Now that some time has passed, I’d like to revisit a captivating read, The Grieving Brain by Mary-Frances O’Connor.

In my last post about this book (parts one and two available here), we’ll review the topics I pointed out briefly at the end of my previous blog. On page 230, you will find an extensive index, where O’Connor lists everything she covered in her book, from “absence,” to “zeitgebers.” These are just a handful of the things that made her book so memorable to me. I can’t go over everything I found helpful—I have over half the book highlighted—so, I’ve picked my top contenders and will leave the rest for y’all to discover for yourselves.

So, what exactly made The Grieving Brain so great?

It wasn’t just her easy-to-understand delivery of overly complicated material, though that certainly made for a page-turner. Mary-Frances O’Connor extensively examined the role of emotions like anger and sadness, as well as the physical expressions of grief. Her in-depth exploration of the grieving process included shedding light on some ways scientists come to their conclusions, not just the conclusions themselves. For someone like me, a person who is fond of science but not wired to understand it, those explanations proved necessary for building my trust. By the end of the book, my innately skeptical nature had all but dissolved. It took a fellow writer and skeptic questioning what exactly made the book so wonderful, and a few days of really thinking on it, for me to realize it wasn’t just the material but the way it was packaged—that’s what made the book stand out in my mind.

O’Connor blends scientific research with personal anecdotes and stories, making the book relatable and engaging. She skillfully integrated her own experiences with grief, as well as those of others, often from those scientific studies, allowing readers to connect on a deeper level. When explaining intrusive thoughts, O’Connor uses the grief she experienced over her father’s passing to illustrate its meaning. One day while looking in her fridge, the author “suddenly could see [her] dad in his kitchen, planning one of his famous dinner parties.” Another day, she picked up the phone to call him before remembering she couldn’t ever call him again. Intrusive thoughts are memories that come to mind without our intending to recall them (pp. 125-26).

One of the first things I wrote for this memoir is a poem. It’s gone through several iterations. It’s still shit, and I can’t bear to delete it. “Call Dad,” it’s named, for now. If I had to guess the first complete sentence I wrote in relation to this project, it would be: You oughta call Dad. I know now, and knew then, that this feeling or regret for not calling him wasn’t unique to me. The first year after his death was the worst. I’d wake up in the morning, reaching for my phone, coming close to dialing his number before I remembered.

Our brains naturally generate reminders about loved ones, much like the pancreas produces insulin. These reminders, which once connected us to them, continue even after they are gone, unexpectedly stirring grief during bereavement. This is a normal part of the brain’s learning process after loss (p. 130).

A term I was familiar with but did not think would apply to me came up soon after I finished reading about “intrusive thoughts.” O’Connor defines avoidance in two-prongs: it can manifest behaviorally, where we avoid reminders of our loved one or of death, or cognitively, by suppressing thoughts of them and our grief. Sometimes, we dive deeper into our memories—how they looked, laughed, or held their coffee cup. Other times, we replay the night they died in excruciating detail, as we’ve done countless times before (pp. 131-32). The latter scenario describes my personal form of avoidance and preludes our next topic: counterfactual thinking.

Counterfactual thinking is the illogical and unhelpful way we think about our real or imagined role in contributing to the death or suffering of our loved one (p. 144). This idea comes up frequently in the book, sometimes as “if…then” statements, and later on as a key factor in the cause of rumination. Even when counterfactual thinking involves painful feelings of guilt or shame, like believing we caused a tragedy, our brain prefers it over the gut-wrenching truth that our loved one is gone. This habit of dwelling on “what ifs” gives us a false sense of control, making the world feel predictable, even if we believe we failed, rather than accepting that some bad outcomes happen for no simple reason (p. 145).

For some, a wandering mind can lead to worry or rumination, where we either focus on past mistakes or future anxieties. Rumination centers on past events, while worry fixates on future worst-case scenarios. Both processes are repetitive, passive, and negative, often narrowing our attention to our feelings in an attempt to understand them. (How often have I waxed lyrical about my desire to UNdErStAnD?) Similar to the “what ifs” of counterfactual thinking, ruminating imagines an alternate universe. When grieving, these patterns can take on a life of their own, contributing to depression or complicated grief.

Rumination can be divided into two aspects: reflection and brooding. Reflection is an intentional turning inward, engaging in problem solving to alleviate your feelings. Brooding is passively wondering why you feel down or comparing your current situation to how you think things ought to be (pp. 147-48). Feeling better requires stopping the seeking, or ruminating and worrying, at some point (p. 149).

According to O’Connor, the feeling of “going crazy” after losing a loved one is common, especially in the early stages of grief.

Grief distress, which includes disbelief, anger, depression, and yearning, is more intense for those grieving for a shorter time, while acceptance tends to increase with time. These experiences fluctuate like waves over days, weeks, and months, showing that distress and acceptance are two sides of the same coin (p. 75). Longing for a loved one who is alive but far away helps maintain our connection, though that pain intensifies when we know they will never return. This deep grief, or psychic pain, transcends individual emotions (p. 105). Attachment needs are so fundamental that social isolation heightens the risk of premature death, similar to how thirst drives our search for water. Yearning for our loved ones is a normal motivational state, akin to that state of thirst (p. 119).

“The moment of separation from a loved one can feel like your heartstrings are being pulled from your chest until they will snap. These attachment bonds, these tethers, are both invisible and intensely real. They keep us connected to our loved ones; motivate us to return to them, like a pliable elastic band; and create a feeling that something is missing when we are apart.”

— Mary-Frances O’Connor

In a sea of self-help books, The Grieving Brain stands out. Its thorough exploration of the grieving process, its relatability, its focus on resilience and growth, and its invaluable resources put it at the top of my list of books to recommend to anyone experiencing a loss. For anyone seeking a deeper understanding of grief and its effects on the human brain, look no further. Mary-Frances O’Connor knows her shit; she also goes into what comes after acceptance, things like how to be mindful, how to help others heal, and how to look forward, but since I’m not there yet in my healing journey, that’s something you’ll have to find out for yourselves (by buying her book)!

Resources:

O’Connor, Mary-Frances. “…” The Grieving Brain: The Surprising Science of How We Learn from Love and Loss, HarperCollins, 2022, p. …

“…”

“counterfactual thinking,” p. 132-133, 144-146, 147, 145-146

“intrusive thoughts,” p. 126-130, 140, 183

“accepting/acceptance,” p. 75, 159-162

“avoidance,” p. 10, 131, 211, 159-160

“yearning,” p. 15-16, 75, 86, 104-106, 118, 122, 123-129, 131-133, 165

“ruminating,” p. 133, 147-148, 150, 158, 153-156, 196-197, 211

“zeitgebers,” p. 171-72, 174

Kinsey Keys

aspiring memoirist rummaging through my noggin, stubbornly clutching the past to my chest like it’s a newborn babe starved for mother's milk.

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