To a Good and Sweet Year (a reflection)

personby Gillian Polack
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First and most importantly, I want to wish you all a good and sweet year. Tonight (Monday at dusk), you see, is my new year. It’s the year 5786.

I’ll be relieved when 5785 is over. It was full of silences and antisemitism. The people who retained me as a friend and as a co-worker also kept me going and helped me find safer paths to travel. I have also made new friends, many who are walking the same fragile road as me. Some of my old friends were silent and will hopefully re-emerge in my life when the hate dissipates (I can hope this because I’ve seen it happen before), some accuse me of things they know I am not guilty of: most just stepped away quietly, without explaining or caring. I am branded as someone to hate. So are most Jews. Ruptured (the book I spoke about last week) is still the best description of how this affects the lives of Jewish Australian women. It’s also broken some of the silences. I have several friends back. They don’t hate, but they had no idea what to ask me or how to ask me or even how to talk everyday, without the filter of hate that too much of Australia accepts. This is the real reason I hope to get some friends back. As more people find words without having to broach difficult subjects, they will realise that I’m still here and that I miss them.

I’ve walked away from some people, myself. Those who accuse and blame. Those who don’t see everyone as human and are part of jeering mobs. Those who agree with the public rhetoric of hate. It’s far, far easier to talk to left-leaning Palestinian activists than to these people. I hate walking away from them: I believe that understanding is the best way out of this shambolic time. Finding solutions that meet the needs of more than one group of people. Dumping slogans. This was what I and my friend did in the women’s movement, over twenty years ago, but too many of those I worked with lean into the slogans right now, which means… they’re not finding ways of making society functional for all of us, they’re sowing distrust and spreading hate.

There is good news. I’m not nearly as alone as I could have been. People are, fundamentally, good. I don’t get a lot of the income from writing I did, due to closing doors, and I only get to give talks or workshops maybe three times in a year, and I don’t get to teach at all (I so miss teaching!) but I can go to professional meetings (in fact technically I’m at one right now, as I write, but it’s a break time) and give academic papers and even keep friends in fandom.

I write for a shifted audience: some of my readers from always, but more Jewish readers. I’m also writing more Jewishly, because I am still that child who, when someone says “You’re a failure” I respond by being the person who annoys them. In this case, being Jewish is the failure-aspect, so I write more Jewishness into my fiction. And my history. I’ve spent all the time since I finished the doctorate sorting out how I got Jewish history badly wrong because I, too, was listening to formulae. I’ve finished the book on it and am looking for publishers. And I get to talk about it (sometimes): I just gave a talk to my local Jewish community on the food culture and the history of Jews in Northern France in the Middle Ages. I only made one of my Rashi jokes, which I felt disconsolate about at the time, but they want me back, so I will be able to make more.

I finished a PhD and wrote a book in 5785. I dealt with far too many bigoted idiots and I analysed the words they used and discovered the sources of their rhetoric. I learned how to de-prickle a prickly pear from a Palestinian activist and we talked about the (Jewish – they gave me references!) origins of the Medjool date. Learning that it’s possible to refrain from bigotry when one is being attacked and is displaced and when life is terrifying insecure gave me back some of my trust.

This activist is looking for the same thing I am: ways of talking and finding solutions. Those who shout and scream in Australia are not the people they trust. I’ve heard them (time and time again) talk about how the marchers in the West have made things worse. This does not make me happy. Good people causing more hurt is not something that will ever make me happy.

What will 5786 be like? It’s a transition year. We’re in a time of enormous cultural shift, worldwide. Enormous cultural shift inevitably brings the enormous idiots out of the woodwork. They’re a sign, really, that we’re moving into something different.

For me, I’m hoping issues with publishers will be solved and that the delayed books start to appear. I want to finish the book that was on hold because world events meant they needed new directions. And I want to finish that vampire novel. In a perfect year, I get to do more teaching, I get more of my public voice back, and I can take up the offer a friend made to get me to Melbourne libraries safely.

Every time I was in Melbourne this last year, the library day didn’t happen because of protesters outside it. This also happened the year before last. I would probably be safe, friends who marched informed me. They weren’t at the receiving end of the hate, however, and they’re not Jewish.

