Buck up, show up, & listen | Kim Toms | TEDxASUWest

Kim Toms shares a personal story of grief and resilience, urging us to buck up, show up, and listen to support those mourning loss.

Key Takeaways

Grief requires courage and active support from others.
Showing up with practical help is more valuable than empty words.
Listening and sitting in silence with someone grieving is a powerful act.
Authentic empathy is more helpful than trying to find silver linings too soon.
True strength lies in interdependence, not rugged independence.

What the video covers

Kim Toms reflects on childhood lessons from movies about toughness and independence.
She shares her journey through marriage, divorce, and finding love again with Doug.
Doug's courage and principles deeply influenced her life and their adventurous lifestyle.
Doug's sudden death in 2017 left her devastated and struggling with grief.
She describes the mixed reactions from her community and the importance of genuine support.
Kim highlights the pain caused by clichéd condolences and the need for authentic empathy.
Her community's kindness, including unexpected support during COVID, helped her heal.
She emphasizes that true toughness comes from interdependence and shared vulnerability.
Kim offers practical advice for supporting grieving people: buck up, show up, and listen.
She concludes that bearing grief together is a human skill that can be learned and practiced.

Chapters

What is the main message of Kim Toms' TEDx talk?

The main message is that supporting someone who is grieving requires courage, presence, and listening. True strength comes from interdependence and shared vulnerability.

How does Kim describe her experience with grief after Doug's death?

Kim describes feeling overwhelmed by grief, triggered by everyday moments, and initially struggling with loneliness and loss. She highlights the importance of community support in her healing process.

What practical advice does Kim offer for helping someone who is grieving?

Kim advises to 'buck up' by gathering courage, 'show up' by offering practical help like washing their car or doing laundry, and 'listen' by allowing them to talk or sitting silently with them.

Full Transcript — Download SRT & Markdown

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Tough, lonely, tired. That's how heroes looked in the movies I watched as a kid. Those detective stories and westerns taught me that real women and men were rugged and independent. I learned that lesson well. As a teen, I went to concerts alone

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and took road trips by myself. Somehow, I got married, but by the 90s, I was divorced with teenage kids. I felt tough, lonely, and tired still. Movies were a big part of life. The kids and I quoted our favorite lines.

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"You can't handle the truth." And at the car dealership where I worked, we played movie trivia and confessed celebrity crushes. Mine was Ben Johnson, cowboy, rodeo champ, actor, and a good old-fashioned guy on and off the screen. When he died, I

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went to his funeral to honor his craft but to say goodbye to the last of his kind. Back at work, freshly resigned to being single forever, I noticed a bald goatee mechanic named Doug. He'd tug his cap when he passed me, and

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he pushed back at management, standing up for the janitor and the kids who washed the cars. Huh. When we started dating, I saw more of his principles and courage. Some people can probably pop to a convenience store without getting into scrapes,

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but if Doug was late coming back with the coffee, I knew he had tangled with some bully who'd been harassing someone else. I married him. The story is one of toughness. Doug's mine, but especially the toughness of those

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who circled around me when he died. We were twin stars, far too much alike. Once he looked down at our shopping cart of Oreos and frozen burritos. "We are two eight-year-olds with a checking account," he said. On a typical Friday night, I'd say,

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"Tomorrow morning, first thing, we pull weeds," and he'd say, "Okay." Soon he'd feel my stare. "What, you think that bar up north is still open? The one with the music?" Ten minutes later, we're barreling up the freeway. Weeds forgotten

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again. Impulses like this made our house merely base camp, a jumble of kayaks and unused gardening tools and airplane boarding passes. He had gotten a job with an airline. Lunch in San Francisco? Why yes. Weekend in D.C.? Sure. Our matching red suitcases stood by

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the door, never fully unpacked. As exciting as it was to travel, it was lovely to return. From the air, I'd spied jagged southwestern peaks, and my heart would surge because outside our bedroom window, those mountains framed the morning sun that brimmed up and spilled through

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the blinds, outlining an even sweeter landscape. Doug, his head on the pillow, his big shoulders in his shelter. I was home. In May 7, 2017, after a trip to the hardware store, he sat down on the couch and died.

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I did CPR. I called paramedics, but he was gone. Not there to grin out across the room or to press against as I fell asleep. At first, I reeled. Wandering through the grocery, I'd get hijacked by the simplest thing in the soap aisle.

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The Irish Spring that smelled like Doug just punched me, and I doubled over sobbing silently. The airport was the worst. I tried to fly to my sisters, but the teaming concourse stopped me. Doug and I had cut through those crowds

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like barrel racers, but just walking to the gate without him was too much. I went home to breathe in the last of his molecules. Into this milieu, people rushed like first responders. Colleagues brought me dinners and flowers and even treats for my dogs.

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The family invited me to stay with them and sent me to a grief workshop. Friends sat with me while I cried. I appreciated even awkward attempts to comfort me. A professor friend texted, "You know, I'm bad at this.

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I don't know how to make you feel better." I texted back, "You just did." Other approaches weren't so welcome. One good friend of Doug's didn't call, didn't write, didn't show up to his funeral. "Ah, you know him," somebody said.

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"Doesn't know what to say." Other people pointed out the bright side of death. "He's in a better place. At least you had 20 good years." Too soon. At the mention of silver linings, my heart clanged shut. I wanted to hear, "I am so

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sorry. I can't imagine." Acknowledgement of my unbearable loss. Now, three and a half years later, I'm mostly okay. The house is remodeled. Kayaks lie neatly in the garage, and I'm surprised how my community has grown. In the early days of COVID, my doorbell

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rang, and on the porch, two women I didn't know in headscarves. Their son, brother was in my class, so they'd heard I was alone, and they brought me food and checked on me. They still do. I am here by the brave kindness of

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others. Turns out that ruggedly interdependent people may be the toughest of all. For the takeaway in all this, let's go to the movies. In Tombstone, Wyatt Earp says, "Are you going to do something, or are you just going to stand there and bleed?"

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In other words, when someone's grieving, don't just wring your hands and feel bad for them. Instead, one, buck up, gather your courage, and draw them back to the campfire. But they might cry. Yep. But I might have to make small talk.

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Nope. Two, show up, get their car washed, do their laundry. Do not believe that you can save them. Once you accept that you can't make them better, ironically, you'll help. And three, listen. Let them talk. Sit with them in

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silence. Bearing each other's grief is a basic human skill. If it's a skill, we can learn it. So the next time someone you love has a broken heart, buck up, show up, and listen. It's what real-life heroes do.

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You.

Topics:grieflossresiliencesupportempathykindnesscommunitybereavementmental healthTEDx

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