They are hollow.

My best friend is in the midst of a crisis right now. She just had a miscarriage. These days, she sinks into sadness too deep for words. She may appear fine one minute. And may lose it in another hour. Friends and family members give her platitudes. And they are making her feel worse.

Anything people say out of obligation are not honest conversations.

People who give platitudes, what they are really saying is: after a while, you will be better. You will get over your pain (So I don’t have to stand uncomfortably in the presence of your pain). 

I know how platitudes make you feel worse. When I was grieving a dear friend’s loss a year ago, I’ve longed for honest conversations so deep I almost drowned in them. The moment I heard my friend’s passing, I doubled over in pain. The pressure of the physical pain went from my lower abdomen to my chest and my back. I curled on my bed, feeling like something was crawling under my skin.

I remember wishing someone would say the right words or would sit with me through my grief and sorrow.

Except people – even friends and family members I love – dropped their platitudes:

. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

. It’s part of God’s plan

. Every cloud has a silver lining

A well-meaning colleague suggested to me that things happen for a reason. I shut her down before she could continue down that thought path. You don’t tell someone whose heart has been ripped open that things happen for a reason. You just don’t. I filed her platitude away with all the other bullshit platitudes people said to me when I was grieving the death of my friend.

Empty platitudes could feel hollow.

We’re all weary after the last eighteen months. On Twitter and LinkedIn feeds, I’m reading about mass fatigue and impatience with platitudes. So much of what people say to someone in a midst of a crisis – even if it is well-intentioned – doesn’t help. The positivity pushers and their endless encouragement could feel hollow. Because embedded in these expressions is an impulse to fix the unfixable, to paper over discomfort, to hedge against mortality.

As someone who has experienced grief, I’ve learned the constant positivity and empty platitudes do not erase fear or anxiety, or grief.

When we give platitudes to people who are in the middle of a crisis, we lose out on a chance for deeper conversations with friends and colleagues, and family members. We lose out on a chance to spark more honest conversations.

I don’t know about you. But I’m tired of surface-level conversations. I’m tired of the usual, compulsory platitudes. I’m tired of the useless, “How are you?” question we ask even at a friend’s funeral. I’m tired of receiving a platitude that sends me off to plumb the depths of how I am doing in the middle of a global pandemic. I’m tired of having conversations out of obligation, instead of a genuine desire to connect with someone.

Perhaps the best thing we can do in the midst of a crisis is to drop our platitudes.

This is why I don’t drop a platitude when I check on my friend who’s grieving a child’s loss.

The best thing I can do for my friend is not do what society expects me to do. Society is uncomfortable to sit in grief. I remember how I hated society’s hushed, whispered tones as a response to my grief. Even if it reminds me of my own grief, the best thing I can do for my friend is to sit with her in her grief.

And not give her platitudes.

Engaging in this kind of real talk is rare – especially in the midst of a crisis. Most conversations are not that way, that honest and real, with so much vulnerability given to each conversation. But that kind of conversation is a gift.

Words are powerful.

They can inspire or wound. Unite or divide us.

The right words at the right time can be a lifeline – not when we grab for clichés, but when we are brave enough to reach deep inside ourselves and speak from a place of vulnerability and truth. So I’m sitting with my friend through her grief. Whenever she wants to talk, I listen. This conversation is so intimate, so personal that anyone would avert their eyes. But not me. I know how your spirit goes down when someone gives you a platitude when you’re grieving.

Life is like a river.

It’s full of bumps and rapids. There are times you have to put all of your power into keeping your face out of the water long enough to gasp a breath, trying not to get pulverized against the rocks. The last thing we want when we’re trying to gasp for a breath is to hear a platitude from someone. When we’re feeling chaotic, lost at sea, unanchored, groundless, scattered, or thrown around by the stormy weather of our lives, the last thing we want is to hear platitudes.

We can have deep conversations – not just exchange pleasantries.

Put yourself in a moment when you received or uttered platitudes in the midst of a crisis. Maybe you were trying to console a friend in their hour of need. Maybe you didn’t know what to say. And you said, “Things happen for a reason”. Put yourself back in that moment when you uttered those words. Now, translate your words into real talk. What did you actually mean? Think about how your words were received. What was left unsaid (the truths too uncomfortable to confront)?

To feel less like a vessel tossed about in stormy waters… and more a part of the ocean itself, we have to be honest. We have to say things as they really are. We can start having better, deeper, more caring relationships. This is especially important now to help remote work teams stay strong and connected, preventing physical distancing from introducing emotional rifts that complicate collaboration.

Engaging in this kind of real talk is rare – especially in the midst of a crisis. Most conversations are not that way, that honest and real, with so much vulnerability given to each conversation. But that kind of conversation is a gift. Perhaps the most important thing we can do for each other is have a real talk in the midst of a crisis, instead of giving platitudes. Perhaps one of the kindest gestures we can extend to others in a global pandemic is to say things as they really are.