When Numbers Fail Us: A Gentle Correction
Oh, this bit’s going to make you smile—though it might also make you sigh. You see, people often think numbers are the ultimate truth-tellers. Like when grief hits, they’ll say, “You’ve been through 18 months, so you should be ‘over it’ now.” Pah! As if my heart’s a spreadsheet!
Now here’s something delightful: numbers can’t count a mother’s love for six children, or the quiet weight of a husband’s absence. They can’t measure the soggy biscuit feeling of loss—how it clings to your fingers like damp pastry. I’ve buried my own love, and the “right” number of tears? It’s not on a calendar. It’s a messy, wild thing that dances in and out of my days, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a sob.
Common misunderstanding? That data replaces feeling. Reality? Numbers are just tools—like a spoon for soup. They help us see the soup, but they can’t taste it. When we say, “You’ve had 200 days of grief,” we’re missing the soup—the way the sun hit the kitchen table that morning, or the way my son’s laugh still echoes in the empty chair.
Why does this matter? Because when numbers fail us, we often fail each other. We hand out “recovery timelines” like candy, forgetting that healing isn’t a race. It’s a slow, winding path through a garden of thorns and daisies. And that’s okay! What if we just… played with this? What if we said, “Your grief is as unique as your fingerprint, and that’s beautiful”?
So next time you see a number trying to explain a heart, pause. Ask instead: What’s the soup like today? Let the numbers be the spoon, not the meal. Because love, loss, and laughter? They’re not in the ledger. They’re in the living.
— Sophie Brennan
Written by Sophie Brennan — 12:26, 14 January 2026 (CST)