Too Young, Too Soon – Grief at Work

This one’s more personal than usual. But I believe it’s a conversation we don’t have enough in our professional lives.

To B.A. And to everyone who’s lost someone at work.

I was back at an event in my industry recently. One of the familiar faces wasn’t there. He won’t ever be again.

We lost him last year. Sudden death. Too young, too soon. His LinkedIn profile is still up. His mobile number’s still saved in my phone. And I catch myself wondering - how are we supposed to erase someone’s presence after years of working with them? After bumping into them at conferences, sharing a few jokes? You don’t. Not really. But the world moves on anyway.

How many professionals have we lost - not to job changes or retirement - but to death?

I was discussing this topic with someone who asked a simple, difficult question:

What kind of support do we get when we lose someone in our professional world - a colleague, a partner, a supplier, a client?

The honest answer? Sometimes, not much. Maybe a company-wide email. A minute of silence. A few “so sorry” comments under a LinkedIn post. And then what?

How public is grief supposed to be, anyway? What’s the line between remembering and performance? How many likes are enough to justify a loss? And how much emotional admin do we expect from grieving families - replying to polite messages from people they barely knew?

Then, back to business. Projects pick up. Deadlines roll in. New names fill old spots. But something stays: the sudden quiet where they used to be.

We build professional relationships over years - some light, some close - but all real. We share hours together on calls, in meeting rooms, on conferences and in airport lounges. Sometimes more than with our friends or family. And when one of those people disappears for good, we rarely know what to do with that.

So we do nothing. We’re expected to cope quietly. Keep going.

But I had tears in my eyes when I heard the news. I didn’t know him that well. But I was expecting to see him again. And it made me think: what’s left of us in the professional world once we’re gone?

A few files, some half-finished threads, a phone number in someone’s contacts. A name that stops appearing in meeting invites. It makes you think. What’s our legacy, really?

Not in the formal sense - not what's written in obituaries or on LinkedIn profiles - but in the small, human things. The habits we leave behind. The way we worked. The way we made people feel.

Is it a finished project? A well-documented process? Maybe. But more often, it’s a tone we set. A gesture someone repeats. A decision that still holds.

Later at the same event, I heard about another loss. Another person. Also too young, too soon. Something stayed with me.

The business kept moving - as it always does, because there’s no other choice. “The show must go on,” indeed. They also chose to carry him forward. They dedicated a page to him on their website. Not as a formality, but as a real tribute. His values, his work, his spirit, woven into how they describe who they are today. His photo, his story, his impact, still visible. Still part of the team.

It wasn’t performative. It felt personal. Thoughtful. A quiet but powerful way to say: he mattered here.

We can’t bring people back. But we can choose how we remember them. Not just in silence or sentiment - but in the way we work, what we honour, and who we become.

Grief doesn’t disappear just because it’s professional. And maybe moving on isn’t the point. Maybe carrying someone forward - visibly, intentionally - is the better way.