Mourning is not a Task

July 29, 2025

Think about the conventional language we use to talk about mourning. “Have you recovered?” “Have you processed it?” “Yeah, I’m on good terms with it now.” “I need a few more months, I’m still a bit lost.”

They seem to suggest that mourning is a process that can start at a specific time, can be worked on throughout a period of time, and end when the process is finished. This makes sense on a surface level; according to our capitalist and granularized perception of time, it is possible to put a timestamp on everything. But is it?

Mourning, like all consequential processes of human emotion, is complex—not just in the way that psychiatrists say depression is complicated as a disclaimer or HR say the situation is complicated to give you time to brace for impact—in the way that the discussion around it is terrifyingly one-dimensional (in fact, increasingly one-dimensional and vague) compared to the vast structures it actually is. Think of Bowlby, Kubler-Ross, and Stroebe-Schut. Psychology that confirms common sense is nothing short of productive psychology, but it can seem unnecessary to bombard people who seek help with quarter-baked worksheets based on half-baked theories, even if they come from well-done research.

It is worth repeating that mourning is complicated. However, it is worth first challenging this task-based conception of mourning, especially in a world where finance bros and hustlers encourage people to slap AGILE goals on characteristically ever-changing processes.

So what is mourning like?

Mourning is like inserting punctuation in a never-ending monologue. Inserting punctuation is finding structure where structure is not obvious, but it is also understanding what is not yet understood. Punctuation does not soften harsh words in the monologue but finds logic in an otherwise chaotic thread of pain. New patterns emerge and disappear over time, never static, but always on topic. The work is never done, as long as you keep living and conscious, but you do not remember for sure when it started, either. An unreliable memory ensures that a new stable structure emerges every so often, but destabilization, whether intentional or unintentional, is never out of the question.

Mourning is like a long, drawn-out game of correspondence chess. Like a game of chess, mourning comes with certainties, uncertainties, surprises, and disappointments. You play moves that represent the future, whether hope or desperation. However, the moves of the opposing side play the remnants of the past you already know, but you might still sometimes disoriented by the harsh reality once so thoroughly understood. The game always ends in a draw; not signifying retaliation, but a pause and a possibility for a rematch. Maybe you do not have time for this by the time after the first match; the past is always there waiting for you.

Mourning is the rituals, celebrations, and rites of searching for the lost one. Mourning does not have to be inherently sad. Celebrating the time that has passed without something is just as valid as celebrating the time with it. The rituals do not have to be traditionally associated with mourning—you can borrow from birthday celebrations, pagan sacrifices, or even wedding ceremonies. When does the process of searching for the lost outweigh the desire to find? However different they may be, a new life is a continuation of the old, and one of them can help define the other. Reframing an event is not the whole story, but when someone sincerely celebrates being abandoned, despised, or left alone in this world, frank sincerity must outweigh the defensive irony.

Why see mourning as a progress bar when it is usually not? It is important to recognize when removing humanness from human desire goes overboard; it is productive to be confused, to be furious, or to be devastated. No, they do not even need to be productive to be allowed existence—they are deep marks of our compulsive resilience in a world where it is impossible to be.

This is a short-short article in a series of short-short opinion pieces. Ideas are of my own except when they are not.