That’s one of the oddities about being Jewish. Historically, hate spewed at us can begin with words but it often leads to death. The Holocaust was the extreme version, but I am 7/8 a descendant of refugees from well before then, and I have no European family left at all. My family origins are from all over Europe and yet the one thing I’m guaranteed when I travel to anywhere in Europe is that I will not meet relatives. I do not think that marchers will kill me. They might hurt me, though, or shout at me, or push me around. All these things have been done to people I know. It’s not all the marchers. Most of them don’t know about the violence committed 50 metres away. I’m developing ways of identifying the ones who, in the 60s, might have been among the group who sent the letter bomb that crippled a cousin, or in the 70s, sent evil white powders to small Jewish organisations in regional Australia.

We don’t talk about Australia as an antisemitic country, but it has always had that streak. I’ve experienced trickles of hate since primary school, and then those trickles become a stream and right now that stream is flooding its banks, growing into a river of muck. None of this is new. What is new is the realisation that most of those who hate could have avoided hating.

What do I plan for 5786? To fight hate, as I always have. And to fight hating idiots, useful or otherwise. I shall avoid those who judge me for being Jewish or for not thinking exactly as they think, and enjoy the company of everyone who looks at those around them and see human beings. I shall write, and make bad jokes, and deal with my frail body.

This is one thing I discovered in 5785: it is possible to create a good year from a bad one with enough work and enough capacity to deal with the bad. 5786 will be a good and sweet year. For anyone who wants to understand why this is such a daring statement, read Ruptured. Having something I can point to and say, “Read this” reduces difficult moments and some of the misunderstandings and gives that much more energy that I can spend on making that year happen.

May you all have a good and sweet year… even if it takes some work.

Weighty Matters

personby Nancy Jane Moore
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Every time I see an article about losing weight, it asserts that one cannot lose weight by exercise alone. And yet the only times in my life when I have lost a significant amount of weight, it was due to exercise.

This wasn’t ever a planned program, just the side effect of a significant increase in exercise. The first couple of times, I lost weight because I was suddenly doing a lot more walking.

That happened when I started college and lived on campus without a car at the University of Texas (the original one, in Austin), which was a large campus. The summer afterwards I also worked at the state capitol and walked to work as well as around campus.

My second year in law school, my financial aid didn’t come through, so I loaded trucks for four hours for UPS every morning before school. I dropped a lot of weight and got into good shape despite the fact that I stopped for donuts for breakfast on the way to work and drank Coke from the machine while I was there. And then often got biscuits and gravy from the cafeteria when I went to school.

(That may sound great, but I also recall I never got enough sleep that year and also had several colds. The exercise was great, but the lifestyle wasn’t.) Continue reading “Weighty Matters”…

Reprint: Blaming Health Problems on Personal Choice

personby Deborah J. Ross
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How federal officials talk about health is shifting in troubling ways – and that change makes me worried for my autistic child

Blaming poor health outcomes on lifestyle choices can obscure public health issues.
Anadolu via Getty Images

Megan Donelson, University of Dayton

The Make America Healthy Again movement has generated a lot of discussion about public health. But the language MAHA proponents use to describe health and disease has also raised concerns among the disability and chronic illness communities.

I’m a researcher studying the rhetoric of health and medicine – and, specifically, the rhetoric of risk. This means I analyze the language used by public officials, institutions, health care providers and other groups in discussing health risks to decode the underlying beliefs and assumptions that can affect both policy and public sentiment about health issues.

As a scholar of rhetoric and the mother of an autistic child, in the language of MAHA I hear a disregard for the humanity of people with disabilities and a shift from supporting them to blaming them for their needs.

Such language goes all the way up to the MAHA movement’s highest-level leader, Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. It is clearly evident in the report on children’s health published in May 2025 by the MAHA Commission, which was established by President Donald Trump and is led by Kennedy, as well as in the MAHA Commission’s follow-up draft recommendations, leaked on Aug. 15, 2025.

Like many people, I worry that the MAHA Commission’s rhetoric may signal a coming shift in how the federal government views the needs of people with disabilities – and its responsibilities for meeting them.

Personal choice in health

One key concept for understanding the MAHA movement’s rhetoric, introduced by a prominent sociologist named Ulrich Beck, is what sociologists now call individualization of risk. Beck argued that modern societies and governments frame almost all health risks as being about personal choice and responsibility. That approach obscures how policies made by large institutions – such as governments, for example – constrain the choices that people are able to make.

