The death of Liam Payne last month saw an outpouring of grief from One Direction fans the world over. Some flocked to the hotel where the singer tragically passed away to hold vigils, lay flowers and protect his father, Geoff, from the paparazzi. Others shared montages of their favourite “1D” moments online.
Still more have expressed their grief on social media and in ever more creative ways. TikTok user @Evonann, for example, held a make-believe funeral for Liam using his official One Direction doll laid across a white blanket using a shoe box as a coffin, the dolls of his bandmates posed by his side as “Story of My Life” played in the background.
In a less obvious display of collective grief, the plane carrying Payne's body back from South America became the most tracked flight in the world, as fans followed its progress to feel closer to him in some way. And now it is his funeral – and I worry for those who will take it hardest.
Overall, responses have ranged from caring to callous: Trolls on TikTok have this week been cutting together videos from other funerals and labelling them as Payne’s, with the videos generating millions of views.
If you feel torn about this type of tribute, you’re not alone. A debate broke out in the comments section below one video which has amassed more than 1m likes and 7m views. One commenter asked, “Is this disrespectful?” – to which another replied: “I feel like it isn’t BUT only if they cried during the set/up pictures.”
The creator’s response was: “This is how I cope.” And, as someone who has recently experienced a monumental loss, having lost my beloved mother earlier this year, I cannot help but side with him.
Grief can feel insidious and all-consuming, especially if you haven’t experienced it before. It can make you feel hopeless, instilling a unique sense of panic when you realise that person is gone forever.
Like gaining muscle mass or developing a prefrontal cortex, grief shapes us into a particular type of human. It is as formative and wobbly as a child’s first step and, once learnt, as impossible to forget – however much you may wish to.
The good news is that it’s the sort of thing you can get better at. One analogy I like is that grief doesn’t necessarily get smaller; you just grow bigger around it.
While the loss of a loved one is very different to parasocial grief felt towards a celebrity, there are still parallels, and the latter should not be scoffed at or considered “disrespectful”. After all, it’s a testament to how impactful that person’s life and legacy were.
But the hard part is yet to come – and fans should be made aware. Despite what you may think, it doesn’t get better after the funeral – it gets worse. Planning that event is a numbing experience, a parade of administrative tasks that detach your emotions from the person who passed away.
Arrangements give you a focus, but when the wake is done and everyone returns to their normal lives, you’re left with the potency of your thoughts and the reality that nothing will ever be the same.
The week my mum died, I cried so hard that my body hurt. I began to dread tears because the crying hurt my stomach muscles. That guttural, profound sadness – something I had never felt anything close to before – returned in the few days following her funeral. Messages of support felt overwhelming. I wasn't ready to hear from people who'd lost parents and who wanted to share their experiences of grief. I needed to sit with my own.
For a while, it felt so bad that I sat on the sofa and leaned into it (which is totally unlike me as someone who likes to find practical solutions to problems). No walks, no nice meals – the sort of things I had been doing with my dad in between bursts of funeral planning – just the opportunity to feel sad.
And it worked a little because three days later, my mood lifted somewhat. I had begun to feel ever-so-slightly better.
When we deal with grief, we deal in tiny wins. We celebrate small, incremental improvements in a way we don’t very often in life. Remember in lockdown when we learned to enjoy every new leaf that sprouted on our houseplant, or the way we took comfort in the baby cygnets growing into full-grown swans at the local park? It’s a bit like that.
When you feel just a tiny bit back to normal, you smile and look in the mirror to notice that positivity. Then the next day you might do that twice, and then the day after you may find that moment arrives three times.
The word “grief” will start to become more than a word. You realise that experiencing it means becoming a new person. You have most of the same parts but a fundamental part of you is forever changed.
I know the grief I feel for my wonderful mum is different to the shared grief of the millions of Liam Payne fans, and they are displaying it in a way my mum’s generation may struggle to understand.
@Evonann’s video is one of thousands of messages posted online about Liam, many from people no doubt wondering how they can cope. It may help some to have his name said out loud long after he is gone, but for others, it will hurt. The main thing to remember is that we all have our own ways of coping, and each is as valid as the next.
My mum was a wonderful person who, at almost 82, was planning her next long-haul trip when she passed away in September. She instilled in me a lifelong love of travel, something I’m lucky to do as a job today. She and my father showed me what love and flirtation can look like as octogenarians. I am devastated that she has gone – and so are the hundreds of people whose lives she touched.
But right now, the sun is shining on the metallic-tinted leaves outside my window, and the sky is a bright blue. It is the sort of day that she would have liked; the sort that makes you feel just a little bit better.
Liam Payne fans should know that it may get harder for a while, but one day, I hope you’ll look out the window and the sky will seem just that little bit brighter for you, too.
