When Grief Makes You the Difficult One
Hello friend and fellow griever,
A few weeks ago, I asked the community over on Instagram (@andthatsgrief) what they’re concerned about most as the holidays approach. Over 100 people responded, and one of the major themes that came up was the fear of being positioned as “the difficult one”.
Ohhh the subtle (and not so subtle) shaming a griever endures during the holidays.
Of course year-round we see it, too. The cultural messaging that- as just one example- we must be “wallowing” or “stuck” if we’re still grieving after six months, two years, or eight years. But during the holidays, the pressure to hide your grief or compartmentalize your experience for the sake of others becomes an entirely different beast.
The stakes feel incredibly high to a nervous system already protecting you from more loss. And it’s often our closest people explicitly saying, or implying, that they’ll be disappointed or hurt if we change plans, can’t commit, or need to do things differently this year. It can feel impossible to take care of ourselves when doing so might deepen our disconnection from others- when our boundaries or requests are met with anger, confusion, disappointment, or frustration.
Perhaps you used to be “easy to be around” before your loss. You had your role like ‘the reliable one’, ‘the fun one’, ‘the get-it-all-done one’, or ‘the peacemaker’. You fit the family (or friend group) rhythm and participated predictably. Your presence wasn’t something anyone worried about or managed, and it wasn’t something you had to think too hard about, either. You were part of an ecosystem that just generally flowed.
But loss can drastically change that- sometimes for a season, and sometimes forevermore.
Now you might feel it when you walk into a room- the energy is different, or off, and it’s all so damn effortful. You’re the one they now tiptoe around and worry about, like they don’t quite know what to do with you anymore. You’ve gone from predictable participant to problem that needs figuring out.
How this “difficult one” dynamic can show up during the holidays
Sometimes it arrives in subtle ways, like the pause before “Oh... okay” that lets you know you’ve disappointed them. Other times it’s explicit: “But it’s Christmas! Can’t you just try?” You might share honestly and say, “I’m really struggling right now,” and watch the air change in the room, or feel the discomfort ripple outward like you’ve brought something contagious to dinner. Maybe you consider skipping an event because you genuinely don’t have the capacity, but the guilt arrives like a tide. You worry you’re being selfish, you’re choosing isolation, you’re the one ruining everything by not being able to just show up and smile through it.
The messages we internalize and the messages we often receive are: your grief is inconvenient. Your needs don’t fit the occasion. Your presence is only welcome if you can manage to seem okay.
What people say (and how it actually lands)
What can make navigating relationships after loss so hard is that the most painful comments often come wrapped in care. The person saying them usually has no idea how their words are landing, but here’s the translation between what they say and what a grieving heart hears:
“They wouldn’t want you to feel this way” = You’re grieving wrong and disappointing your loved one.
“It’s been X months/years, maybe it’s time to move forward” = Your grief has expired and you’ve failed.
“We’re all sad, but we’re still showing up” = You’re being excessive and everyone else can handle it.
I believe that often (not always), people aren’t consciously or deliberately trying to hurt you. They might be operating from their own discomfort with grief or carrying unprocessed losses themselves they don’t know how to face.
Your honesty may be threatening to a system that needs everyone to perform “normal.” Families and friend groups (what I sometimes refer to as ecosystems) often run on autopilot, moving toward what’s familiar, what’s comfortable, and what doesn’t require them to sit with difficult feelings. So when you stop pretending, you disrupt that autopilot.
And yes, it can leave you feeling like the problem. Like you’ve become “the difficult one.” But you don’t owe anyone a performance of being okay. You don’t have to sacrifice your truth to keep their comfort intact. That’s not your job- especially not while you’re deeply grieving.
And although you might very well become the scapegoat of the ecosystem because you’re challenging the status quo, please know that your courage to not pretend is a medicine- not only for yourself, but for the very people telling you not to take it.
You’re not responsible for being anyone’s teacher or medicine, and I want to be really clear about that- your only responsibility is to your own tender heart. But it can be a quiet solace to know that when you honor your own experience, you’re planting seeds of permission in the people around you. Someday, when grief inevitably finds them, they might remember how you didn’t pretend, and that memory might be the very thing that allows them to do the same.
*I want to acknowledge something important: For some of you, setting boundaries for yourself or honoring your needs first might not be safe or possible right now. If that’s you, please don’t add shame on top of your pain. Knowing what you need matters, even when you can’t act on it yet. Sometimes, the boundary is internal- energetically holding the truth of your experience in your heart while doing what you need to do to survive. That is making a smart, conscious choice. That’s wisdom. You’re not betraying yourself by keeping yourself safe.
If you’re anticipating the assigned role of ‘the difficult one’:
We might not be able to change how others respond, but we can practice staying connected to our truth, even when people interpret our needs as personal rejection. This might create temporary distance or tension in relationships, and that can feel terrifying for a grieving nervous system already on high alert.
Some relationships can weather this and find their way to “repairing the rupture” when both people are ready, and others might shift or change in ways we didn’t expect. But what I know to be true is that when your body tells you it needs something, like rest, space, quiet, or leaving early…that wisdom deserves to be honored, even imperfectly.
Your capacity isn’t limitless. You are not being difficult or selfish by having needs- you are a human whose resources are being used for the monumental task of learning to live with loss.
When you notice a limit for yourself- practice what I call “kind brevity.” State your need clearly without defending it (I understand, as a firstborn daughter and life-long people-pleaser, that this can feel equivalent to me asking you to throw your drink in someone’s face and walk away. It is not.):
“I can only stay for two hours. Thank you for understanding.”
“I’m not able to participate this year. I appreciate the invitation.”
“I need to head out now- my body is asking for rest.”
Notice that these are not explanations, they are loving statements of fact. You’re not asking permission, you’re informing with kindness.
When the guilt floods in (and it may), try this: Place your hand on your heart and remind yourself that guilt is just your nervous system’s way of trying to keep you connected. It’s not evidence that you’re doing something wrong, it’s evidence that connection matters to you. Right now, you’re choosing to connect with yourself first, and that can feel scary. The scared part needs you to stay with her.
Wishing you many moments of peace this season ahead my friends. It’s a lot, and you’re doing enough.
With you in all the complexity,
Rio
If you’re tired of trying to figure out this impossible balancing act alone, if you want to learn how to trust your system’s wisdom and develop that more compassionate relationship with your own rhythms - this is exactly the kind of work we do together in my 8-week Grief Portal Program beginning January ‘26.
Through Internal Family Systems (IFS) parts work, somatic awareness, and art expression, you’ll learn to work WITH your grief instead of against it. There’s no pressure to share personal details, just gentle exploration of what your system needs alongside others who are just as ready to do this a different way.
If this kind of support is what your system’s been asking for, I’d love to have you. To save your spot, join the waitlist here.
Any questions about the group or otherwise? I’m here to read and respond to all :)
Touching The Fire is a space for grievers, feelers, and those carrying more than the world can see. For reflections and tools in your inbox, and to support this work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.