In other words, governments and other institutions tend to focus on the choices that individuals make to intentionally deflect from their own responsibility for the other risk factors. The consequence, in many cases, is that the institution is off the hook for any responsibility for negative outcomes.

Beck, writing in 1986, pointed to nuclear plants in the Soviet Union as an example. People who lived near them reported health issues that they suspected were caused by radiation. But the government denied the existence of any evidence linking their woes to radiation exposure, implying that lifestyle choices were to blame. Some scholars have identified a similar dynamic in the U.S. today, where the government emphasizes personal responsibility while downplaying the effects of public policy on health outcomes.

A shift in responsibility

Such a shift in responsibility is evident in how MAHA proponents, including Kennedy, discuss chronic illness and disabilities – in particular, autism.

In its May 2025 report on children’s health, the MAHA Commission describes the administration’s views on chronic diseases in children. The report notes that the increased prevalence in “obesity, diabetes, neurodevelopmental disorders, cancer, mental health, autoimmune disorders and allergies” are “preventable trends.” It also frames the “major drivers” of these trends as “the food children are eating, the chemicals they are exposed to, the medications they are taking, and various changes to their lifestyle and behavior, particularly those related to physical activity, sleep and the use of technology.”

A father and a boy with autism play with toys at a table.
Extensive research shows that genetics accounts for most of the risk of developing autism, but the MAHA Commission report discussed only lifestyle and environmental factors.
Dusan Stankovic/E+ via Getty Images

Notably, it makes no mention of systemic problems, such as limited access to nutritious food, poor air quality and lack of access to health care, despite strong evidence for the enormous contributions these factors make to children’s health. And regarding neurodevelopmental disorders such as autism, it makes no mention of genetics, even though decades of research has found that genetics accounts for most of the risk of developing autism.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with studying the environmental factors that might contribute to autism or other neurodevelopmental disorders. In fact, many researchers believe that autism is caused by complex interactions between genes and environmental factors. But here’s where Beck’s concept of individualization becomes revealing: While the government is clearly not responsible for the genetic causes of chronic diseases, this narrow focus on lifestyle and environmental factors implies that autism can be prevented if these factors are altered or eliminated.

While this may sound like great news, there are a couple of problems. First, it’s simply not true. Second, the Trump administration and Kennedy have canceled tens of millions of dollars in research funding for autism – including on environmental causes – replacing it with an initiative with an unclear review process. This is an unusual move if the goal is to identify and mitigate environmental risk factors And finally, the government could use this claim to justify removing federally funded support systems that are essential for the well-being of autistic people and their families – and instead focus all its efforts on eliminating processed foods, toxins and vaccines.

People with autism and their families are already carrying a tremendous financial burden, even with the current sources of available support. Cuts to Medicaid and other funding could transfer the responsibility for therapies and other needs to individual families, leaving many of them to struggle with paying their medical bills. But it could also threaten the existence of an entire network of health care providers that people with disabilities rely on.

Even more worrisome is the implication that autism is a kind of damage caused by the environment rather than one of many normal variations in human neurological diversity – framing people with autism as a problem that society must solve.

How language encodes value judgments

Such logic sets off alarm bells for anyone familiar with the history of eugenics, a movement that began with the idea of improving America by making its people healthier and quickly evolved to make judgments about who is and is not fit to participate in society.

Kennedy’s explanation for the rise in autism diagnoses contradicts decades of research by independent researchers as well as assessments by the CDC.

Kennedy has espoused this view of autism throughout his career, even recently claiming that people with autism “will never pay taxes. They’ll never hold a job. They’ll never play baseball. They’ll never write a poem.”

Even if organic foods and a toxin-free household were the answer to reducing the prevalence of autism, the leaked MAHA Commission strategy report steers clear of recommending government regulation in industries such as food and agriculture, which would be needed to make these options affordable and widely available.

Instead, MAHA’s supposed interventions would remain lifestyle choices – and expensive ones, at that – left for individual families to make for themselves.

Just asking questions

Kennedy and other MAHA proponents also employ another powerful rhetorical tactic: raising questions about topics that have already reached a scientific consensus. This tactic frames such questions as pursuits of truth, but their purpose is actually to create doubt. This tactic, too, is evident in the MAHA Commission’s reports.

