Grief is a deeply personal journey, unique to everyone. The experience of losing a loved one, can be a profound and life-altering experience. However, the way in which grief manifests and is processed can vary significantly between neurotypical individuals and those who are neurodivergent, such as autistic individuals. For an autistic person, the experience of bereavement can be intensely different, often shaped by our cognitive processing, sensory sensitivities, and social communication differences.
Understanding Grief in a Neurotypical Context
For neurotypical people, grief tends to be a shared experience. People come together, support each other, express emotions outwardly, and lean into traditions. When you don’t process grief in the same way, it can feel like you're failing at mourning. Society has an unspoken script: cry at the right moments, seek comfort in others, talk about the loss. But what if that’s not how your brain works?
Neurotypical individuals generally process grief through connection discussing their emotions with family and friends, finding comfort in shared experiences, and often displaying their distress outwardly. The presence of a strong support network also helps many navigate the loss and gradually find a way forward.
How Grief Feels in an Autistic Context
For an autistic individual, grief can look quite different. While the emotional impact is just as profound, the way it is processed, expressed, and understood may diverge significantly from neurotypical norms.
For me, grief didn’t hit in one big, dramatic wave. It trickled in, sometimes slowly, sometimes crashing when I least expected it. It wasn’t in the moments people assumed, like at the funeral or in the days immediately after. Instead, it was when I saw a random item in a shop that I would have bought for them, or when I went to call them before realising, they wouldn’t pick up.
It was when the world carried on as if nothing had happened, and I wondered how I was supposed to do the same. I’ve always felt it sad and profound when the date changes and sun rises on the following day, knowing that life has already moved on without them and that’s where I feel it.
Delayed or Atypical Grieving
Many autistic people experience grief in ways that don’t fit the usual expectations. It can be delayed and hit you weeks or months later, when something finally clicks. It can be quiet, happening internally rather than in outward expressions.
This can be difficult for others to understand. “Are you okay?” turns into “You seem to be coping really well,” which turns into “Why aren’t you more upset?” And that’s when the masking starts. Pretending to be grieving in a way that makes sense to everyone else, even when it doesn’t feel natural, just to avoid the exhausting conversations.
The Overwhelm of Mourning Rituals
Funerals are a sensory nightmare. The noise, the people, the expectations. The pressure to perform grief “correctly.” The unspoken obligation to let people touch you when you don’t want to be touched, to make small talk when words feel like too much, to stand in a crowded room when all you want is solitude.
I remember standing in a room filled with people I barely knew, their condolences washing over me in waves I couldn’t process. I wanted to leave, to find a quiet space, but there’s no polite way to step away from a family members funeral. Instead, I focused on details, whether the seating was arranged properly, whether the order of service was being followed. People probably thought I was cold, but it was the only way I could survive the day without shutting down completely.
The Time I Laughed at a Funeral
At my grandmother’s funeral last year, I actually laughed.
Music is a huge part of mourning traditions, and my grandmother had made a very specific request before she passed. She had a carer with an exceptional singing voice, and she had been so captivated by it that she asked her to sing at the funeral. It was meant to be a moment of deep meaning and respect, a tribute to someone who had meant so much to her.
Except… the song she requested was Rivers of Babylon.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s an incredible song. But imagine the scene: a deeply sombre moment, everyone grieving, tissues in hand, and suddenly, the energy in the room shifts. The carer starts clapping, getting into the spirit of the song, her powerful voice soaring through the space. The family, still wiping away tears, were left in this strange limbo of do we clap along? Do we stand? Do we just sit there, crying, while this unexpected burst of gospel energy takes over? Even the singer looked slightly unsure, caught in the surreal contrast of the moment.
It was so absurdly beautiful, so unintentionally humorous, that I laughed. Not because I didn’t care, not because I wasn’t grieving, but because my brain couldn’t process the emotional whiplash of going from deep sorrow to the sudden, clapping-infused vibrancy of Rivers of Babylon. And honestly? Maybe that’s exactly what my grandmother wanted. Maybe she knew that grief is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes, what we need most isn’t another moment of sadness, but a reminder of joy, even if it leaves everyone slightly confused.
The Need for Routine and Control
One of the hardest things about grief is that it shatters routine. As an autistic person, I rely on structure to function, and losing a loved one doesn’t fit neatly into any schedule. The world suddenly felt unpredictable, and I found myself craving control through making lists, organising things, trying to create order in a time of chaos.
For some, this looked like avoidance. “You need to let yourself feel,” people told me. But I was feeling. Just not in a way that made sense to them. My grief wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t public. It was in the small, quiet moments, looking at old photos, running my fingers over handwriting on a birthday card, struggling to focus on anything because my brain was stuck in an endless loop of “They’re gone. They’re gone.”
How to Support an Autistic Person Through Grief
If you’re supporting someone autistic who has lost a loved one, know that their grief might not look the way you expect. It doesn’t mean they aren’t devastated. It just means they process it differently.
1. Don’t Assume Lack of Emotion Means Lack of Grief
Just because someone isn’t crying or talking about it doesn’t mean they aren’t grieving. Give them space to process in their own way, on their own timeline.
2. Reduce Social Pressure
Big gatherings and forced interactions can be overwhelming. Offering a quiet, low-pressure way to check in (like a text message rather than a phone call) can be much more supportive.
3. Allow for Routine
Maintaining structure can provide a much-needed anchor. Sudden changes are already overwhelming whilst keeping some routines intact can help.
4. Be Direct and Practical
Avoid vague phrases like “They’re in a better place.” Autistic people often prefer clear, concrete language. Offer tangible support—help with tasks, provide written information, or simply sit with them in comfortable silence.
5. Respect Their Grieving Process
Some people need to talk. Others need solitude. Some will immerse themselves in hobbies or work. Some will seek out facts about death and mourning as a way to understand it logically. All of these are valid.
After the passing of my first grandmother, I joined a Paranormal Investigation Team because I wanted a sense of clarity on whether death was final or if there was some place else, be it religious or spiritual and confirmation that my grandmother was somewhere safe.
Grief Is Not One-Size-Fits-All
Grieving as an autistic person in a neurotypical world can feel like being out of sync with everyone else. But there is no right way to mourn. There is only the way that makes sense for you.
Grief doesn’t always look like what the world expects. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Sometimes, it’s delayed. Sometimes, it’s practical rather than emotional. But it is always real.
And you are not alone.
