Sympathy Cards Suck

Guest Blog: Caroline Roodhouse on Words That Actually Help

At LoveLossDiscoballs, we believe cards can do more than just offer condolences - they can genuinely comfort, connect and honour the person who’s been lost. That’s why we’re so grateful to share this heartfelt guest blog from writer and suicide prevention advocate, Caroline Roodhouse.

Caroline reflects on her personal experiences with sympathy cards - the ones that helped, the ones that missed the mark, and what she wishes more people knew about supporting someone through loss. Her words are honest, insightful and a powerful reminder of how much it matters to get this stuff right.

Caroline Roodhouse with her book, Daddy Blackbird

I need to begin by telling you that I’m not an ungrateful person.

I say my pleases and thank yous. I’m generally thoughtful, considerate, and aware when others are doing the same. I am kind. I am compassionate.

I also need to say: I absolutely hate sympathy cards.

I know they’re meant well. I know it’s what we do, what society does. We want to pay our respects. So we nip to the shop, choose a card with a feather or a dove or a pale sunset on the front, and we scribble something like “So sorry for your loss” before posting it off to the grieving family.

 But when Steve died - and not just died, but died by suicide - those cards became unbearable.

As the truth of how he had stopped himself from breathing started to settle into my mind and work its way through my bones, condolence cards began dropping through the letterbox like heavy rocks - reminders of a reality I wasn’t ready to live in. They came from everywhere: friends, family, colleagues, school mums, church groups, old neighbours, even our dental surgery.

Each one was a new wound. A fresh echo of what had happened.

Words like death, coroner, sympathy, sorrow, sadness, these became part of the daily soundtrack, infiltrating my thoughts, while lilies and rainbows and butterflies glared at me from glossy cardstock, ramming the point home.

They made me feel sick. They made me feel so, so sad. Eventually, I stopped opening them. But that felt awful too.

I wanted to acknowledge people’s efforts, their care, their kindness. I just couldn’t bear to see it laid out in ink and platitudes. It hurt too much. The cards were gently stored away. Not displayed, not read. Just hidden. Physically, at least.

 The flowers were harder to ignore. My house turned overnight into a florist shop. Vases ran out. And still more came. Beautiful, fragrant, well-meaning gifts that I couldn’t stand the sight of.

Then came the messages. Texts, emails, WhatsApps. Hundreds of them. The social media updates sharing possible sightings of Steve had started to fade, replaced now with sympathy and memories from friends and colleagues. Messages telling me what an amazing man he was. How much he meant to them. What a brilliant manager he had been. How proud a dad. What a loving husband.

But in those first weeks, that wasn’t what I needed to hear.

If he was so amazing… why wasn’t he here? If he was so loving… why did he leave?

There was no disease to blame. No accident. No drunk driver or tumour or tragedy. Just him. Gone. By his own hand. And that made the pain a whole different beast.

Still, I replied. Because ignoring people felt rude, and rude is something I am not. So every evening, after settling the girls as best I could, a friend and I would sit down with a glass of wine and a phone, and respond to each of them. One by one. Every message. Every note. Carefully composed responses, sent into the night.

It was exhausting. But it mattered.

I still have all the sympathy cards, bundled and boxed in the loft. I recently took them down and went through them. It reminded me how impossible a task it is, trying to find the right words and the most appropriate image when someone you care about is grieving.

 And to be fair, some people did manage it.

Some didn’t just say “sorry” or “thinking of you.” Some offered practical help. Some offered gentle, careful understanding. Some found words that struck a chord, even amid the noise of grief.

One letter, addressed to the three of us, came from a kind woman we’d met at church. She had written her message in language my girls could understand, which I appreciated more than I can say.

 “When people break their leg or have a disease, we can all see that they are in pain, and we can do something to help. But when people have pain in their hearts or in their heads, we often can’t see it because they hide it away. Sometimes the pain is so great that it acts like earmuffs, and they can’t hear us telling them how important they are or how much we love them.”

There is no perfect thing to say when someone has died, especially by suicide. But if you ever find yourself reaching for a sympathy card, or typing out a message, just know that words matter. Presence matters. Honesty, care, and realness matter.

And sometimes… that means saying: I have no idea what to say. But I’m here.

Caroline Roodhouse is a writer, speaker and communications consultant specialising in suicide prevention, postvention and compassionate workplace culture. She is the author of Daddy Blackbird: the true story of a family surviving and thriving after loss by suicide.