This practice of “just asking questions” while ignoring already established answers is widely referred to as “sealioning.” The tactic, named for a notorious sea lion in an online comic called Wondermark, is considered a form of harassment. Like much of the rhetoric of the anti-vaccine movement, it
serves to undermine public trust in science and medicine. This is partly due to a widespread misunderstanding of scientific research – for example, understanding that scientific disagreement does not necessarily indicate that science as a process is flawed.

MAHA rhetoric thus continues a troubling trend in the anti-vaccine movement of calling all of science and Western medicine into question in order to further a specific agenda, regardless of the risks to public health.

The MAHA Commission’s goals are almost universally appealing – healthier food, healthier kids and a healthier environment for all Americans. But analyzing what is implied, minimized or left out entirely can illuminate a much more complex political and social agenda.The Conversation

Megan Donelson, Lecturer in Health Rhetorics, University of Dayton

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Welcoming in the New Year

personby Gillian Polack
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I had plans for today. Mainly I intended to tell you about books, including the ones I’m reading now. A confluence of circumstances undermined that. That’s my words masking the fact that I’m living one of the books I was going to tell you about. Do not live a book, it’s not nearly as much fun as novels suggest.

The book I’m living is a group of essays, Ruptured, edited by Lee Hofman and Tamar Paluch. Thirty-six Australians write about their lives in Australia since October 7. In every essay there’s something that also belongs in my life, even though most of them come from very different abckgrounds to me. We’re all Jewish. We’re all women. We’re all Australian. Most of us are in the Arts. And we are so very different.

How am I living this book right now?

There’s always a rise in antisemitism just before big Jewish festivals. At least there is in Australia. And by ‘always’ I mean the last decade. October 7 put the rise on strange drugs and made it bigger and nastier, but it’s been happening for a while. And Rosh Hashanah has always been difficult in other respects. There was the year I wasn’t even allowed to take a single day off for it, even though the union had negotiated for moments exactly like that. The Federal public service let me know back then, in 1989, that being Jewish was not acceptable and that microaggressions would be the norm and punishment for wanting to take a day off for my new year was acceptable. I was on flextime back then. I had heaps of hours on my flextime, but had not even been allowed to take two hours off using those hours, in the morning. I did what every Gillian should do at moments like these. I brought a great deal of honeycake into work and everyone kept dropping by my desk to be fed. I worked the fewest hours I could, with the latest start and the longest lunch. I was on the computer maybe for 10 minutes, to sign in and out and check that I wasn’t missing anything urgent (I wasn’t going to let my sulk actually hurt anyone) and … I made my point. I was allowed to take Yom Kippur off, when it arrived. These days I am not allowed in places to begin with and feel like a child who has been sent to their room and can hear the other children play. I am lucky. I’m not banned from some things – in fact, I’m a welcome friend. This means I lose Rosh Hashanah this year for some things, but still get Yom Kippur and even Sukkot. Ironically, I first discovered this problem when someone destroyed my Yom Kippur a couple of years ago. I am alert this time of year these days. Always.

This year is better and worse. I have friends watching out for me. I’m not alone. Some years I have been very alone. The worse is that the public ferment is already worse and is going to get worse still.

The amount of work I have to do is immense, but VICFA (the organisation running a conference just before) has made sure that everything will be done several hours before Rosh Hashanah begins. And I have deadlines galore, but I’m used to that. This early in third term in Australia and the rest of the country does a lot of work in September and October so that things can be finished for the big shutdown from December. Rosh Hashanah was not planned with Christmas in mind, nor the Australian summer.

Why does this feel as if I’m in Ruptured? The essays show women having to do everything to the schedules and needs of the non-Jewish community, while fielding antisemitism, and having to be Jewish and do family stuff and remember that ordinary life still exists.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about what this means for Gaza. In fact, I just typed a very long paragraph on the politics and my concern about following slogans rather than seeking the human needs that the slogans are supposed to address. But even saying what I have just said may enough – in this ungentle year – to provoke anger and threats if the right person reads it. Free speech is not part of my new year. Not free speech for me, anyhow. I’m too Jewish. And that is something every woman who wrote an essay documented. A silencing. Even if our opinions are similar to the person speaking, we can’t speak safely unless we use the right words. And the right words are terrifying. My secret historical linguist (historical linguistics is a part of being an ethnohistorian, but I’m not a specialist in the field) analyses how words are shifting and… the new meanings of some of the words and phrases we’re told we must use imply that Jews are evil, by nature, and that a country with no Jews is an improved country. My secret historical linguist wants someone other than me to do a really, really good study into changing political language and protest language in 2025. I want to be proven wrong.

