Leading up to Jess’s Celebration of Life, lots of folks kept their distance. Fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of “reminding” us (impossible), or just plain discomfort with death. Then, at the celebration, Rob, my husband, and Jess’s dad said, “Don’t be afraid of the J word,” and you could feel the shift. After that, speaking her name felt possible again. One line taught our people: it’s okay to say Jess’s name here.

Here’s the (possibly unpopular) truth I learned that day and have practiced ever since: as grievers, we often have to train our community. I wish we didn’t. I want love to be enough and our instincts to be better. Most people aren’t unkind; they’re unsure. They’ve heard the myths: grief has a timeline, tears mean failure, silence is safer than saying the wrong thing, and they freeze. Waiting for everyone else to figure it out kept me lonely. Teaching them—gently, clearly—brought her name back into the room.

Why I made a symbol

As time went on, it became less frequent for Jess to come up in conversation. I also met many fellow grievers with the same problem, especially people years out from their loss. The older the loss, the quieter the room seemed to get; friends assumed they were “over it,” so bringing up a name felt risky and awkward. 

I wanted a simple way to reopen that door. So I designed the Grief Heart. It’s a small, visible green light that says, ‘I’m remembering someone today AND it’s okay to say their name.’ The Grief Heart serves as a symbol of remembrance and a signal that it’s acceptable to talk about the deceased. I wear it and post it because it tells people, without a long speech, that memory is welcome here—and it gives other grievers an easy signal to borrow when they want the same.

But the heart is a doorbell, not the conversation. It helps, and it’s still up to me to tell people what I need: please say ‘Jess’s name.’ Send the photo you found. Repeat the story I’ve already heard ten times. Tools open the door; our words invite people in.

What I’ve learned about why people go quiet

• They don’t want to “make it worse,” so they choose silence.
  
• They think only perfect words count, so they send nothing.
  
• They believe grief should be “over,” so they worry a memory will “drag me back.”

Training my village means replacing those fears with permission and simple instructions.

How I Train My Village (In Real Life)

1) Permission, clearly stated.
Use a sentence that takes away doubt:

I’m remembering someone today AND it’s okay to say their name. 

Pair it with a visible cue. I use the Grief Heart—on a pin, in my profile, or in a post—so people don’t have to guess. It’s a signal that today is a good day to mention her. (More info about the Grief Heart here.)

2) I keep the asks tiny and specific.
Vague invites get vague responses; specifics work.

• “If you spot a frog, a snail, a daisy, or anything green, send me a quick photo.”
  
• “On the 4th each month—Jess’s birthday number—would you text me one line about anything that reminds you of her?”
  
• “If a memory pops up, even if you’ve told me before, I still want to hear it.”
  

3) I hand people starter scripts.
Because most folks will try if you make it easy:

• “I don’t have perfect words, but I’m thinking of Jess with you.”
  
• “I’m saying her name because I love her: Jess.”
  
• “Want to tell me a story about her today, or should I just sit with you?”
  

4) I say my boundaries out loud.
Honesty about your boundaries keeps you safe and keeps others trying. It’s a way to empower yourself and take control of your healing journey.

• “If I heart your message and don’t reply, I’m grateful—I just don’t have words today.”
  
• “Please keep the memories coming even if I’m quiet.”
  
• “I’m not up for advice; presence is enough.”
  

5) I repeat myself without shame.
In the midst of life’s noise, gentle repetition turns permission into a comforting habit, reassuring you that it’s okay to remember and honor your loved one

Turning permission into practice (the easy games)

I’ve noticed people follow through when the bar is low and a little playful.

• Symbol Spotting. My forever cues (things that Jess loved) are frogs and the color green; this year, I’m adding snails and daisies. When friends see any of those, they know that’s their nudge to send a photo or one-line text. Everyday life becomes a memory machine.
  
• Memory Pings (one line only). We remember Jess on the 4th —Jess’s birthdate. One sentence is perfect: a detail, a joke, or simply Jess. Repeats welcome.
  
• #WearYourHeartWednesday. A weekly rhythm where I wear or post the Grief Heart so even shy friends know it’s an easy day to say her name.
  

These aren’t party games; they’re simple structures that turn love into action.

The part that isn’t fair—and is still powerful.

It’s not fair that we have to do this, but I’ve seen the transformative power of giving my village a cue, a sentence, and permission. The quiet breaks. People try. They say her name. Rob’s line—“Don’t be afraid of the J word”—opened the door. The Grief Heart keeps that permission visible. And my plain ask—Please say Jess’s name and send the little memories when they come—turns permission into practice. This is the power of community in healing, and you are not alone in this journey.

This is how I live with it now: a symbol that people can recognize, and words they can borrow. Tiny nudges that make remembering easier than avoiding. In the end, it’s not a perfect script that matters. It’s a name spoken out loud, again and again, in the ordinary light of a day. That’s how Jess stays present—on park benches and in inboxes, in grocery-store flowers and frog memes, threaded through the people who loved her and the people who never met her but now know her name.