When Grief Hits Hard, Our Words Still Matter

Every once in a while, a public moment catches you off guard, not because of the celebrity involved, but because of the raw honesty you hear in their voice. 

That’s what happened when I watched Jimmy Kimmel’s recent monologue honoring Cleto Escobedo II, his longtime friend and bandleader. The grief in his voice was palpable. It’s the kind that only comes from losing someone who was woven into the fabric of your life for decades.

I genuinely appreciate that Kimmel brought that vulnerability to the screen. Grief is universal, and when someone with a big platform shows what love and loss really look like, it gives the rest of us permission to feel our own.

But in the middle of his heartfelt tribute, Kimmel used a phrase, with a bit of mockery, about kids with disabilities that made me stop. I turned to my husband and said, “I don’t understand why people still talk like that.”

This post isn’t a takedown of Jimmy Kimmel. The man was mourning someone irreplaceable. Anyone who has been in that kind of emotional freefall knows that your guard might drop, your filters disappear, and you reach for language that feels “easy” or familiar.

But “easy” isn’t necessarily harmless.

People with disabilities already face a level of casual, daily ableism (jokes, metaphors, comparisons, and idioms) that most people don’t notice. And when that kind of language comes from someone with a massive platform, it reinforces ideas that chip away at dignity.

Death Readiness isn’t just about preparing for the worst‐case scenario; it’s about how we show up in the world, and how our choices, even the small ones, make space for others. So when moments like this come up, I think it’s a good reminder for us all:

In a world with so much division, start with inclusion.
Not because it’s trendy, but because it’s the baseline for being a decent human being.

Speak in ways that make room for everyone.
My kid. Your kid. Someone else’s kid. Kids you’ll never meet.

Let your words be a place where others feel safe.
Especially people who have been talked over, talked around, or talked about their whole lives.

Refuse language that keeps harmful stereotypes alive.
Even accidentally. Even when you’re grieving. Even when it’s someone you otherwise respect.

Choose compassion, even when you're tender and hurting.
Especially then.

It's not about being perfect. It’s about being aware.

Cleto’s legacy is one of music, friendship, and loyalty. That deserves language rooted in love and respect. We all deserve that.

If you want to watch the monologue yourself, you’ll find it here.