NUMBNESS FOLLOWS SHOCK

It’s true. Numbness usually follows shock. So be prepared.

When someone you love dies unexpectedly, your body goes into shock. Your brain goes into shock. It’s as if every internal system freezes mid-motion. The world tilts. Sound becomes muffled. Time stretches and collapses all at once.

barren winter scene

And then—almost mercifully—that shock softens into numbness.

Numbness is not weakness. It is not denial. It is not failure to love deeply enough.

It is your brain’s way of protecting you from being completely overwhelmed.

Suddenly your whole world feels gray. Or grey. (Tomay-to, Tomah-to.) The color drains out of everything. Christmas lights don’t sparkle. Laughter sounds distant. Even your own voice feels like it’s coming from someone else.

When I got the call that my friend had died—my friend I had seen just two days before—I was driving down the freeway. One moment I was thinking about ordinary things. Traffic. Errands. Life. The next moment, my world cracked open.

I had to pull over.

Cars kept speeding past me while I sat there gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. I don’t remember screaming. I don’t remember crying. I remember… nothing. Just a strange stillness inside my chest.

I’m not sure exactly when shock shifted into numbness. It wasn’t a dramatic transition. It was more like the dimming of a light. My brain slipped into neutral. I functioned, but I didn’t feel.

Unfortunately, it was right before Christmas. A season that insists on joy. A season that seems to shout, Celebrate! when your heart wants to whisper, I can’t.

The decorations felt hollow. The music irritated me. The world’s cheerfulness felt almost offensive. But I kept moving, because movement is sometimes all you can manage.

The way I coped was unexpected. I helped her sister clear out her house.

We sorted clothes. We boxed dishes. We found notes tucked into drawers. We opened closets still holding the shape of her life. Every object was evidence: She was here. She lived.

She mattered.

It took us several months.

There is something profoundly healing about grieving alongside someone who loved the same person. We didn’t have to explain our tears. We didn’t have to justify our silence. Some days we talked about her nonstop. Other days we just folded sweaters in quiet understanding.

Helping clear out her home forced me to confront reality in a way my numb brain could not avoid. I couldn’t pretend she was on vacation. I couldn’t tell myself she was just busy and would call soon. Her absence echoed in every empty drawer.

Little by little, the numbness began to thaw.

Not all at once. Grief rarely works that way. It came in waves—moments of sharp sadness breaking through the fog. Then tears. Then memories that made me smile instead of only ache.

Acknowledging that she had gone Over the Rainbow Bridge didn’t erase the pain. But it did shift something inside me. Acceptance is not approval. It is not agreement. It is simply the recognition of what is true.

Numbness is a bridge. Shock is the doorway.

Acceptance waits somewhere on the other side.

If you are in that gray place right now, please know this: your numbness is not permanent. It is your nervous system giving you space to survive the unbearable. Feelings will return—gently, sometimes fiercely—but they will return.

And when they do, that is when the real healing begins.

Be well and stay strong,

Shirley