Trauma ripples into communities like a wave, touching not individuals alone but entire networks of people. As I sat with Dr. Sarilee Kahn today, I was drawn into the layered complexity of shared grief. Her stories -most particularly her work in Afghanistan in the wake of a terrorist attack- offer profound insights into a truth we often overlook: trauma is not just personal; it's collective, cultural, and often deeply systemic.

As I tap this out to the click-clack of a bluetooth keyboard, I notice a vague sense of disconnection from a world saturated with shared pain. From ongoing pandemics to intensifying political polarization, we're navigating a landscape marked by grief and uncertainty. Yet, Dr. Kahn reminded me, within that pain lies an opportunity. Shared grief -in spite of its overwhelming nature- is actually an opportunity to lean into resilience and foster healing in ways that can transform individuals and strengthen entire communities. 

Her words will stick with me: “To heal isn’t a singular act; it’s a collective one.”

Something in that resonates deeply with me. 

We can look back through history and see how when cultures faced crisis, they turned to ritual, to storytelling, and to collective care. In the never-fast-enough speed and personal-brand-inspired individualism of today's world, I feel we are faced with another loss of unknown inception: the slow, silent, death of those pathways. Dr Kahn's work is an invitation to rediscover them - to reconnect in the face of fragmentation.

The Pulse

In Afghanistan, a terrorist attack had left the community fractured by loss. The aid organization suffering from it was dedicated to the work of opening schools in remote areas with the specific intention of educating young women and girls. Offering them, for the first time, an opportunity to learn, to read, to write, and to join the wider world through the gateway of formal, public, education. This attack was a direct, severe, and vicious response to that initiative, striking at both Afghan and international aid workers alike. It was a brutal awakening to the harsh truth of how far some people will go to safeguard their traditions and uphold their own values, through any means available to them.

Dr. Kahn arrived, recommended to the appointment by a colleague already embedded with the organization. She was hired as an expert, but she arrived not with answers but with an open mind and a will to listen. She did not begin the work as expected, with grief circles, group therapy, or prognostic work. She did not pathologize, diagnose, or prescribe. She listened. She listened actively. She listened attentively. She listened and began to learn.

Over tea and lunches, dinners and walks, casual and private sessions, she began to feel the pulse of the collective trauma. She began to see the places where the Afghan and the foreign aid workers, the men and the women, the widows, widowers, parents, and children went to seek solace, to share their pain, and to vent their fears. Patterns began to emerge.

Women got together over tea, bound and bonded by tradition, while for men, it was their weekly dinners that provided the space to relate to one another and share in mutual service. A ceremony of mourning felt important, honoring the lives of the lost and the grief of the living. It’s important to note that none of these rituals were imposed; they emerged organically out of the fabric of culture. Dr. Khan’s job, as she saw it, was to listen and to support. She arranged to support the tea service, to ensure dinners could continue, and that the supplies for the ceremony were accessible. She gave people the opportunities to contribute. To do. To move.

She reiterated the importance of that movement, that the body, in trauma often wants to shut down, to fold in on itself, to stop moving.  There are few things more useful or empowering than giving those in grief, those with fresh trauma the opportunity to do something. To be invited, to be of service, to be needed, and wanted. To feel important. Whether doing the work is talking, or praying, or preparing tea.

As I reflect on her recounting, I'm most struck by the simplicity and power of these communal acts. Dr. Kahn wasn't there to dictate what healing should look like. She created space for these traditions to flourish, amplifying what was already working. This approach is mirrored in findings that show how collectivist cultures naturally prioritize communal grieving and shared rituals as recovery mechanisms.

What about societies like ours, though, where individualism often reigns? In the West, grief is often a very private thing. We are encouraged to "move on" quickly, without the support of shared traditions. This gap seems glaring to me as I think of Dr. Kahn's stories: Healing happens in community, and when that community doesn't naturally exist, we have to build it.