This new year, when I dip apple in honey and say “To a Good and Sweet Year” I will mean it fervently, for all of us.

Some Thoughts on Cooperatives

personby Nancy Jane Moore
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In our book club meeting last week, we got off for awhile on a tangent about cooperation and competition and human nature. This was in part because we were discussing a book on Elinor Ostrom’s work on the commons, which is a form of cooperation.

Now I’m a big fan of the cooperative approach from way back – I organized food co-ops, lived in housing co-ops, and am currently a member of at least three credit unions. And I also think competition tends to be overrated, especially since it so often leads to cheating and overemphasis on the winner of some contest.

On the other hand, competition is a good way to block monopolies and to give us the diversity of enterprises we need.

But here’s the thing about cooperation that really hit me: we don’t just use it to do good.

As my Aikido friend Ross Robertson once observed when we were discussing the subject, one of the first things human beings cooperated to do was war.

Now it’s likely that they cooperated to raise kids and feed each other first, but war does go back quite a way in human history. It’s not new.

And while an army usually has forced cooperation, it can still be seen as a cooperative enterprise, with the competition side coming out in fighting with others.

I mean, mobs can also be a form of cooperation. Social groups cooperate to keep others out.

We are social beings, and standing up against the group is difficult, even when we’re right. So while I’d like to think that true cooperation isn’t done for evil purposes, the truth is that people cooperate for both good and bad reasons.

Which, to get back to Ostrom and the commons and various kinds of co-ops, is one reason why it’s important to create solid and workable structures for such enterprises. Continue reading “Some Thoughts on Cooperatives”…

The Last Ones Standing

personby Madeleine Robins
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My beautiful, funny, brilliant Aunt Julie died last month. She was 99 1/2, and in the last weeks of her life she was clearly ready to go. I have been, I think, mourning her loss for the last six years, as age and dementia took her ship further and further out and away from the shore where I watched. In the end it was more about relief, and managing the sorrow of the rest of my family. There will be Aunt Julie stories told for years, and she will live on with us.

But this leaves my brother and me as the last ones standing in our family. No one else in the world knew our parents the way we did (and even we are not immune to the parallax effect). We were there when my parents were at their best, we had an unparalleled series of adventures in their wake, and we had a front row seat for the slow, unhappy decline of their marriage and my mother’s health. My brother and I were there for all that. But more than knowing our parents, my brother and I grew up in the family that they created. And no one else knows the lore and culture of that family. Just us.*

I was thinking about all this because of a piece in the New York Times about sibling estrangement.  It’s about the pain of being estranged from someone you spent the first part of your life with. In the article, some of the siblings could not understand what had happened. Others viewed being estranged from a sibling as the only way they could protect themselves. The causes? Wildly various: In some cases a dispute over inheritance. In other cases behaviors that once seemed small grow greater until one sib simply cannot cope. Sometimes there is a history of abuse–by a parent or by one of the siblings–that has made it impossible to reconcile. I cannot quarrel with any of the choices these siblings make. They know what they know, and they are taking care of themselves and their families.

But you lose something when you cut a sibling out of your life. My brother and I are in as different as two humans can be, politically, philosophically, attitudinally. And yet we get along pretty well. This is deliberate. No one else was in the room where it happened, as it were (it being our childhood). There are lots of things we remember very differently (that parallax effect), but the thing is, we remember. And we can talk about them. Sometimes we will run aground on some point where one of us looks at the other in wonderment: “don’t you remember that?” or “no, that’s not the way it happened.” But it doesn’t become a fighting issue for us, because aside from valuing each other as interesting humans, we value each other as the last witnesses.

