The Hollow “How Are You?”

In a world where we ask everyone we see, “How are you?” I often wonder why we do this. So often, it is said without meaning — without truly caring about the answer.

We have this façade of pretending to care, pretending that we notice things, encouraging events like “Are You OK Day?” While society rightly focuses more on mental health, in our everyday lives, those who genuinely show up and consistently care are far fewer than we might hope.

At one stage, I thought this was just me — just my social and professional network. But through connecting with other grieving mums, I’ve realised this is the norm. Support often comes with a timeline. People show up for a short while, and when you reach out, many quickly retract.

Grief is ugly. We want to talk about our child who is no longer here, to remember their stories, to share our trauma. There is disbelief — even shame — but speaking about our pain might help us process it, it is an essential part of living in this new reality.

Grief talk is painful and messy. Usually for the recipient. For the mum, it is just life — something we have grown accustomed to.

So, when I see posts asking, “Are you ok?” from people who never actually asked me, or asked but didn’t want the answer, I can’t help but think: what a mockery. A joke. Standing on their soapboxes, proclaiming they care.

I implore people to consider the words they so casually drop: perhaps replace “How are you?” with something different — “Nice to see you today,” or “Welcome to our shop.” Grieving mums don’t need that question. The last thing we want is to evaluate how we are. The honest answer is often: we’re shattered. Every day is a reliving of unbearable loss.

Very few ever stop to really listen, to sit with us in the pain. They just want a quick answer, satisfied they asked the question. If you truly want to connect, don’t ask. Stand beside us. Notice us. Say anything else — anything that shows you see us, not just a social obligation.

Protecting your heart

It’s only now, deep in grief, that I truly understand what every “Sorry, I can’t make it” really feels like. Each one is another wedge between me and the people I thought cared — a quiet fracture in what I hoped was connection.

I’ve lost count of how many messages arrive on the very day we were meant to catch up. A quick, last-minute ‘sorry’. Or worse, no message at all — just silence.

What they don’t realise is that I plan my whole week around these moments. I decline other invitations, knowing I can only manage one social engagement before my “social cup” overflows. I schedule the day, I’ll wash my hair because self-care feels like a mountain now — and in grief, taking care of yourself can feel almost wrong.

I wait for a response about a time, sometimes for days, already knowing the apology will come too late.

Before grief, I might have been guilty of this kind of last-minute cancelation. But honestly, I don’t think so. Keeping commitments was a priority for me. Still, I understand now: people believe their world is more important — their schedules, their lives — and I get it.

If only they knew how much every reschedule shatters me.

Once you let me down, I’m unlikely to reach out again. It’s not that I don’t forgive or understand. It’s that I’m protecting what’s left of my heart — fragile, broken, and barely holding on. Even breathing hurts.

So when I’m let down, I try to file the heartbreak away, to not feel it fully.

And then I tell myself: You were once my friend. We were once connected. But now, life is different.

And I add your name to the “I remember when” memory.

I still smile when I think of you — holding space for the version of life where we were still connected, and things hadn’t yet fallen apart.

The power of a blog

When Elise — Cooper’s friend and colleague, and a dear friend to our whole family, (a steadfast support to Ash and me as we try to rebuild a new chapter, and now my incredibly patient unofficial web developer - sorry for all the messages and questions, Elise!) — suggested I start a blog, I had to Google what a blog even was.

Of course, I said, “Sure,” pretending I knew exactly what I was agreeing to. I didn’t want to seem like some old person completely out of touch. So, I looked it up and tried to wrap my head around what blogging actually involved.

From memory, nowhere in the definition did it say a blog could become a lifeline.

But that’s exactly what it’s become.

Writing down my thoughts — putting them into some kind of order — helps me process what’s swirling around in my head and heart. Reading it back while proofreading gives me a strange sort of clarity. It slows down the millions of thoughts that usually bounce around uncontrollably.

It helps.

And then, when I want to share those thoughts with the people who matter, I can just send a link.

Yes — eventually it goes public. But in doing so, I hope it might help someone else navigating their own version of loss.

So, Elise, maybe to you it was just a casual suggestion: “You should write a blog.”

But to me, it’s become so much more than that.

It’s helped me find my voice again. It reminds me that people used to care about what I had to say — and maybe, just maybe, some still do.

Thank you, my friend.

You are a godsend. A lifeline.

And a forever friend — to both Cooper and to me.