Building Community in Grief: How staying small nurtures connection
SmallStack's Guest Post Series #6
Sometimes we set out a small intention only to discover something bigger and better blossom right before our eyes. For guest poster
, she intended to face her overwhelming feelings by writing down all the big and small moments on her small stacks. She found — to her delight — a community of comfort and support missing in her daily life. Here she shares ways to connect while honoring the small stacker ethos. SmallStack welcomes Anna Rose!Building Community in Grief
How staying small nurtures connection
By
As the June heat warms my back, all that exists is the coolness of the breeze, the birds as they chatter goodnight to one another.
Dad is pottering around, checking on the growth of the beans and reattaching the locks on the gate. “To keep you safe,” he says, “when I’m not here.”
Other than the patchy regrowth hidden under his summer hat, an outsider would never guess that he… we… are facing mortality.
He looks fit, tanned. He is eating so well that he has put on several pounds. All the steaks and tiramisu.
For a year we have been confronted with a fast and stealthy force that even the strongest of chemos cannot stop. Leukaemia. The acute kind.
Nothing prepares you for the moment you are told. Time shatters. A realisation that it all ends… That a life will exist without him, and the universe you pray to every day wishes to take him for their own.
“You’ll need a community,” my therapist said. She spoke softly, lightly supporting the edges of my being. I looked hollow, the bags under my eyes had grown.
Those in my day-to-day sphere tried to help, but not many had faced the loss of their dad. If they had, it had been through old age, or their bonds with their dads were different.
I adore Dad. We giggle at the same jokes, he teaches me how to fish (despite my resignation as a longstanding vegetarian), and he shows me how to flow with life in our seaside town, along the shores and in the villages.
I began to feel alone.
When I mentioned my grief to others, I could see them shuffle and look at the floor. I’d sense an urgency to remove themselves. If a tear snuck out the corner of my eye, someone would hastily give me a tissue to dab it away instead of letting the tears cascade, never allowing me to weep for my loss.
Grief makes people uncomfortable.
And why not? None of us wish to believe this is it. That we are all in fact terminal.
When I came to Substack, my aim was to write. To feel. To not allow myself to push away what was rising within. To not enter denial, but to savour every moment. Community wasn’t at the forefront of my mind but was the most heartwarming of surprises when it arrived.
As I steadily wrote about quitting my job, upending my life, learning from the land, and writing letters to Dad, comments cropped up here and there from well-wishers and fellow grief holders. Seers of life.
“Dave sounds like just the kind of man we all need in our lives. I hope he finds himself in the 1%.”
“You have put into words (and actions) exactly what I felt and did after my own dad's death. I lost my way but found a new purpose in the haze.”
“Oh my goodness. I don’t think I have words. I lost my dad a few years back.”
I began to realise there are others out there. More of us that feel so deeply. That we could provide comfort, support each other to feel seen and heard in our grief.
In the last nine months, Substack has taught me what it means to build a community through writing. Keeping to the principles of staying small means my writing is more than just likes and notes. Writing is connection, humanness in its rawest form. And connection brings us the life we need in the darkness.
Community is at the centre of my writing and has become so important. As fellow small stackers, we are all either keen to stay small or to honour what that means.
Here are my set of principles for staying small while nurturing the connection and community I wish to sustain.
Be a catalyst for others’ bravery
In the first couple of months, I would publish my articles without sending them to subscribers. What will they think of me? Some of us may have the fear of being found out by colleagues, family members, friends. Perhaps the fear of judgement. It feels like you are opening your diary to the whole world, but we are all human, all raw, brimming with emotion, including those who find us.
Not sharing my writing seemed futile. I wanted to attract those that could hold the space with me. I didn’t want to be placid or censor myself. I wanted others to meet me where I was at. So I had to be honest and open. All of us experience intense joy, grief, love, contentment, worry. Sharing all of this not only makes us more human but also encourages the world to be more human, too.
Write as if your audience is small… like you are in a room talking intimately with friends. You could be the catalyst for someone else’s bravery. They could see your writing as a permission slip to share who they are. What could be better than that?
It might be a small Substack but it is not small talk
The comments section of articles are the greatest. I love how deeply an author’s writing will resonate with the community, how readers feel compelled to share, ask questions, and consider how their perspectives have changed. What I love most of all is writing that opens me up to engage in the discussion.
Building a community requires true connection, no small talk. Jumping in deep, tea and cake at the ready. I always find it helps to imagine others in the room with me and let the conversation flow as beautifully as it might in person.
Values maketh the Substack
People arrive when the writing is superb, when it hits a nerve, but they stay as who you are unfolds. That’s what I love so much about a small Substack. The intimacy in which you get to know someone.
Our values change as we move through time and space. Right now I must have courage, feel peace in this transition. I am driven to connect with others and to savour every moment. Above all I wish to grow and evolve, not allow this to sink me. These priorities form the backbone of my work on different days, sometimes in combination and other times standing alone.
Like many small stackers, I have watched the subscriber list with fascination (and disappointment) as it rises and falls with different posts, and even felt the pang of what happened there? as a subscriber drops off the list. I have come to realise that people need different perspectives at different times in their life, so the ebb and flow is natural. I am just happy to be there when people need me.
Know they will find you
Beth Kempton has been one of my greatest teachers. In her Winter Writing Sanctuary, she said, “your writing will be medicine for somebody.” This is something I always hold on to.
Know those that need your medicine will find you. It may take weeks, it may take months, but eventually they’ll find you.
Dad doesn’t know about his tiny fame here on Substack. How brilliant everyone thinks he is, and how much they want to meet him. I am certain, however, that Dad feels every word of comfort.
Some of you may be wondering how he is, where we are now. Well, we had one last shot: a stem-cell transplant. However, following yet another relapse, this is now off the table.
The consultants are just as surprised as the two of us. Dad just looks so… well.
“Your leukaemia does seem particularly aggressive, it is quite strange.”
“Not what we expected at all.”
And then this:
“I am not speaking to you as your doctor, I am speaking to you as your friend. It is time you put your affairs in order and organise with the hospice what it is you want.”
The words ring in our ears. We know the odds are low for a long time together, but, in this family, we are fans of low odds. We are full of relentless hope and try our best to feel the miracle at our fingertips.
We will always hope we are the hero story. Time may have shattered, but the jagged pieces re-form, and we breathe, and we live in a way that is both new and old and intensely beautiful.
The connection, the support, and the love I have found here on Substack is unparalleled and, I know, will get me through the toughest of days. I feel proud to be a small stacker. Substack truly is a wonderful place to be.
Anna Rose (she/her) quit her 9–5 job in July 2023 with no plan and no idea where she was headed. She uses Substack to navigate her path as she relearns what it means to live in the light of grief. Anna Rose writes about the joys of being a beginner in both gardening and life, connecting grief, joy, love, nature, and her newfound love of research in biological psychology. Join her on her journey at Tides and Seasons UK and Letters to my father.
From the entire SmallStack Team, a heartfelt thank you to Anna Rose for reminding us “connection brings us the life we need in the darkness.” We wish to savour every moment of grief and love with you.
With gratitude,
The SmallStack Team
Anna's story is a beautiful testament to the unexpected ways healing can happen. It's incredible how sharing our vulnerabilities can create such profound connections. Her honesty about feeling isolated in your grief, and then finding solace in the Substack community, really resonates.
It's a reminder that even when we feel most alone, we're never truly alone in our experiences.
I also write about grief...and every time I think, "who would want to read this?" another comment shows up telling me that there is comfort in community. Thanks for this post...more affirmation.