Where Empathy Lives with Grief and Grace

Where Empathy Lives with Grief and Grace

Lately I’ve been sitting with a word that sounds simple but clearly isn’t: empathy. Not sympathy. Not pity. Empathy. The kind that shows up before explanation. The kind that doesn’t require someone to justify their existence, their needs, or their differences.

As someone living with low vision, I’m constantly reminded how much the world still expects differently abled people to adapt quietly while everyone else carries on as usual. And honestly? It can be exhausting.

What many people don’t realize is that disability isn’t always obvious. Some of us don’t “look blind.” Some disabilities are invisible altogether. That doesn’t make them any less real. And it definitely doesn’t make navigating daily life easier.

Sometimes I feel like I need a flashing sign above my head that says:

“I can’t see you. Please announce yourself.”  

“Don’t walk up on me. It will startle me.”  

“I’m not ignoring you. I probably just didn’t know you were there.”

That’s not attitude. That’s accessibility.

And lately, I’ve been reminded how layered life really is. Disability. Grief. Growth. Joy. Stress. All sitting at the same table whether we invite them or not.

The hardest moment of my week came unexpectedly. I saw Uncle Charles driving Babs’ green truck on Hendersonville Road. For a split second, my heart said, That’s her. Then reality caught up.

Talk about triggering. Whew.

It pulled me right back into something grief teaches quietly: time doesn’t actually stop when someone you love dies… but it definitely stops making sense.

Hours blur. Laughter and tears coexist. You can have a full day with conversations, wings, laughter, family - and then suddenly remember they aren’t physically here anymore.

It still feels strange saying “was” instead of “is” when I talk about Babs.

Grief doesn’t always look like crying.  

Sometimes it looks like losing track of time.  

Sometimes it looks like joy mixed with guilt.  

Sometimes it looks like being surrounded by people and still feeling that quiet absence.

Scripture reminds me I’m not alone in that tension:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”  ~ Psalm 34:18

That verse doesn’t promise the absence of grief. It promises presence within it.

And honestly? This time of year doesn’t help.

Cold weather. Short days. Everybody tucked inside. You’re already in your feelings, and then winter shows up like, “Here… sit in the house, eat something, and think about it.” 😂

Seasonal blues plus grief is a real combination. Less sunlight. Less movement. More reflection. Sometimes more comfort food than planned. No judgment. Just reality.

But here’s the truth nobody prepares you for:

You don’t get over people you love.  

You learn how to carry them differently.

Community softens grief. Sitting with people who understand loss - even when it isn’t the exact same loss, reminds you love doesn’t disappear. It just changes shape.

And legacy? Legacy lives in stories, habits, recipes, sayings, traditions, values. Legacy lives in us.

Babs is still here in that way. Some days that’s enough. Other days it still hurts. Both can be true.

This is where empathy becomes sacred work.

One of my favorite theologians, Howard Thurman once wrote, “There is something in every one of you that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself.”

That resonates deeply with me. Because empathy requires authenticity. It requires listening beyond appearances. It asks us to see what isn’t obvious.

Empathy understands that people may be carrying grief you can’t see. Disabilities you don’t notice. Anxiety you don’t hear. History you don’t know.

Empathy sounds like:

“Hey Leslie, it’s me.”  

“Do you need a hand or are you good?”  

“Take your time.”  

“I’m here.”

That’s unconditional love in action. Not fixing. Not judging. Just seeing.

Ironically, one of my highlights lately has been my Meta AI glasses. Technology stepping in where people sometimes fall short. They’ve increased my independence and lowered my anxiety navigating the world.

But let me be honest… the biggest stressor usually isn’t the disability itself.

It’s people. Other people. People who don’t know or understand what has happened to me. The reality is - I’m not who I was 3 months ago. I’m unable to carry the load I once carried. I’m unable to navigate like I once did. My life has completely changed, and unfortunately that also means the way I show up in the world for myself and others has also changed.

People assume.  

People dismiss.  

People who don’t understand invisible disabilities.  

People forget simple courtesy like announcing themselves.

Empathy changes that.

Empathy means believing people when they tell you what they need. Adjusting without making them feel like a burden. Recognizing that grief, disability, healing, and growth often coexist.

And here’s what I know for sure:

Blindness doesn’t mean darkness. Sometimes it means clarity.  

Grief doesn’t mean brokenness. Sometimes it means love continuing in a different form.  

Needing understanding doesn’t mean weakness. It means humanity.

So if you see me out in the world? Say my name first. It really does help.

And if you’re grieving, navigating disability, or just trying to make sense of life lately… give yourself grace.

Joy and grief can share the same room.  

Strength and vulnerability can coexist.  

Love doesn’t disappear. It evolves.

That’s not weakness.

That’s empathy.  

That’s grace.  

That’s love refusing to disappear.

~ Leslie A. Council