Who We Forget After Tragedy Strikes

Hey guys, this week’s newsletter is a bit of a bummer. I’d love for you to read it, but it’s ok if you wanna skip this one.

When I was 12 years old, my best friend was a kid named Michael. He and I both lived kind of out in the boonies. You might be surprised to learn that I was kind of an awkward kid. I didn't fit in. But Mike got me. He and I could catch a ride into our small town and just walk around and talk for hours.

This pre-dated social media, streaming, the internet...this was the 80s. If you wanted entertainment, you had three TV channels, a radio that picked up two stations if you held the antenna just right, and whatever weird stuff you could find in your older sister’s room. We had to make our own fun, which mostly involved seeing how long we could ride our bikes without using our hands. It was a simpler time.

And Mike, Mike was my guy.

So on an early day in February when I was sitting in my 6th grade class wondering why the seat next to me was empty, and our teacher just almost casually announced that Mike had had a brain aneurysm and died the night before, I was... I still don't even have a word for it. Shattered? Destroyed? Those feel too dramatic and not nearly enough at the same time.

The teacher took just a moment of silence and then had the audacity to try and teach us math or something. I was numb, inconsolable, and eventually my parents were called and I was taken home. (It wasn't a great school).

In the weeks and months that followed, my grief was largely overlooked. Families and the community focused their attention on Mike's family. And by god they absolutely should have. That family was never the same and nearly 40 years later I am certain they still feel the shock and grief.

But I was never the same either and almost no one noticed. There was this devastating explosion in our small town and I wasn't at the epicenter, but I was certainly hit with shrapnel and injured.

So this week, let's talk about supporting the unseen people, how to recognize when someone's been hit by the shrapnel, and why caring for the indirect victims matters more than we think.

The Hierarchy of Hurt

So yeah, about tragedy…it's not clean or organized. It doesn't follow neat lines or respect boundaries. It just explodes outward and kind of gets all over anyone who happens to be standing nearby.

The problem is that our support systems work like emergency responders. We rush to the most obvious casualties first. We see the family crying at the funeral and we bring casseroles. We see the spouse struggling and we offer to help with errands. We see the kids acting out and we get them counseling.

But we miss the best friend sitting alone at lunch. We miss the coworker who's suddenly quiet in meetings. We miss the neighbor who stops waving hello. We miss all the people who are grieving in the shadows because their connection to the crisis doesn't seem "official" enough to warrant attention.

We operate with an unspoken hierarchy when it comes to who deserves support after something terrible happens. Family members get the most sympathy. Close friends get some. Acquaintances get a "sorry for your loss." And everyone else? They're expected to just, I dunno, move on I guess.

But grief doesn't follow organizational charts. Loss doesn't respect relationship status. The person who's been most affected isn't always the person with the most official connection to what happened.

And I supposed we do this because it's easier to follow the obvious lines. Family feels clear cut. But human connection is messier than that. Sometimes the person who's struggling most is the one standing in the back at the funeral, crying quietly where no one can see.

It's not that people don't care. It's that we don't know how to see pain that doesn't announce itself.

How to Spot the Walking Wounded

The people who need support but aren't getting it rarely ask for help. They figure their pain doesn't count as much. They think they should be "over it" already. They assume no one would understand why this hit them so hard.

So you have to learn to look for the signs:

• They disappear gradually. They don't make dramatic exits. They just slowly fade from group chats, skip more gatherings, stop initiating plans. Their absence feels quiet, not urgent.

• They seem "fine" but different. They function normally but with less energy, less enthusiasm, less of whatever spark made them distinctly them. They're going through the motions.

• They deflect when asked directly. If you ask "How are you doing?" they change the subject, make a joke, or give you the standard "I'm hanging in there." They've learned that their specific kind of hurt doesn't have an easy category.

• They overcompensate in other areas. They throw themselves into work, exercise, projects, anything that keeps them busy. Motion becomes their medication.