When my brother and I are gone no one will know what my mother’s voice sounded like, or the odd tuck my father would get in his jaw when he was trying not to laugh. I remember things from the vantage point of being the older one, and a girl, and to some extent his guide through the world. Clem remembers things from being the younger one (he remembers things I told him about TV shows we watched that I have no memory of; he appears to remember me being a far better Big Sister than I do).  And for every one of my “Raised in a Barn” anecdotes I’m sure he has one that I don’t recall, or that is told from his very different vantage point. Which is, in fact, great.

But we’re the last ones standing. My impulse to tell those stories probably comes, a little bit, from the fact that when we’re gone, all that lore and culture will at best be second hand stories our kids tell. If they tell them. Of course, my kids already have their own stories about the lore and culture of the family they grew up in. And someday the two of them will be the last ones standing.

__________

*My husband and I rewatched A Hard Day’s Night the other evening, and it occurred to me again that whatever sometime interpersonal issues those four guys from Liverpool might have had, no one else in the world could understand what it was like, being in the center of the huge creative and cultural maelstrom that they created. Just them. I think that even before John Lennon’s death they had begun to realize how unique that relationship was, and I believe the two remaining Beatles recognize it now.

The Everyday

personby Gillian Polack
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I had plans to introduce a book today, but … maybe next week. Some books have to be read a few pages at a time, and this is one. Also, today I have a profound envy of everyone who doesn’t have chronic fatigue. Why this week? Because the energy other people spend on planning and adjusting plans and making their daily lives work is energy I do not have. More than once recently I’ve had to skip events I wanted to attend or cancel dinner parties because someone had to check something with me and changed this or that and, in spending energy in these small discussions… I ran out of spoons.

I do that a lot right now. I know the triggers and I’m handling everything almost well enough. The trick is in the ‘almost.’ Even typing this is exhausting. Several friends have given me advice, because they know it will help. The thing is, I’ve had chronic fatigue for around 40 years. At this point, advice does not help. I have a list of things that must be done… these things help. And some friends listen, but most, right now, don’t. So… bed.

The moral of this week’s very short post is, “If you know anyone who handles chronic fatigue, when they say they’re not dealing, keep things simple.”

Next week, however, I should have some comments on a book where I feel seen. Very, very seen.

Some Thoughts From a Wedding

personby Nancy Jane Moore
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Last weekend at a wedding, my partner leaned toward me and, with tears in his eyes, said, “We are seeing the future.”

And it’s a good future. Or, as some of us old folks like to say, “The kids are all right.”

Earlier at the wedding, I found myself thinking, “Fuck those people who want to destroy all this.” Because this wedding was the antithesis of all the horrific violence that is being done to our country (and in the name of our country) right now.

This was a wedding for our times. It was a queer wedding. The people in attendance were quite diverse — a mix of genders, races, ethnicities, ages, backgrounds, and home locations.

The couple – one woman, one nonbinary person – met at the orientation for the graduate program in public health at U.C. Berkeley in 2021. I mean, these are folks who chose to study public health during a pandemic, so you know already they are people who are out to make good trouble in the world.

As a rule, I’m a bit skeptical about marriage. I’ve spent most of my life single and while I’m now in a committed relationship, we aren’t planning to get married for reasons that range from philosophical to practical.

But I do like celebrations and I also like the people who got married, who are neighbors of ours. Their joy in each other is wonderful.

The wedding ceremony reflected that individual joy, the political awareness of the complexity of the times, and the vital importance of ritual in our lives, not to mention the joy that comes from gathering. Continue reading “Some Thoughts From a Wedding”…

Reprint: Traumatic bereavement and how to help the survivors

personby Deborah J. Ross
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When grief involves trauma − a social worker explains how to support survivors of the recent floods and other devastating losses

Rain falls over a makeshift memorial for flood victims along the Guadalupe River on July 13, 2025, in Kerrville, Texas.
AP Photo/Eric Gay

Liza Barros-Lane, University of Houston-Downtown

The July 4, 2025, floods in Kerr County, Texas, swept away children and entire families, leaving horror in their wake. Days later, flash floods struck Ruidoso, New Mexico, killing three people, including two young children.

These are not just devastating losses. When death is sudden, violent, or when a body is never recovered, grief gets tangled up with trauma.

In these situations, people don’t only grieve the death. They struggle with the terror of how it happened, the unanswered questions and the shock etched into their bodies.

