Grief, while deeply personal, often becomes a public performance due to societal expectations. This article examines the conflict between private mourning and social pressure for visible grieving, drawing from both the author's experience of losing her father to esophageal cancer and scholarly research, particularly Judith Butler's work on performativity. The analysis contrasts anticipatory grief—an internal, unrecognized experience—with the prescribed rituals of public mourning across various cultures, from Islamic and Hindu traditions to Western practices. These social expectations frequently overshadow the complex, individual nature of loss. This piece advocates for recognizing grief as a unique, personal journey that needs no audience or social validation, challenging readers to respect the private nature of mourning and support healing without judgment.
Trigger Warning: Mention of Death
When my father passed away, grief arrived with quiet intensity, yet society demanded it be loud and visible. My mother and I had already endured months of watching him suffer from esophageal cancer, seeing him fade day by day, and feeling our hearts break in silence. We grieved then, privately, in those final two months as his life slipped away. But after his death, people expected a different kind of grief from us—a public display, a recognizable performance of sorrow. The quiet pain we carried, the exhaustion, the helplessness—none of it seemed enough.
The intimate, raw grief felt in private stands in stark contrast to the scripted sorrow society expects to witness. Is there a "correct" way to grieve, a way that looks suitably broken to others? Through personal experience and scholarly reflection, the tension emerges between our authentic mourning and the performative displays expected by those around us, raising the question of whether grief can ever truly belong to us if we're pressured to perform it.
Grief began for us long before my father passed away. It came quietly and without warning in the hospital room where he learned about his illness. This started a long, tough journey that changed how my mother and I felt about loss. Those final two months were like standing on a cliff edge, looking into a darkness we couldn’t pull him back from. His body was there, but we saw his spirit—his vitality, his laughter, his hope—begin to dissolve in front of us. We were mourning the loss of a father, a husband, a man who had been everything to us, not at the moment of his death but each day as his body weakened, as his voice softened, as he seemed to fade into a space where we couldn’t follow.
This experience was far from the conventional image of grief society expects to see. Our sorrow didn’t wait for funeral rites or condolences to set in; it rooted itself in each visit to the hospital, each quiet drive home, and each night spent watching him fight through pain, bravely and helplessly. Grief, at that time, was not just sorrow; it was the daily torment of witnessing his suffering and our inability to change it. We weren’t performing anything, and there was no visible display. Our pain wasn't shown through sad clothes or crying faces; it was felt in our quiet hands, the looks we gave each other when words weren't enough, and the deep sadness of knowing he was slowly leaving us.
Anticipatory grief, as it is sometimes called, often lacks a framework in our cultural understanding of loss, which tends to focus on what happens after death. Yet this private, anticipatory grief was more vivid, more piercing, and more consuming than anything we would feel in the days that followed his passing. It’s a peculiar kind of heartbreak, knowing that each visit might be the last time you’ll hear his voice or hold his hand, feeling grateful for every moment and simultaneously terrified that the next might be the last.
What defined this period was not just sorrow but helplessness—a sense of suspended reality where our lives were woven around his suffering, leaving no room for anything else. The act of supporting him, of sitting with him in his pain, brought an intimacy to our grief that is almost indescribable. It’s a part of mourning that happens behind closed doors, invisible to the outside world, without the comforting rituals of funeral rites or the consoling words of friends and family. There is no validation in this quiet mourning, no room for explanation, and certainly no need to share it. It’s a private sorrow, shared in silence, in the very presence of the person whose absence you’re dreading.
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When he passed, the shock of it was, in a way, softened by the fact that we had already been grieving. The grief didn’t start on that day; it merely shifted form. This early grief was raw and complex, making it difficult to face the expectations others had for how we should grieve outwardly after his death. In those two months, we mourned deeply, in ways words cannot capture and in ways society would never see. The reality of this private sorrow set it apart from anything we could have performed; it was as real as it was invisible. In those last months, we discovered that real grief happens away from others' eyes, intertwined with our most private moments. We sat with him, cherishing his presence while also getting ready for his absence.
And yet, when the moment of loss arrived, we were thrust into the world’s expectations of grief—expectations that often felt at odds with the deeply personal sorrow we had already been living. The idea of “grief performativity” helps explain this tension. Rooted in Judith Butler’s broader concept of “performativity,” it suggests that much like gender, grief is often shaped by social scripts rather than purely personal experience. Butler’s work, particularly on gender, argues that traits like masculinity or femininity are not inherent but are enacted based on societal norms. Similarly, grief is not only an internal process but also an external one, dictated by unspoken rules about how loss should be expressed. Just as we perform gender, we are also expected to perform grief—mourning in ways that align with cultural expectations rather than in ways that reflect the true, often invisible, nature of sorrow.
“Grief performativity” is the societal expectation that grief must be displayed in particular, outward ways to be considered legitimate. This can look like adhering to cultural rituals, displaying somberness in demeanor, dressing a certain way, or even changing behaviors and habits. These norms, dictated by religion, culture, and family customs, pressure individuals to display grief in ways that others can understand and validate. For instance, a widow might be expected to abstain from wearing certain colors or avoid celebratory gatherings, while a mourner may be encouraged to cry openly or speak about their loss in public. These visible signs create a way for society to measure grief—whether it’s “enough,” whether it’s appropriate, and, disturbingly, whether it’s even real.