Now, I wonder: What connective frameworks do I lean on? What rituals or practices might gather people when others are suffering? In a world that is becoming ever more virtual and lonely, even online communities can be a lifeline even as research shows they are far from an adequate replacement. Team breaths shared, reflections taken in a group, casual conversations- emerge as the beginnings of solidarities for which we desperately reach.

The Power of Action

What Dr. Kahn noted in the wake of the Afghan tragedy was something quite remarkable-the power of action to restore agency. People stepped forward to organize memorials, prepare meals, and arrange flowers. Mundane tasks, perhaps, yet carrying great poignancy; in moments of chaos, they gave people something to do.

As I listen to her describe this, I am reminded of the transcendent power of doing. Trauma often renders us helpless, but purposeful action can be a lifeline. As one 2016 study in the Journal of Traumatic Stress underscores, structured activities significantly reduce symptoms of PTSD in disaster survivors. Action isn't mere distraction; it's a means of reclaiming control.

I am forced to consider the tiny ways this principle has played out in my own work. It is often after periods of upheaval that the tiniest actions of supportiveness-reordering the workspace, sending supportive messages, volunteering for a cause-have reestablished stability. And to those immersed in their own grief, the prescription would be equally simple: just start small, just do it. In and of itself, the act of doing-no matter how small-creates momentum, momentum we all desperately need in those moments of fragility and disempowerment. 

Dr. Kahn emphasizes that this is equally important in leadership. Empowering a team to act—whether through collaborative problem-solving or through individual contributions—can help people feel purposeful even in the midst of uncertainty. Leaders have an opportunity here: to invite participation, foster engagement, and remind their teams that they matter, that they need each other, each and every one.

Be a Catalyst

Leadership, as Dr. Kahn and I discuss, is a decisive factor in how communities navigate trauma. She describes leaders in Afghanistan who embodied two contrasting styles. One openly acknowledged grief, modeling vulnerability and creating space for emotional expression. The other focused on logistics, channeling energy into tangible tasks but avoiding the emotional weight of the moment. Both approaches left lasting impressions on the group’s recovery.

This, of course, reminds me of a principle I've called the "vulnerability dial." Leaders, consciously or not, set the tone for how grief, stress, and uncertainty are approached and dealt with by their teams and organizations. My own work reinforces this idea: Vulnerability is not a weakness, it's a bridge to trust and connection, but only when the tone for that vulnerability is modeled by someone with the social status or institutional authority to influence that social norm. Without that, vulnerability is often perceived as weakness, and people, even today, can be ruthless in exploiting, ridiculing, and ostracizing any one who opens themselves up to that scrutiny publicly.

The stakes are high for leaders. Are you creating an environment where people feel safe to express their struggles, or are you signaling that emotions are best left unspoken? Leadership in traumatic times requires more than strategic decision-making it demands humanity. Leaders don't and certainly don’t have to have all the answers, but to show up authentically, modeling courage in the face of fear and care in the face of anguish can make all the difference in plotting a collective course toward communal healing, mutual support, and, ultimately, post traumatic growth.

This feels especially relevant now, as organizations grapple with burnout, uncertainty, and change. Leaders who demonstrate openness invite others to do the same, creating a ripple effect of trust and resilience. If you’re in a position of influence, consider how your actions—your words, your tone, your presence—shape the emotional landscape of those around you.

Deny or Amplify

There’s a spectrum I've seen play out in countless settings: at one end is denial, the tendency to suppress emotions and "power through" as though nothing has changed. At the other is amplification, where the weight of grief becomes all-consuming, making forward motion feel impossible. Both extremes are patterns of response with which most anyone who has worked in posttraumatic situations is all too familiar. Neither encourages resilience, however.