I’m a social work professor, grief researcher and the founder of The Young Widowhood Project, a research initiative aimed at expanding scholarship and public understanding of premature spousal loss.

I was widowed when I was 36. In July 2020, my husband, Brent, went missing after testing a small, flat-bottomed fishing boat called a Jon boat. His body was recovered two days later, but I never saw his remains.

Both my personal loss and professional work have shown me how trauma changes the grieving process and what kind of support actually helps.

To understand how trauma can complicate grief, it’s important to first understand how people typically respond to loss.

Grief isn’t a set of stages

Many people still think of grief through the lens of psychiatrist Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief, popularized in the early 1970s: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

But in fact, this model was originally designed for people facing their own deaths, not for mourners. In the absence of accessible grief research in the 1960s, it became a leading framework for understanding the grieving process – even though it wasn’t meant for that.

Despite this misapplication, the stages model has shaped cultural expectations: namely, that grief ends once people reach the “acceptance” stage. But research doesn’t support this idea. Trying to force grief into this model can cause real harm, leaving mourners feeling they’re grieving “wrong.”

In reality, mourning is often lifelong. Most people go through an acute period of overwhelming pain right after the loss. This is usually followed by integrated grief, where the pain softens but the loss is still part of everyday life, returning in waves.

Although grief is unique to each person and relationship, researchers have found that mourners often strive to a) make sense of the death; b) adjust to a world without their loved one; c) form an ongoing connection with their deceased loved one in new ways; and d) figure out who they are without their loved one.

It’s difficult and at times disorienting work, but most people find ways to carry their grief and keep living.

A grandmother embraces a young woman in front of a wall of flowers.
Julia Mora embraces her granddaughter, Isla Meyer, during a vigil for Texas flood victims on July 11, 2025.
AP Photo/Gerald Herbert
When grief and trauma collide

However, some losses carry an extra layer of pain, confusion and trauma.

Sudden, unexpected, accidental, violent or deeply tragic deaths – like those experienced during the recent floods – can lead to what researchers call traumatic bereavement: grief that is disrupted by the traumatic nature of the death.

People experiencing traumatic bereavement often endure a longer and more intense acute grief period. They may be haunted by disturbing images, nightmares or relentless thoughts about how their loved one died or suffered. Many wrestle with dread, spiritual disorientation and a shattered sense of safety in the world.

Some of these deaths are also considered “ambiguous” – unclear or unconfirmed loss – such as when a body is never recovered or is too damaged to view. Without physical confirmation, mourners often feel stuck in disbelief and helplessness.

This was true in my case. Not seeing my husband’s body left a part of me suspended between knowing and not knowing. I knew he had died but couldn’t fully believe it, no matter how much I lived with the reality of his absence. For a long time, I caught myself repeating these words every morning: “Brent is dead. Brent is dead.”

In many cases, these reactions aren’t short term. Many people affected by traumatic loss remain overwhelmed and sometimes physically and emotionally impaired for years. Symptoms may taper over time, but they rarely disappear entirely.

Supporting mourners

Traumatic bereavement can feel unbearable. Many mourners struggle with intense, long-lasting reactions that can leave them feeling helpless, altered or even unrecognizable to themselves. They may appear withdrawn, forgetful or emotionally drained because their systems are overwhelmed. Coping can look messy or self-destructive, but these are often survival strategies, not conscious choices. I’ve also seen how those same struggles become more survivable when mourners don’t have to carry them alone. If you’re supporting someone through traumatic loss, here are three ways to help.

  • Make space for the horror. Listen without flinching. Acknowledge the full weight of what happened and how terrifying and unjust the loss was. This means saying things like, “This should never have happened,” or “What you went through is beyond words.” It means staying present when the mourner speaks about what haunts them. Let them know they don’t have to carry this alone. You may feel the urge to say something hopeful such as, “At least the body was recovered,” but there is no silver lining in these cases. Instead, say: “There’s nothing I can say to fix this, but I’m not going anywhere.”
  • Help them find others who can understand. Trauma can be isolating. Mourners often feel uniquely overwhelmed or confused. Support groups, peer companions and therapists trained in treating grief and trauma can offer the kind of recognition and validation that even the most devoted friend may not be able to provide.
  • Take care of yourself, too. Being present for someone in deep grief takes energy, especially if you were personally affected by the loss. Stay connected to replenishing people, practices and routines. If you don’t, you may begin to experience trauma, too. Taking care of yourself will help you remain grounded so that you can show up.

