Near Missed Grief

It was during a quiet debrief in a hospital chaplaincy internship when I first heard the term.

I had just finished recounting a moment I can't really speak about in detail — partly because of confidentiality, and partly because I still don’t have the words. It was a family’s worst day. I was there as a minister, not a friend or family member. But somehow, I walked away carrying something that felt heavier than empathy. And I couldn’t shake it.

My supervisor listened quietly, then said gently, “That sounds like near missed grief.” I paused. The phrase landed somewhere between clinical and sacred. Near missed grief — the kind that brushes your skin but doesn’t pierce it. The ache you feel when you weren’t the one who suffered the loss, but you walked beside the ones who did. It’s not your grief. But it’s close. Close enough to break something open.

It Didn’t Happen to You… But You Still Feel It

Maybe you’ve felt this too. You weren’t there. You didn’t lose a loved one. It wasn’t your home, your town, your tragedy. But when you heard about it, something in you dropped: A deep tenderness. A catch in the throat. A protective hand reaching toward your child’s head, your partner’s shoulder. A sudden prayer: “God, help them.”

You felt it, not as the victim but as a human being, trying to make sense of suffering so close it burns your imagination. I’ve come to believe near missed grief is one of the holiest aches we can feel. Not because it makes sense, but because it connects us.

The Strange Responsibility of the Witness

In the chaplaincy moment I mentioned earlier, I kept feeling something that surprised me: a strange sense of responsibility.Not because I’d caused anything because I hadn’t, and I knew that. And yet… I felt implicated, wounded by proximity andresponsible, somehow, for holding what I had witnessed. I think it’s because we carry not just sympathy, but presence. We see something we can’t unsee. We walk beside someone in the moment their world ends — and our world keeps going. That’s disorienting.

In near missed grief, you find yourself grieving for someone, and with them, and — in a strange way — almost as them. It’s not logical. But it’s real. And it’s okay to feel it.

How Do We Hold What Isn’t Ours?

That’s the question I keep asking: How do I hold grief that doesn’t belong to me?

For me, it starts with prayer. Not just “fix it, God” prayers, but gratitude-soaked ones.Prayers that begin with awe — for the people I love, for breath in my lungs, for the life I didn’t lose. And prayers of lament for the lives that were shattered, even if I don’t know their names.

I hold my children tighter. I hold my wife’s hand a little longer.And I remind myself: It could have been us. That’s not fear. That’s reverence. Grief humbles you, even when it’s not your own.

Empathy, Co-Suffering, and Just Sitting Still

Someone once asked me if I believe in the difference between empathy and co-suffering. I think I do. Empathy says, “I see you. I feel some of what you feel.” Co-suffering says, “I will stay with you in it — even if I can’t feel all that you feel.”People know when it’s real. They can spot forced sympathy. But they can also spot presence. Stillness. The kind of attention that doesn’t require words. You can’t suffer someone’s loss for them.But you can sit beside them without flinching. That matters.

Why I’m Writing This

I’m writing this today not because I have answers because I don’t. And not because I want to explain near missed griefbecause I can’t. I’m writing it because I think others are feeling it right now — especially in light of recent tragedies, the kind that happen on a summer holiday when the world is supposed to be full of light and laughter, not darkness and loss. I’m not going to name the event. That’s not the point. But if your chest felt tight when you saw the headlines —If you kissed your kids on the forehead and lingered a little longer — If you felt tears rise for someone you’ve never met —That’s near missed grief. And it’s okay to name it.

The Ache That Makes Us Human

Near missed grief is the ache that makes us more human. It’s not about inserting ourselves into someone else’s tragedy. It’s about recognizing our shared vulnerability — and letting that recognition lead us to deeper gratitude, gentler speech, and a more grounded love. It’s okay to be moved. It’s okay to weep.It’s okay to be haunted by something you weren’t directly part of.

That doesn’t make you dramatic. It makes you alive. And I think God meets us there — not with quick answers, but with quiet presence. The kind that can carry sorrow without rushing it away.

If you're carrying something heavy and don’t quite know why — maybe this is it. And maybe that’s enough for today: just naming it. Near missed grief. It’s real. You’re not alone.