Dr. Kahn provided poignantly clear examples of these pendulating extremes from her work in Afghanistan. In one case, some people became extremely busy to avoid the emotional confrontation that grief requires. In another, individuals were paralyzed in their inability to process the size of their loss. The balance between these responses was crucial to the community's recovery. In their collective rituals-dinners together, memorial services, and mass reflection-she saw a middle ground where feelings could be acknowledged without overwhelming those feeling them. There was a third way where, people were invited into acts of service, invited into spaces for reflection, and welcomed to take the space they needed, but never left alone for long. They reinforced a collective attitude of persistent welcome, where individuals were welcome to their own experiences and consistently reminded of the communities need for those experiences to contribute as part of a much larger whole.

In 2020 there was a study published in the Clinical Psychology Review that explored the necessity of acknowledging the emotions but keeping enough structuring so that chaos does not ensue. Dr. Kahn put this into practice with her work: "The conscious design of space for both grief and resilience allowed community members to embrace their pain while sourcing strength from collective healing.".

This balance feels especially nuanced as I write, knowing how often I've seen people, myself included, tip toward one extreme or the other. Where do you fall on this spectrum? Are you avoiding emotions, burying them under the weight of busyness? Or are you stuck, unable to move forward? Practices like mindfulness, journaling, or even a candid conversation with someone you trust can help bring equilibrium. For organizations, the creation of structured but flexible spaces—like reflection sessions or group check-ins— mixed with service oriented activities – like volunteer days with partner organizations, or community work days – prevent either extreme from taking root.

Balance is not about suppressing discomfort; it's about creating a container where it can be felt, processed, and eventually transformed into something that fosters growth.

Rituals as Anchors

The making of an otherwise ordinary rock garden in Afghanistan became a deep ritual that coalesced a focal point for communal grief through the simple cultivation of shared intention. This space, developed collaboratively with, for, and by the community, allowed people to honor their losses while providing a place to productively invest their physical unrest while producing a tangible symbol of remembrance. It was more than a garden; it was an anchor in a storm of uncertainty.

Listening to her describe this, even briefly, I was struck by the universal power of rituals. In my own life, I’ve turned to rituals—lighting candles, journaling, taking quiet walks—as a way to create stability during times of upheaval. These acts, small as they may seem, bring a sense of order to chaos. Her story reinforces this truth: rituals provide continuity, grounding us when everything else feels unsteady. These rituals once held a central place in the lives of our ancestors and forebearers, wherever they may have lived, and are a large part of the cultural stripping we all long to recover from in our own various ways. 

Research supports this. One study confirms that rituals significantly reduce anxiety and depression, providing a framework for processing emotions during crises. The rock garden in Afghanistan wasn't just a physical space; it was a shared act of meaning-making, a way to collectively process the unthinkable.

I wonder what rituals anchor those reading this. Is there a family tradition, a cultural practice, or something utterly personal, important to you? These acts can be lifelines during times of hardship, communal or in private. Rituals remind us that even in the midst of loss, there is something to hold onto, that simple acts can anchors us to the ineffable, the universal, and the transcendent, offering us roads into our deeper and back out to the immensity of the global experience. They can offer us solace, catharsis, release, or communion, settling grievance, laying grief to rest, or celebrating monumental passages as rites or trials in our lives, as individuals or whole communities. Rituals are an immutable loadstone of the human experience.

The Isolation Trap

Trauma isolates. It burrows in and pulls a person away from the very connections they need most. In Afghanistan, the weight of grief had forced some people to retreat, unsure how to even begin reconnecting with others. Yet, simple acts of togetherness-shared meals, casual gatherings-helped break that cycle, slowly rebuilding the bonds that trauma had strained.

It seems to me a tragically common story, in my life. So, I wondered how often isolation adds its weight to the pain of loss. A 2021 meta-analysis published in the Nature of Human Behaviour shows just how damaging loneliness can be, linking it with depression, cardiovascular disease, and even premature death. Isolation isn't just an emotional issue; it's a public health crisis.

Dr. Kahn's work offers a few simple, timeworn, blueprints that can help to break the cycle. In Afghanistan, the simplicity of gathering around food, sharing space, and fostering connection made a profound difference. These acts weren't grand gestures-they were accessible and meaningful, providing a foundation for healing, that was, perhaps most importantly, community driven and community sustained.

