Little did we know what a blessing it was to know grief before social media.
Before posts.
Before notifications.
Before comments and speculation and strangers feeling entitled to pieces of your worst day.
Before you could learn about your child’s death through a screen.
Before graphic details were shared by people who weren’t there.
Before misinformation spread faster than truth.
Before tragedy became content.
There was a time when grief arrived slowly. Quietly. Through a knock at the door. A phone call. A drive taken in silence. There was space. Privacy. Protection. A sacredness to pain.
Now, these devices—these extensions of our hands—have erased that boundary. We carry the whole world in our pockets, and the whole world feels it has the right to look, to comment, to know.
I don’t think we were meant to grieve this loudly.
Or this publicly.
Or this instantly.
Tonight, my heart breaks not only for a life lost far too soon, but for her parents—who must navigate the unthinkable while the internet hums around them, careless and relentless.
If there is anything to be learned in moments like this, maybe it’s this:
Be slower.
Be quieter.
Be kinder.
Not every story needs to be shared.
Not every detail needs to be known.
And not every moment of grief belongs to the crowd.
Tonight, hold space for a family shattered, for a community grieving, and for a world that desperately needs to remember how to be human without a screen in the way.
Hold your people close.
Speak softly.
And let some things remain sacred💔