I believe supporting someone through traumatic bereavement is one of the most meaningful things you can do. You don’t need perfect words or a plan. What sustains them won’t be advice or solutions, but your simple, powerful act of staying.The Conversation

Liza Barros-Lane, Assistant Professor of Social Work, University of Houston-Downtown

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Continue reading “Reprint: Traumatic bereavement and how to help the survivors”…

Finding Books

personby Gillian Polack
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Part One

One of the less-talked about side effects of the current wave of antisemitism is that we simply don’t hear about Jewish writers. Some of us (Jewish writers) write for the wider world, some specifically for Jewish communities. The vast majority of us are less visible. I was chatting with other Jewish writers a few weeks ago, and I discovered that this was worse in Australia than in the US, but that there’s no place not infected by the hate.

What readers read is our choice. Finding out about books we’d like to read is far more difficult than it used to be. If a reader has a favourite author who happens to be Jewish, they might not have access to anything new by them because the book publicity trail ignores much of the new work by Jewish writers. At the other end of the spectrum, if a reader doesn’t want to read any book by Jews, they can simply not buy the books or not borrow them from the library. Losing public awareness of Jewish writing doesn’t change the situation for those who will never read a Jewish writer: it changes it for those who want to and have no idea what books to ask for.

What I shall do here is, on the Mondays when I have a group of writers who share being Jewish and who want to be introduced… I shall introduce them. It’s that simple.

I’ve gradually, over the years, found other ways of sharing news about writers, to make up for those essays I used to write, that looked at so many books that I’d read. I miss the parcels of books in the mail, and excitedly reading a dozen of them and finding three that would work together nicely.

My new way of finding books for other people (when I can’t obtain them all myself or read them all) is to ask writers, “Who would you like to be in a group with?” When I get answers to this question, I’ll write more posts like this. They won’t always be about Jewish writers, because there are other groups that are also less seen than they should be. That’s the thing about antisemitism (as most of Australia saw on Sunday, even if they had no idea what they were seeing): it spreads into distrust and silencing of other minority groups. It’s as if people discover permission to lose chunks of culture and the people who create that culture. I can’t tell you about the books or who their audience is unless they’re in the world of science fiction, fantasy or historical fiction, or unless they write history at my end of the history trail. I used to be able to! One of the side-effects of being unwell (and plodding towards blindness) is that I no longer read three books a day. I miss having read all the books and being able to say “Oh! I read that! I can talk about it!” This is not a review series, then, but a simple set of reports.

Call this a series on how writers see themselves and which books they see sitting nicely alongside theirs on the shelf.

If you know of writers who are missing from bookshelves and from essays and from talks, encourage them to contact me and to share with me some details of their work and that of several other writers. And now on to our first group of writers!

Part Two

Debbi Weinberg Lakritz writes children’s books. The US has its own labels, and there they’re called picture books. If there’s a pile of books and a child instantly sits down with it and will not budged until all pages have been turned, then her books may be in that pile. The writes she suggests belong with hers on that pile (shelves don’t work nearly as well as glorious stacks of books when we’re talking about picture books) are Liza Wiemer, Ann Koffsky and Erica Lyons.

When I was a child there was just one picture book for Jewish children in our home library and none at all in our local library. We read it and read it and read it. One of my sisters learned how to use the stepstool before it was actually safe, because this book talked to us in a way that other books didn’t. The book disappeared fifty years ago and I only half remember its title. It was published in the 1940s or 1950s, and was a beige hardback. I look back at my Melbourne childhood and wonder at it and am totally pleased that these days there are choices for picture books that talk to Jewish children.

If any of you explore those books, let me know about them? I would love to know how children read and enjoy books that reflect their own background. I was not one of those children and nor were any Jewish Australian children in the 1960s.

Tomorrow night I attend the launch of a book that discusses what it’s like to be a Jewish Australian right now. I shall raise a glass there to these four authors, and to every other writer who helps give children a sense that they belong in this world. Debbi explained her group of writers to me and told me how warm and supportive the Jewish kidlit world is. This is another excuse to support kidlit. We need that kind and generous world to expand, so very much.