Grief, Funerals, and Friendship: Coming Together When Life Falls Apart
Last month, I attended a funeral. My chosen family and I gathered from across the country to honor the life of a dear friend’s spouse who had very suddenly and tragically passed away in an accident. He was 43.
Funerals are a myriad of things. They gather together people who might not otherwise find themselves in the same room. They press pause on the usual distractions and small talk. They strip away the illusion that life is endless or predictable. And for a moment, we find ourselves face-to-face with what it means to be human: fragile, temporary, deeply connected, and deeply in need of one another.
The days were full of contradictions:
Sweet reunions and unimaginable goodbyes.
Side-splitting laughter and heart-wrenching grief.
The joy of being together and the sadness of separation.
One moment we were picking up items from the grocery store, and the next moment we were laying down flowers on a casket.
One minute we were reliving hilarious stories from our college years, and the next minute we were navigating high-stakes “Situation Room” conversations when sh*t was hitting the fan.
Life has a way of being beautiful and brutal at the same time, and last month, I felt both pressing down hard.
I was reminded that joy and grief, laughter and sorrow, often exist side by side—and that presence, love, and connection matter more than ever in those moments.
On Community and Communion
Experiencing such a wide range of emotions last month made me reflect on the kind of presence and connection that truly matter when life throws the unimaginable at you.
It made me think about community—a word many of us who grew up in high-control religion have heard a lot about and experienced in very particular ways. But these recent events also made me notice a distinction I hadn’t fully considered before: the difference between commun-ity and commun-ion (another word that many with religious backgrounds are familiar with).
Perhaps community revolves around celebrations, weddings, reunions, birthdays, game nights. These moments are important, joyful, and life-giving. They bring people together and give our lives texture.
But maybe communion is more about coming together when life falls apart. At times of loss, heartbreak, or suffering, communion is about being present with others so that the weight of grief is just a little less crushing—because no one has to bear it alone.
For many of us who grew up in religious circles, community was a double-edged sword. There was a sense of belonging—but it was always conditional. You had to obey the rules, believe the “right” things, behave in prescribed ways.
True communion, however, is different. It shows up for the moments no one wants to attend—loss, death, heartbreak. It doesn’t try to fix the pain, and it doesn’t require you to check any boxes first. It simply sits with you in the hard moments so that you’re not carrying it alone. It’s the kind of connection that doesn’t ask for a membership card. It just pulls up a chair and stays.
Staying Until You’re Ready to Walk Out Together
At one point toward the end of the reception, a few people were lingering after the official program had concluded. The food had been cleared away, the slideshow had stopped looping, but some just couldn’t bring themselves to leave. For them, walking out of that room wasn’t just a logistical choice—it was a symbolic one. To leave was to cross a threshold into a life forever changed.
And so, none of us rushed. No one coaxed or hurried. Instead, friends and loved ones sat nearby—some standing, some silent, some gently holding a hand or leaning close in quiet solidarity. It wasn’t planned or orchestrated. It was simply a shared promise that became visible in the room: We’re not leaving until you’re ready. And when you are, we’ll walk out with you together.
There was no need for explanations, advice, or reassurances. The presence itself spoke volumes.
That moment has stayed with me. It reminded me that presence is its own kind of language. We sometimes underestimate how much weight can be carried in silence, in waiting, in simply being near someone who is struggling to take the next step. It’s not about solving or fixing. It’s about saying, without words: You don’t have to do this alone.
It reminded me that when life falls apart, we need people who will sit with us for as long as we need, and will walk back out into life with us together.
The Risk of Loving Deeply
After telling my therapist about the funeral, he asked:
"How will you use this awareness of death to step more fully into life?”
At first, I didn’t know what to say. But then we started talking about how relationships are what give life meaning—and how that’s both beautiful and terrifying.
The questions of the hour became:
How do you lean more into relationships that you know, for a variety of potential reasons, you are eventually going to lose?
How do you simultaneously hold on to people when you know at some point, maybe unexpectedly, you are going to have to let them go?
Because here’s the truth: if you open yourself to love and connection, you also open yourself to loss. You open yourself to grief. You open yourself to the possibility that one day, you’ll sit in a reception hall wondering how to walk back out into a world that is permanently altered.
As someone whose natural tendency is to avoid pain and discomfort, this is a bit of a mindfuck. My wiring, whether by nature or nurture, is to self-protect and defend against pain. To stay somewhat closed off and keep my cards close to the vest so that it doesn’t hurt as much in the end.
But I also know that doing so means missing out on connection. On joy. On communion. On life.
Last month reminded me: I would rather feel the fullness of connection—even knowing it will one day bring pain—than miss out on it altogether.
Choosing Communion Anyway
To say that finding friends, community, and communion with others after leaving high-control religion is difficult is an understatement. Religious trauma can make us wary of relationships. It can convince us that people will only be there if we meet their conditions, believe the same things, or behave in the ways that are allowed. It can isolate us in ways that make us feel completely alone and like no one else could ever possibly understand what we’ve been through.
But the truth is, we need other people. We need friends, community, and communion.
Because unfortunately, life is both beautiful and brutal. We will lose people we love. We will face heartbreak we didn’t see coming.
And still—if we let ourselves—we can find people who will sit with us in the mess and walk with us out of the room when we’re ready.
To my fellow survivors:
May we risk connection, even when it feels scary.
May we choose communion, not just community.
May we remember that joy is sweeter and pain is lighter when we don’t carry it alone.
Looking for support from a therapist who gets it?
I specialize in therapy for survivors of religious trauma, spiritual abuse, high-control religion, and purity culture. If you’re in CA, FL, or MO, I’d love to walk alongside you on your healing journey.
Click the button below to request a free 15-minute consultation.