Yet, grief is an internal experience, far removed from what others can see. Psychological theories, such as Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief, attempt to define this inner journey, highlighting how the process includes denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and, finally, acceptance. But while these stages attempt to make sense of grief’s nonlinear progression, they are still often simplified in the public eye, leading many to expect grieving individuals to move through each stage in predictable, observable ways. Sociologically, grief has also been studied as a collective experience, where cultures shape how grief is processed. However, public mourning and expectations can obscure the deeply personal, often invisible struggles that accompany loss. A person might cry every day privately, but if they don’t wear dull clothes or maintain a downcast expression in public, they may be judged as “unfeeling” or “over” their loss.
The expectation of public mourning, or grief performativity, not only fails to capture the complexities of loss but can distort grief itself. Grieving individuals are often left feeling trapped, as if they must “perform” for others, matching the pain they feel internally with the sorrow that society expects to see. This discrepancy can be especially painful for those whose grief was most intense during the dying process itself. For those who, like myself, watched a loved one suffer and fought beside them through months of pain, grief did not begin at death—it began in those last moments of helplessness, of witnessing suffering with no way to ease it. By the time the person passes, the mourner’s grief may have already transformed into something quieter, more inward, and harder for others to comprehend.
Forcing grief into outward signs makes it almost theatrical, a shared stage for observers to judge and evaluate. Yet grief, when forced to be performative, risks losing its authentic voice. Real grief is often silent, contradictory, and painfully complex. Sometimes, it doesn’t show up as tears or outward sadness at all. Sometimes, it shows up as quiet exhaustion, numbness, or even relief, especially if one’s grief was already lived and processed during a loved one’s suffering. When we expect people to follow a script of visible sorrow, we strip away the individuality and rawness that real grief demands. Instead, we should recognize that grief is as unique as the love that precedes it. It should be allowed to be unseen, to be carried quietly, and most importantly, to belong only to the griever, without the weight of societal judgment.
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After my father’s death, grief seemed to transform from an intimate experience into something that needed to be publicly displayed, especially for my mother. Suddenly, it was as if her loss had to be marked not only by her emotions but by what she wore, how she looked, and where she was seen. In some way, it felt as if society had handed her a script that defined how she should perform her grief—one that she didn’t choose and certainly didn’t need.
In many cultures, mourning is ritualized, codified, and assigned very particular expressions. In Islamic tradition, for instance, women who lose their husbands are expected to observe “iddat”, a mourning period of four months and ten days. During this time, a widow is expected to stay largely at home, refrain from adornments, and wear subdued clothing. In theory, this is a time for grieving in seclusion, yet the reality often becomes a matter of publicly affirming her status as a woman in mourning. People who come to see her expect her to look and act a certain way, as if her inner sorrow is only as real as her outer conformity.
Similarly, Hindu widowhood carries its own heavy expectations. Widows in traditional communities are often expected to forego bright colors, particularly red, which is associated with marital status and happiness. They are discouraged from wearing jewelry or cosmetics, and they’re subtly reminded that their lives, once defined by companionship, should now be marked by restraint. Though this custom is less strict in modern contexts, its remnants still linger, casting a shadow over how a widow’s life is expected to change. In our case, these unspoken rules surfaced immediately: well-meaning relatives advised my mother to give up colorful clothing, tone down her appearance, and focus on religious rituals. It was implied that her grief wasn’t simply about missing her partner—it also had to be a visual confirmation of her loss, an ongoing statement to the world that she was, and would remain, deeply bereaved.
Even in the West, where mourning is less overtly ritualized, there are still “appropriate” ways to display grief. Black attire, solemn expressions, and refraining from anything that appears joyful are almost universally expected after a loss. The pressure to visibly display sorrow often outweighs the personal reality of grief. A person may still be aching inside but feel compelled to uphold this cultural image of the “mourning figure.” If they don’t, they risk being seen as “insensitive” or, worse, as if they are betraying the memory of the deceased.
In contrast to these rigid expectations, our real grief had already been expressed in the rawest form during the last months of my father’s life. We lived through his pain with him; we watched him struggle and suffer, helpless to alleviate it. That was when our hearts broke. The sorrow we felt then didn’t need costumes or rituals to make it real—it was there in every moment, every sigh, every tear. After he passed, our grief shifted, evolving from a shared endurance of his suffering to a quieter, internalized loss. But society wasn’t ready to let us carry our grief inwardly. It was as if we had left something undone, simply because we weren’t performing it to others’ expectations.
For my mother, this societal script became a kind of prison. How could anyone expect her to adhere to superficial displays after experiencing such profound anguish? Did limiting colors or jewelry change anything about the love she’d lost, the life they’d shared? These expectations felt hollow, inadequate for the depth of what we were feeling. Yet, to avoid judgment, my mother had to perform some of these rituals, even as they clashed with the reality of her inner sorrow. In the end, these conventions seem to miss the point: they attempt to box grief into something that can be seen, measured, and approved. But true grief—the kind that leaves an indelible mark on one’s life—rarely fits into neat, visible boxes. It’s felt, endured, and carried, and no external performance can truly capture its weight.
