In grief, we throw ourselves into work. Why?

I have a friend who lost her father last year. 

While he was in hospital living out his final days, I thought she would take a break from work, but it seemed that she was more responsible and loyal a team member than ever. After he died, it took a little persuading for her to take a week off. I recall her feeling bad because it was a busy period for her industry and she didn't feel good about leaving her colleagues in the lurch.

I have another friend whose cat jumped out the window and died. She hesitated to take a day off because it was "only" a pet. 

I have several ex-colleagues who have had miscarriages and went right back to work like nothing happened. 

The list goes on.

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I've been wondering: Why are we unwilling to allow grief to affect our work? Why the need to show up at meetings, meet deadlines, work, even after your world has fallen apart? 

In The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion writes about how she took the news of her husband's sudden death like a "cool customer". She didn't beat her breast or crumple to the floor. She remained composed and practical, handling all the ritualistic paperwork competently.

I see something similar going on in our lives. A certain reluctance to let our composure slip in public. Going to work, continuing to perform as best as we can, "soldiering on".

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I am sure that this whole "my ____ just died, will wfh today" nonchalance is at least partly driven by work culture, which is in turn determined by capitalist economics.

Deep down we know we are expendable. We pretend that our workplaces are "communities", but the reality is that we are economic units in a machine designed to maximise shareholder value or raise capital.

Work isn't designed to accommodate much more than, well, our work selves. Even moments of empathy and meaningful social interaction are structured (performance reviews, 1-to-1s), and therefore performative and obligatory.

It's hard to feel emotionally secure at work. Our emotions weren't part of the deal. We weren't hired to scream and burst into tears in the middle of budget planning meetings. That's just something others patiently put up with because under normal circumstances you're pretty good at what you do. There's a feeling that your teammates are waiting for you to revert to "normal circumstances".

Being the good human resources that we are, we suck it up and go back to work,

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There is a curious lack of visible grief at work. Certainly people do take time off during rough periods in their lives. But their mourning is not visible. The bereaved employee disappears for a time. It's all hushed up. When they return, they are back to their normal selves.

I think this lack of visibility is harmful. Most workplaces don't intentionally bar employees from being emotionally vulnerable at work, but the lack of visible grief, or any negative emotion, makes it a big taboo.

Particularly so at leadership levels. Our managers, those Ubermensch, are our omnipotent masters. They're not supposed to let on that they're human.

That explains why I have a very vivid memory of something contrary to the ideal. During one year's MoneySmart company retreat, the CEO, Vin, confessed that he had had a mental breakdown that year. My respect for him increased tremendously by this baring of the soul.

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Gendered expectations play a role, definitely. It doesn't escape me that all of those I know who work right through grief are women. Women who hate to be thought of as "just" women at work.

Even during normal times, we constantly self-police our behaviour and appearance. We are on guard against being thought of by our co-workers as stereotypically female. Needy, emotional, less than capable at work. Many of us, I bet, would die of mortification if our male bosses or colleagues caught us crying.

Men are expected to be stoic in times of loss, it is true. And that's hard. But because men have set the norms at work, women must fight the very common instinct to seek comfort in grief. The need to cry into someone's shoulder and be held. We can't do this at work for fear of being thought womanly and weak.

It is hard enough to deal with loss; it is harder still to clamp down on what comes naturally. We are forced to treat our grieving selves as an inconvenient pet or child, to be locked up somewhere safe until after office hours.

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One of my closest friends in the world died recently. On the same day, my pet rabbit died, too. I surprised myself at how willing I was to show up at my work shift the next day. I didn't particularly want to go to work, no. But I actually welcomed it. 

"Going to work, shelving books for 4 mind-emptying hours, is about all I can handle right now," I wrote in my journal.

Whatever its nature, work is a closed ecosystem. It's like a game or simulation. The inputs are so simple: all you need do is show up, perform your regular job scope, and, bam, success. At work, your efforts lead to success. Do A, and B follows. 

The internal logic of SOPs makes work horribly seductive when you are struggling to comprehend anything else in life.

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There is dignity. 

In an article titled Why I'd Rather Work While Grieving Than Take the Day Off, Sara McCord writes: "there’s a longing to inhabit a space that doesn’t feel tragic. Maybe you want to feel like your old self. Maybe you want to feel like someone completely different who isn’t seeped in grief. Working makes me feel smart and productive."

Work lets you wear the costume of a competent and normal person. Our last shreds of dignity, after we have completely lost our composure outside of office hours.

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Finally, work is child's play compared to reality. At least if we're talking about white-collar jobs that don't involve potential loss of life or limb. For what is the worst that could happen at work? Piss off a client? Make a booboo in your report? Submit garbage copy? Eh, big deal.

Work is so low-stakes, it's laughable. And oddly comforting. When you experience life-altering loss, the chance to inhabit this alternate universe for a few hours is relief. It's how we tell ourselves that not everything is gone.