening.
Empathy is kindness.
Recognition is fluency.
Both can exist. But they are not interchangeable.
Understanding that difference makes room for both without forcing either to be something it isn’t.
The quiet relief of being known
Recognition doesn’t make the loss easier. It doesn’t offer comfort in the way people usually mean comfort.
What it offers is relief.
The relief of not having to explain this weight I’m carrying.
The relief of not questioning whether I’m imagining the depth of it.
The relief of being seen without being asked to perform.
Some losses teach you a language you never wanted to learn.
And sometimes, without warning, you meet someone who already speaks it.