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In the months leading up to my father’s death, grief took hold of us in ways I could never have anticipated. There were countless nights spent in silent tears, moments of helplessness watching him suffer, and flashes of guilt at being powerless to ease his pain. This was grief: raw, immediate, relentless. It consumed us well before his passing, as we watched him deteriorate, feeling the weight of loss growing with each moment of his suffering. In those final two months, I experienced a sorrow that I can only describe as a prelude to mourning, a grief so profound that, when he finally passed, I had nothing left to cry. In a sense, he had taken all my tears with him. But society’s expectations hadn’t, and they began to weigh on us both.
For me, finding peace after his death didn’t mean erasing the pain of losing him. Instead, it meant honoring that deeply personal journey that had already unfolded during his last days. The silent, heavy tears I had shed beside him were a testament to the love and sorrow I felt, but they weren’t visible after he passed. I felt almost guilty for not being able to show what everyone expected: that outwardly “appropriate” sorrow. But how could I explain that the truest part of my mourning was already behind me, woven into those final days? The tears I cried then were not about what others saw but about what he and I had shared in his last moments—a grief that was too private, too sacred, to make public. Society wanted a performance, and I had nothing left to give.
My mother’s grief, too, had already taken its shape, but society wasn’t about to let her mourn privately. As his widow, she became subject to unspoken rules, expectations of how a grieving woman should appear and act. Suddenly, her clothing, her behavior, even her social presence was scrutinized. Certain colors were deemed inappropriate; bright clothes and jewelry were whispered about as if they represented a betrayal. There was pressure for her to take up rituals of mourning, to increase her visits to temples, to “prove” her sorrow by embracing a visibly devout lifestyle. But my mother had already lived her grief, privately and painfully, as she watched the man she loved struggle to stay alive. Yet, even as she attempted to process her loss in her way, society seemed determined to coerce her into a more public, ritualized display of mourning.
The expectation that she should perform her grief for others to understand and accept it seemed almost cruel. The reality is that grief cannot—and should not—be staged. There is no single “right way” to express loss, nor any requirement that it should be displayed at all. Grief, in its truest form, exists in the spaces others rarely see: in quiet reflections, in memories that surface uninvited, in private moments of aching remembrance. Grief is not what people witness; it is what we carry. Society’s insistence on visible signs of mourning only adds another burden to the already immense weight of loss, pressuring individuals to conform to customs that may not resonate with their actual experience of sorrow.
In advocating for a non-performative approach to grief, it’s essential to recognize that authentic mourning is both intensely personal and unpredictable. It may involve tears, or it may involve silence. It might look like visiting a temple every day or like sitting alone in one’s room, immersed in memories. It might last a few days, or a lifetime. Grief ebbs and flows in ways that defy a timeline or a checklist of behaviors. And while our society may find comfort in visible, ritualized displays of sorrow, it must come to understand that true grief does not need an audience.
If we, as a society, could learn to respect the personal boundaries of mourning, we would liberate the grieving process itself. We would allow people to remember their loved ones in ways that are meaningful to them, free from the need to meet an audience’s expectations. This liberation from performative grief would enable mourners to reconcile with loss on their own terms, to honor the memories of those they have lost privately and meaningfully, rather than through actions dictated by tradition or social convention. Grief, in this sense, would become less about public performance and more about personal healing—a journey unique to each individual and not a role scripted by society.
Letting go of performative grief would mean embracing the idea that no two people grieve alike, and that sorrow does not need to be validated through outward expression. It is time for society to release its grip on how loss should look and instead support individuals in reclaiming their mourning as a private, internal process. True compassion lies not in observing someone’s grief but in allowing them the space and freedom to grieve in their own way, in their own time. In honoring the private nature of sorrow, we honor the uniqueness of each life and each loss.
Ultimately, grief belongs not to the public but to the one who feels it. It should be treated as a private experience, as varied and unpredictable as the lives we have shared with those we mourn. And maybe, if we can begin to see grief as something personal rather than performative, we will begin to offer each other the comfort and respect that loss truly deserves.
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Grief, we learned, is not a moment or a ritual; it’s an experience that unfolds in ways only the bereaved truly understand. Watching my father’s final struggle, we faced the rawest pain long before he passed, our hearts breaking as we saw him helpless, a grief few saw but one we felt deeply. After his death, we were expected to “perform” our mourning—to look a certain way, to express a certain sadness that fit societal molds. But grief doesn’t fit molds. It’s not a script to be acted out; it’s a deeply personal journey shaped by each unique bond, each private memory.
As I reflect on this, I urge us all to question these expectations. Grief shouldn’t demand an audience; it’s a personal process, not a public performance. Let us support each other by honoring each person’s right to grieve without judgment, allowing them the freedom to mourn in ways only they understand.
About the Author:
Disha is a Ph.D. Scholar & Senior Research Fellow at Dr. K. R. Narayanan Centre for Dalit and Minorities Studies, Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, India.