Curiosity as a Wall
My dad passed away when I was nine. That one event shaped my life in more ways than I can count—some good, some painful, all lasting.
My mom was thirty-nine when he died, left to raise my brother and me on her own. Bless her. Truly.
At some point growing up, she told me about the way people treated her in those early days. Not close friends—just curious people who found out my dad had died and felt entitled to details.
“Oh no, how did he pass?”
“Cancer.”
“What kind of cancer?”
“Lung.”
“Oh my goodness… did he smoke?”
“Yes.”
That used to infuriate me. It felt like they were asking whether he deserved to die.
But my mom taught me something then that I’ve never been able to unsee.
“Maggie, people don’t know what to do when they see someone in pain,” she said. “They try to separate themselves from it. They see me—a young widow with two young children—and they want to convince themselves this won’t happen to them. If your spouse doesn’t smoke, then they won’t get cancer. That comforts them. People say strange things when they’re faced with pain.”
I never forgot that. And now, I see it everywhere.
I do it too.
My brother has had three strokes in his lifetime. He is far too young for that to be true, and yet it is. Anytime someone finds out, the first question is almost always why. What caused them?
There’s often a quiet subtext underneath that question: Did he deserve this? Could this happen to me?
That’s what I hear when people ask about my dad. And my brother.
When I got divorced, the questions shifted but followed the same pattern. I was stunned to learn how many people—some I had known my entire life—were discussing theories about what went wrong without ever checking on me. Or him.
But then I remembered what my mom taught me all those years ago.
People want to separate from pain. They aren’t always judging. Sometimes they’re just building a wall around their own hearts, hoping that whatever happened to someone else won’t happen to them.
I catch myself doing it too—asking why something happened, or what someone did, disguising it as curiosity. But the truth is, it’s often none of my business. And more honestly, it’s my way of creating distance between myself and someone else’s suffering.
Recently, I wrote about showing up—about how often we don’t because we’re afraid of saying the wrong thing or making it worse. I don’t want this post to reinforce that fear.
Your presence and your intention will always matter more than whether you asked a slightly imperfect question.
If the people who speculated about my divorce had simply checked on us—even awkwardly—we would have felt supported. The rumors would have died quickly. Showing up matters that much.
Andy Stanley has a quote I love:
“The only people you don’t like are the people whose stories you haven’t heard.”
When we separate ourselves from people—from their pain, from their stories (not the ones we invent)—we lose connection. We create confusion and withhold love. But when we allow people the space to tell their own stories, something shifts.
If we can simply show up and hold space, we learn to love instead of question. And in that shared safety, trust grows. Connection is formed—not despite the hurt, but through it.
Keep Reading
If this piece spoke to you, you might also like:
→ God and I Are at an Impasse – what happens when faith feels quiet instead of close
→ Grief is Sacred – learning to hold loss gently
→ Faith – choosing trust even when certainty disappears
