Grieving in Another Language

There are days when learning a language simply means remembering how to ask for directions, make an appointment, or explain an absence.

And then there are days when you need to say: my child died.

You may know the words. Saying them aloud is another matter.

I lost my child here in Denmark. Alongside that loss, there was still an ordinary life to attend to—work, language classes, questions to answer. The world continued to ask for my attention when most of it was somewhere else.

Learning a new language requires deep concentration. You listen carefully, search for the right word, and try again when you are misunderstood. After a loss, even a familiar conversation can feel exhausting; doing all of this in a language you are still learning adds an invisible weight to every interaction.

Sometimes, a short answer is simply the only answer you have the energy to give.

The distance between words and feelings

Having lived in five countries, I am familiar with existing between languages and cultures. I know the uncertainty of wondering whether I have understood someone correctly, or if my true meaning came across.

Grief brought a different kind of uncertainty.

How much do you tell someone you have just met? How do you explain why an ordinary question has suddenly become so heavy? What do you say when someone asks about your family?

Even in my native language, I do not always know. In another language, I am often searching for the right sentence while simultaneously deciding whether I have the strength to say it. There is a particular loneliness in having something profound to share, yet lacking the words to express it fully.

Returning to an ordinary day

Going back to work or attending a language lesson can look like a return to normal life. From the outside, you are there: you have arrived, taken your seat, and opened your book.

Inside, the day feels entirely different.

You might follow a conversation and then lose your place as a sudden memory interrupts. You might laugh at a joke and miss your loved one in that same moment. You might complete a small task and feel a quiet relief that you managed just this one thing.

I want there to be more understanding for these quiet, daily efforts—for the person who shows up but is quieter than before, for the woman who needs a sentence repeated, and for the days when simply getting through a working day has taken everything she had to give.

Finding people you can speak with

Living between cultures has made genuine connection especially important to me. Familiarity takes time to build. In a new country, people often only know the version of you they have recently met. They may know very little about your life before you arrived, or about the person whose absence now shapes your every day.

Getting to know someone slowly makes room for that fuller story.

A conversation over tea can begin with something ordinary—the weather, a local spot, or the struggle to find a word. Over time, you may feel safe enough to say more. Or you may simply discover the comfort of someone’s company without the pressure to explain anything at all.

This is why I am creating With You—an English-speaking community in Denmark for women who have lost a loved one.

English will be our shared bridge, even if it is not the first language for many of us. There will be different accents, different ways of expressing feelings, and moments when the right word simply will not come.

I hope we can grant one another grace in those moments.

Time to finish a sentence. Time to change the subject. Time to speak about someone we love without feeling the need to make their story shorter or easier for others to hear.

And perhaps, in time, the simple comfort of seeing a familiar face—someone with whom the next conversation feels just a little less difficult.

With You Denmark