Words&Dirt

The loss of a loved one is one of the most devastating events in human life, and this is especially true when the loss is unexpected. Megan Devine discovered this when she witnessed the tragic drowning of her partner in the summer of 2009. In the wake of this traumatic accident, Devine realized that her training as a psychotherapist and experience with clients in grief were inadequate to help her manage her own grief. Her struggles were compounded by a “wider cultural sweep of grief illiteracy,” and she became determined to discover better modes of expression and survival for people in grief (25). This journey led her to create Refuge in Grief, an online community where people come together to share grief-related experiences and writings. In 2017, Devine published It’s OK That You’re Not OK, a synthesis of lessons from her own grief process and those of the people she has worked with.

As the title suggests, It’s OK That You’re Not OK is structured to directly address the needs of readers in grief, and this makes it more self-help than psychological scholarship. But the book is informed by the science of grief, and covers a variety of topics such as the ways people react to grief (helpful and unhelpful), the internal experience of grief (including its effects on physiology and psychology), the distinction between pain and suffering in grief, and what Devine calls a “new model” of surviving and thriving in the midst of grief (57).

Devine makes two central claims about how we ought to shift our understanding of grief. The first of these is that grief is neither a psychological disorder nor a problem that can be fixed. Devine is particularly critical of the “medical model” of grief because she feels that it pathologizes grief processes that don’t quickly and neatly resolve themselves:

As a culture, our views on grief are almost entirely negative. Grief is seen as an aberration, a detour from “normal,” happy life. Our medical models call it a disorder. We believe that grief is a short-term response to a difficult situation, and as such, should be over and done within a few weeks. Grief that hasn’t disappeared, faded back into fond memories and an occasional wistful smile, is evidence that you’ve done something wrong, or that you aren’t as resilient, skilled, or healthy as you thought you were before. (26)

As an alternative to the medical model, Devine characterizes grief as a rational response to “an impossible new reality” that disrupts a person’s emotional regulation and autobiographical narrative (129). This is an experience that needs to be witnessed and tended to rather than analyzed and resolved. One cannot succeed or fail at grief, because such concepts cannot be healthily applied in this context. We should avoid the urge to create standards that dictate “expected” recovery timelines or “appropriate” healing modes, instead accepting that grief is a highly-individualized and experimental process that manifests differently for everyone:

Grief itself is not a problem, and as such, cannot be fixed. Grief is a natural process; it has an intelligence all its own. It will shift and change on its own. When we support the natural process of grief, rather than try to push it or rush it or clean it up, it gets softer. Your job is to tend to yourself as best you can, leaning into whatever love, kindness, and companionship you can. It’s an experiment. An experiment you were thrown into against your will, but an experiment all the same. (177)

Despite being sympathetic to Devine’s point of view, I think she is sometimes too dismissive of the medical model’s approach. While it is both commendable and desirable to carve out a non-pathologized space in which grief can stand on its own, Devine fails to confront the good reasons that clinicians and researchers have to include grief––especially complicated grief (CG)––in their efforts to understand and treat psychological disorders. In my recent research for an abnormal psychology course, I learned that it’s very difficult (perhaps impossible) to disentangle grief from psychological disorders, both because preexisting disorders can make handling grief more difficult, and also because grief can trigger disorders that weren’t previously present. Such research doesn’t contradict Devine’s assertion that grief is a natural condition that shouldn’t be pathologized, but it does indicate that grief can influence and be influenced by psychological disorders in complex ways that merit further study.

Devine’s second central claim is that we need a “new model” of grief, a revised cultural and linguistic framework that can foster more honest and effective pathways to survival and flourishing for grieving people. She offers many practical guidelines regarding things we should (or should not) do or say in our efforts to help those in grief, and ultimately identifies one’s social support network as the most important factor for coping. She encourages grieving people to search for their “Tribe of After”–– companions in grief who can help them “knit a story of survival inside pain that can’t be fixed” (221-2). Demonstrating her desire for better metaphors to describe a healthy grief process, Devine likens one’s support network to a cast on a broken bone that provides “external support so it [the bone] can go about the intricate, complex, difficult process of growing itself back together” (200-1).

I have benefitted greatly from exploring Devine’s perspective. In my work co-facilitating grief support groups through Hospice of Humboldt, I am always searching for new and better ways to understand the experiences of the people I serve, as well as language with which to help them articulate their experiences. I now open our sessions with a line from Devine’s closing chapter: “I’m so sorry you have need of this place, and I’m so glad you’re here” (235).

Rating: 7/10