The Inward Spiral: Why My Dead Parents Make You Uncomfortable
- Vanessa Harris
- Apr 2
- 4 min read
The other day, I was having a normal conversation with someone I had recently met. We were talking about family. Nothing heavy. Just the usual getting-to-know-you kind of questions.
At one point, I mentioned that my parents are dead... There was a pause.
Not a big one. But enough that I could feel it. The tone shifted a bit. The conversation kept going, but it didn’t feel the same.
Later, they asked about my grandparents. I answered honestly again. One set of my grandparents are also dead.
This time, it was more obvious. They got uncomfortable. The subject changed pretty quickly after that. And I left that conversation thinking about something I’ve been noticing more and more.
Not about my grief but about other people’s reaction to it.
There’s something about the word dead that people don’t seem to know what to do with.
We’ve created all these softer versions of it.
Passed away.
Gone.
No longer with us.
In a better place.
Those words feel easier. They take the edge off; but they’re not more accurate.
Dead is just the word.
It’s not harsh. It’s not insensitive.
It’s just honest.
When I say my parents are dead, I’m not trying to make things awkward. I’m not trying to turn a normal conversation into something heavy.
I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m just talking about my life.
The same way someone else might talk about calling their mom, or visiting their parents, or growing up close with their family.
This is just what my version of that looks like.
I think what I’ve started to realize is that the discomfort isn’t really about me. It’s about what the word brings up.
It’s final.
There’s no soft way to interpret it and I think it quietly reminds people of something we’re all trying not to think about too often.
That everyone we love is going to die. That we’re going to die. That there’s no version of life where we avoid that.
But this is part of life. Not in a philosophical way. In a very normal, everyday way.
People die. And the people who love them keep living.
We go to work.
We walk our dogs.
We make dinner.
We meet new people.
And sometimes, in the middle of a completely normal conversation, we say something like, “My parents are dead.”
What feels strange isn’t saying it. What feels strange is feeling like I have to manage how other people react to it.
Like I should soften it. Like I should say it differently. Like I should anticipate their discomfort and adjust myself around it.
But why?
Why is it more acceptable to avoid reality than to just name it? Why does honesty feel like too much? Why does it feel like my responsibility to make this easier for everyone else?
There’s also something that gets lost when we avoid the word. When we say passed away, it creates distance. When we say gone, it’s vague. When we say in a better place, it assumes something not everyone believes.
But when we say dead, we’re just… telling the truth.
And from there, something more real can actually happen.
We can talk about the person. We can share stories. We can remember them without it feeling like something we have to tiptoe around.
My dad is dead.
And he was one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.
My mom is dead.
And she was complicated, and intelligent, and struggled in ways I never fully understood.
Both of those things are true. Their deaths are facts. Their lives still matter.
I don’t need every conversation to turn into something deep. And I don’t expect people to know exactly what to say. But I do think we’re capable of handling a little more honesty than we give ourselves credit for.
A little more directness. A little less avoidance.
Saying the word dead doesn’t make it heavier, it just makes it real.
And maybe if we stopped trying so hard to soften it, we’d actually get better at being there for each other in it.
Not fixing it.
Not avoiding it.
Just acknowledging it.
Today would have been my dad’s birthday.
He’s dead.
And I still think about him.
Those two things exist at the same time.
And I think we should be allowed to say both.
With lightness and curiosity,
Vanessa
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