When people say “they’re just things” after a house fire or a flood, they usually mean well. What they’re trying to do is reduce pain by shrinking the loss. But what actually happens is a kind of erasure: it ignores the truth that objects are repositories of memory, labor, lineage, and identity.
A house isn’t drywall; it’s the place a life was practiced. A farm isn’t acreage; it’s continuity—decisions made over generations, proof that people showed up year after year, generational wealth and legacy, whether or not it ever appeared on a balance sheet.
Things aren’t sacred because they’re things. They’re sacred because of what they held. The unkindness of “they’re just things” comes from treating grief as something that should be talked out of rather than walked through.
Train wrecks are rarely sudden. They are slow failures that eventually become loud. They come from:
- deferred decisions
- unspoken fears
- misplaced hope that “it’ll sort itself out”
- refusal to name a problem because naming it creates obligation
“It is what it is” is a verbal shrug—a phrase that freezes responsibility.
Just like telling someone “they’re just things” avoids sitting with their grief, ignoring a deteriorating situation avoids responsibility. Both are forms of emotional and moral shortcutting.
The real danger
The meaning a thing or place holds is not the danger. Meaning does not destabilize people. What creates collapse is the language meant to loosen attachment, the words meant to help by minimizing what was lost. Instead of shrinking the pain, they widen the void they were meant to erase.
People fear that honoring meaning will make loss unbearable. But what actually breaks systems—families, farms, institutions—is pretending meaning doesn’t exist:
- pretending the farm is just land
- pretending the possessions that were washed away or burned were just things
- pretending a volatile person will calm down on their own
- pretending peace of mind is optional collateral damage
When we dismiss meaning, the train derails. And then everyone—family, neighbors, whole communities—can’t help but look on and say, “It’s a train wreck.”
How did this happen?
In many cases, the disaster began long before the crash. It began inside the locomotive—with decisions that were made, problems that were ignored, people who were allowed onboard. The partner you chose. Someone you trusted. The man you elected. The wreck feels like a surprise, but rarely is.
Once the train breaks, all eyes are on the long, twisted spine of it. The dominoes. The toxic spill. The rerouted lives. Every bad decision impacts every car. Everyone feels it.
And the wreck won’t fix itself.
As toxins spill and life detours around the damage, nothing magically resolves. Recovery takes effort. Accountability takes effort. Grief takes effort.
Platitudes versus presence
True compassion requires presence. It means listening to the pain and validating the loss, not rushing to make it smaller with shortcuts like “it’s just a house” and “they’re just things.” And if you were the engineer who wrecked the train, you don’t get to call the wreck inevitable. “It is what it is” is cowardice when courage is needed. It’s irresponsible when action is required.
So, to the onlookers who turn to stare and to those who step closer to comfort, remember this:
Meaning doesn’t make loss heavier for us.
It makes it real enough to respond to.
Instead of “at least you only lost…,” try this:
“I know that house holds so many memories for you.”
And to the engineers of the wrecks, remember—what “it is” didn’t arrive on its own. And it won’t resolve itself.
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2026
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