I am consistently, maybe even a tad obsessively, considering small ways that each of us can bridge the gaps in our own lives. If you feel lonely, any step is a good first step: reach out to a trusted or new friend, join a community group, show up for a volunteer day with a local non-profit, attend a non-denominational faith gathering, or participate in a virtual event. If you are already well resourced, work to provide spaces for connection. Togetherness heals-not just individuals but whole communities.

Grieving the Invisible

Dr. Kahn and I have spoken at length about the concept of ambiguous loss. When most people speak of grief, they are speaking of Grief with a capital “G”. They are speaking of the loss of a loved one, the death of an idol, a tragic loss of something we can point to. Not all grief is tangible though. Sometimes we grieve the inchoate: the loss of a dream, a way of life, or even a collective sense of safety. It's those losses that often cut the deepest, since they can't be neatly tied up, buried, or even acknowledged. I call this grieving the little or invisible deaths.

I think often about the multitude of us carrying these losses in the wake of pandemic, political upheaval, and climate crisis. Harder to name, harder to process, but no less real. There is a deep importance to naming these losses, suggesting that acknowledgement itself can bring clarity and healing.

Dr. Kahn's stories give this idea a concrete face. She speaks of communities mourning the loss of cultural identity, of people who have been displaced, who can never go home again. Her practice, setting space for these losses to be spoken and grieved feels oddly pragmatic and very deep.

What are the ambiguous losses you are carrying, the invisible deaths? Name them. Write them down, share them with someone you trust, or create a ritual to honor them. Plant a tree, light a candle, or write a letter; these acts of acknowledgment can transform unspoken grief into something tangible—and, ultimately, more manageable.

Rebuilding Connection

Throughout our discussions, Dr. Kahn and I return to one persistent theme: the tension between individualism and interdependence. In the West, hyper-individualism often leaves people without the tools to process grief, or, well, anything, collectively. Meanwhile, societies with strong communal ties are better equipped to navigate trauma together.

I have given up collecting studies, there are simply too many, that highlight how communities prioritizing collective well-being report higher levels of happiness and health. Hoarse from screaming into an uncaring void, I can’t help but continue to ask: What would it look like to rebuild our sense of connection, starting now?

Old Gandalf the Grey would say that it begins with small acts—reaching out to a neighbor, hosting a family dinner, volunteering for a cause, or bringing the boys together for a long-odds assault on an overwhelmingly powerful dark lord. Great, glad to see you’re still paying attention. These seemingly minor gestures weave the threads of interdependence that hold us together. How do we incentivize ourselves, each other, and, by proxy, our entire society to invest ourselves in normalizing more deeper and authentic connections. If we can "Make America Great Again", perhaps I can champion the No Hermit Left Behind Act.

A Culture of Healing 

I am so grateful for the opportunity to have people like Sarilee in my life and my world. Her work reminds me that trauma is never experienced in isolation, even when it feels that way. Healing is also a collective act, one that requires intention, courage, and connection. Reflecting on her stories and our conversation, I find awe in the resilience of the human spirit and the profound power of community. The work of healing is complex, and even the smallest, simplest step forward is always worth taking.

Whether through ritual, through connection, or through acts of acknowledgment, the tools to process even the most unthinkable grief are within reach. Start small. Lean into community. Wear vulnerability like the precious strength it is. Healing isn't a destination; it's a process, one that may walk with you the rest of your life. The road, afterall, goes ever on. 

These lessons are not confined to Afghanistan or the contexts she has worked in, Dr. Kahn emphasized; they are universal, harnessed in any group that navigates grief or uncertainty. Whether through communal rituals, purposeful action, or compassionate leadership, the tools for healing lie within our grasp. The question and uncertainty is always whether we will choose to use them, together.

And as Dr. Kahn so eloquently said earlier today, “the work of healing may never be finished, but it is always worth doing.”

Looking Forward to You,

Geof.