How to Grieve

A perfectionist's guide to doing it right

It’s all-encompassing right now.

Sometimes it feels like anger. Anger at the world for not marching in the streets for the hundreds and hundreds of Jewish bodies, torn apart by terrorists in ways I wouldn’t dare to repeat here. Anger at the antisemites for ripping down images of captive children, elders, women, and teenagers while proudly toting posters with swastikas at their “Free Palestine” rallies. Anger at Netanyahu, and Ben Gvir, and all the right-wing fascists who are listening to their basest, most evil human impulses for revenge instead of the cries of their citizens who want the death and destruction to end. Anger at the deaths of thousands of helpless Palestinians at the hands of the IDF. Anger at Hamas who hide out in tunnels and take fuel and humanitarian aid from their people. Anger at people resharing misinformation on social media, who are carelessly pouring gasoline on an already burning inferno. Anger at anyone who can look at the poor children of Gaza and think, “it’s their fault.” Anger at anyone who can look at the poor children of Israel and think, “it’s their fault.” A lot of anger.

Sometimes it’s just gut-wrenching sadness. Sad when the tears don’t come and sad when they do. Feeling like I’ve got a flu I can’t shake and like I’m just stuck on my couch watching helplessly from here and like going for a walk and listening to music instead would be better for me, but wouldn’t that be irresponsible? Isn’t that just my privilege, to be removed from it, to be able to turn off my TV and sit in silence while Israelis run into bomb shelters from rockets still being fired and Gazans run wherever they can from Israeli airstrikes because they have no bomb shelters, just hoping it doesn’t land on them? Sadness at the images of weeping children, of orphans who can’t turn to their parents for comfort in moments of horror we could never even attempt to fathom. So much sadness.

Sometimes it’s hope. That’s the name for the Israeli national anthem — Hatikva. The hope. It’s hope for a better tomorrow for Israelis and Palestinians, as grieving Israeli parents and siblings who lost their loved ones in the most horrific ways possible remember the grief of the Palestinians, grief that they would never wish on anyone else. Hope as Israelis and Arabs together mobilize to connect and cry and hold each other in this shared moment of sorrow. Hope that the violent government of Israel will be held accountable for its cruelty, its negligence, its unwillingness to work toward real peace. Hope that humanitarian aid gets to the people who desperately need it. Hope that the blockade of Gaza and the occupation of the West Bank will end. Hope that the Palestinians will one day be able to elect a government that can be their real advocates on the global stage. Hope they can live side by side. A little bit of hope.

Usually, though, it’s all of these things. I’ve spent my life trying to do everything 100% right, all the time. When I feel I’ve come up short, I turn on myself. But right now the stakes feel higher, don’t they? This isn’t the same as a failure at work I can berate myself for later. People are dying. People who haven’t died yet will. How can I possibly hold the enormity of this moment, but how can I not?

So to everyone grieving the massive loss in this world right now, my message is this: You’re doing it right. Don’t turn on yourself because you’re looking too much, or not enough. Don’t feel the need to explain why you’re unable to cry, or unable to stop crying. Don’t feel shame for moments of optimism, that maybe this can get better. Feel anger, and sadness, and hope, and all of it all over again. Hold yourself and hold each other as gently as you can.