• They struggle with seemingly normal things. A song on the radio, a TV show, driving past a certain restaurant — random triggers that wouldn't make sense to anyone else can completely derail their day.

The key is remembering that indirect trauma is still trauma. Getting hit by shrapnel still hurts, even if you weren't standing right next to the bomb.

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Simple Ways to Help the Overlooked

The beautiful thing about supporting indirect victims is that it doesn't require grand gestures or a lot of training. It just takes noticing and caring enough to act on what you see.

Remember the anniversaries. Everyone checks on the family on the one-year mark. But do you remember to check on the friend, the coworker, the person who's been quietly struggling? Put a note in your phone. Send a text. Acknowledge that this day is hard for them too.

Create space for "unofficial" grief. When someone says "I know I'm not family, but..." don't let them minimize their pain. Validate it. "Your relationship with them mattered. Of course this is hard for you."

Be specific in your offers. Instead of "Let me know if you need anything," try "I'm going to the store this afternoon. Can I pick something up for you?" Or "I noticed you haven't been to our usual lunch spot. Want me to grab your usual order and bring it by?"

Check in regularly, not only immediately. Everyone shows up in the first week. But grief isn't a sprint. The person who's struggling might need support six months later when everyone else has moved on.

Don't rank their pain. Never, ever say "At least you're not..." or "It could be worse..." or "You'll get over this." Pain isn't a competition. Support doesn't need to be rationed.

Notice the small changes. The person who used to always have music playing but now prefers silence. The friend who used to text constantly but now goes days without reaching out. The colleague who used to eat lunch in the break room but now eats at their desk. These shifts matter.

When You're the One Who Got Hit

Maybe you're reading this and recognizing yourself. Maybe you're the one who's been walking around with invisible injuries, wondering why nobody seems to notice that you're not okay.

First: your pain is valid. It doesn't matter that you weren't the primary victim. It doesn't matter that other people "had it worse." Your relationship with what happened is yours, and it deserves care and attention.

Second: it's okay to ask for help, even if you feel like you "shouldn't" need it. Even if you think your connection to the situation wasn't significant enough to warrant support. Even if you worry that speaking up will seem dramatic or selfish.

The hardest part about being an indirect victim is feeling like you have to carry your hurt alone. But you don't. Your friends and family want to help; they just might not know you need it.

So tell them. Be specific. "I'm really struggling with [insert terrible thing here] even though I know I'm not the main person affected. Would you be willing to grab coffee this week? I could use someone to talk to."

Most people want to help. They're just not sure what you need or whether it's their place to ask.

The Bottom Line

I had something awful happen to me recently. No one died, but it was sudden and terrible and life changing. And now I am the one that people are contacting, making casseroles, and offering coffee or beer. I deeply appreciate everyone who has reached out.

But even though I was the one who got hit directly, there are people around me who are hurt too. Not by me, but by the circumstances and fallout of what happened. And I'm watching them navigate their own pain while trying to figure out how to support me as well.

It's a strange position to be in — being the "official" victim while knowing that the unofficial ones struggle in the shadows. It makes you realize how often we do a good job of taking care of the people standing closest to the explosion, but we do a terrible job of noticing all the people who got knocked over by the shockwave.

The truth is, caring for indirect victims isn't just the right thing to do, it's what makes communities actually work. Because every tragedy creates more than one kind of casualty. And if we only tend to the obvious wounds, we leave a lot of people bleeding in silence.

Mike died almost 40 years ago, and I still think about him regularly. I still wonder who he would have become, what conversations we would have had, what kind of friend he would have been through all the decades I've lived without him.

Often it has felt like I have had this specific grief that has been mine to carry alone. But it didn't have to be.

The next time something terrible happens in your world, look around for the people standing in the back, the ones who seem fine but different, the ones who are quietly trying to hold themselves together.

They need you too.

As always, thanks for reading,
— Derek (aka Chief Rabbit)
Oh and have something interesting you think I should write about? You can reply to this email (or any other Chief Rabbit email) to suggest it.

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