To cry, or not

Something I posted over in the Grief Heart Friends group, and I thought you might like to see too.💕,

A couple of weeks ago, in response to a Tell the Truth Tuesday question, I posted:  

"I have been very lucky that my friends, so far, have had room for my grief. Even so, I never cry in front of anyone. I tear up a lot when I am alone, but I don't cry with others. I think that gives folks the impression all is well, even when not always the case."

And I have been thinking about it since. 

For me, tears have always been a private thing, something to save for when I'm alone. I think a lot of us hide our tears because we don't want to set off an "alarm." My fear is that if I cry in front of people, they’ll think I’m broken or need something right away. I don't want to give a friend the feeling of helplessness or make them feel like I’m burdening them.

Crying doesn’t mean I’m not okay. It often means a feeling is moving through. ​I keep circling back to a simple question: what would happen if I let a few tears be seen, not as a crisis, but just as a true thing happening? Would it feel like a burden, or a doorway to being accompanied? The privacy I seek creates a gap; it’s easy for people who care about me to assume I'm doing fine because they never see a crack in the armor. If I hide the weather, it appears to be a clear day.

I also wonder about the way we respond when we see tears. Most of us were given very few scripts. We reach for solutions, change the subject, or rush to reassure. None of that is wrong. It’s just what we know. What if there is another way? What if witnessing is its own kind of help? A soft voice. A slower pace. A quiet presence. I don’t have proof, but I suspect those small things make a bigger difference than we think.

There are practical questions too. Work. School. Grocery stores. Life is full of places where tears feel complicated. I’m not proposing a new rule that requires crying to happen in public. I’m only wondering about permission. Not every time. Not everywhere. Just… sometimes. When it would ease the pressure a little. When it would let our insides and my outsides match. 

This past weekend, I attended a Lantern Ceremony; hundreds of us gathered, each of us missing someone. Tears were welcome there, yet mine didn’t come. Deep down, I was mad that I had to write Jess’s name on that lantern, and still, the service and the company comforted me enough that I didn’t cry. There was a gentleness in the air. That was enough, at least for that day.

So for now, I still cry alone, it still helps, and I still think about the gap that creates in how others see me. I’m not ready to claim a new way, but I’m open to it. I’m watching my reactions with more curiosity. I’m asking new questions: What if tears could be ordinary? What if they could be held rather than hidden? What if the people who already make room for my grief could also make room for this part of it?

I don’t have an answer yet. Maybe I won’t for a while. Maybe the next time my eyes fill, I’ll take one slow breath and decide then. Perhaps I’ll continue to choose privacy until something within me says it’s time to try differently. Both seem okay.

For today, I’m letting the wondering do its work. If you have thoughts—or a story about a time visible tears brought relief rather than chaos—I’d love to hear it. I’m learning, I’m listening, and I’m leaving space for whatever comes next.