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Barbara S. Held is the Barry N. Wish professor of psychology and social studies emerita at Bowdoin College.

A few months ago my beloved, talented, witty, generous and caring younger sister died after nine years of battling recurrent ovarian cancer. This was preceded by other traumas, which filled her life with physical and emotional pain.

If I could look back on her life with mostly good memories, I could console myself more readily. And though the condolences of some have indeed provided comfort, others have done the opposite. 

Although I’m a psychologist, I wondered how normal my own grief process has been. After all, I’m hardly following psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ ever-popular five stages of grief model— denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — which has been rightly criticized for its inaccuracies and harmful potential.

To elaborate, my ability to deny unpleasant facts has never been strong, and since no one was responsible for my sister’s illness I haven’t felt anger. Bargaining with God is out, as I don’t believe in any sort of supreme being. I know I’m not depressed clinically, as I’m functioning reasonably well.

Moreover, despite my not being a Freudian, I fit Freud’s description of normal grieving in his famous essay “Mourning and Melancholia” rather than his description of melancholia/depression, which requires treatment. And being a born-and-bred fighter, I’ve come to some form of acceptance, as there’s nothing to fight at this point, and so I’m engaging with the world as it is now, post-loss.

People who know me well knew to avoid pervasive grief-dismissing platitudes: “Thoughts and prayers” (no thanks). “She’s in a better place” (if nowhere is a better place, I guess so).  “She’s not in pain anymore” (cold comfort).

Though well-intended, the most upsetting platitude came from someone who offered, “Your good memories will console you.” He seemingly supposed himself to know that my memories are good ones and therefore consoling (cue sympathy cards). But the memories of my sister’s pain have only heightened my sorrow. I can no longer imagine her having a life that gets better with time.

As beloved Maine psychiatrist Aldo Llorente, whose unconventional wisdom helped many, put it in a twist on an old aphorism, “My road to hell is paved with your good intentions.” Indeed.

The most comforting response was from a young friend and colleague who sent me a small statue of Zeus holding a thunderbolt. She knew I appreciated the ancient Greek gods who personified forces of nature and so made more sense to me than the Jewish Old Testament monotheism with which I was raised.  Her note said simply, “We’re sorry you lost your beloved sister,” and was signed “With love.” Being understood goes a long way, especially in tough times.

My final exchange with my sister remains heartening. As she lay in hospice barely awake owing to morphine, I called out her name, at which point she focused on me intently. I then blurted out, “Bert! See you on the other side!” She smiled broadly, indicating  she got my ironic meaning (as neither of us believed in an afterlife). This last moment of lucid contact I consider a gift from the gods. 

What people don’t understand is that I don’t want to be cheered up — the grief tells me how much I loved my sister. As psychiatrist Colin Murray Parkes wrote in 1972, “The pain of grief is just as much a part of life as the joy of love; it is, perhaps the price we pay for love.” And though my grief is becoming less intense over time, I’m not worried about meeting any “recovery” time tables. 

An episode of CNN’s “All There Is with Anderson Cooper” podcast is titled “Grief Is Not a Problem to Be Solved.”

If people understood this, they might not rush to whisk it away with platitudes that may make them feel better but may harm the bereaved. By my lights, it should be respected as an inevitable, highly individualized part of life and so handled with utmost care.