How the Norse Faced Death: What Viking Grief Can Teach Us

Traci Arieli
Nov 13
3 min read

In modern life, grief is usually rushed. You get a few days off work, maybe a memorial service, and then people expect you to get back to normal. But grief doesn’t work that way. It lingers. It changes how you move through the world.

Still, many of us are taught to keep it private. To hold it together. To not make others uncomfortable.

But that hasn’t always been the norm. Different cultures have handled grief in very different ways- more open, more communal. One of the most striking examples comes from the Norse (often called Vikings). Their approach to death and mourning wasn’t hidden or rushed. It was active. Public. Ongoing.

And while their world may have looked different from ours, parts of their grief practices still make sense today.

The Norse (Viking) View on Death & Legacy

In Norse life, grief wasn’t hidden. It was part of everyday experience, shared openly within families and communities. The dead were still seen as part of the living world, not just remembered, but present in a real way.

People were often buried close to home. Their graves weren’t tucked away in distant cemeteries; they were nearby, on the family’s land. It wasn’t unusual for someone to visit a burial mound for comfort, or even to ask for advice. Death didn’t mark the end of a relationship. It shifted it.

Honor mattered deeply. The way someone lived, and how they died, shaped how they were remembered. A brave death could bring pride to a family. A life well lived could earn lasting respect. Being remembered well wasn’t just a hope; it was a kind of afterlife all its own.

Egil’s Poem: A Father’s Grief, A Creative Act

One of the most powerful stories from Norse tradition comes from a warrior and poet named Egil. When his son drowned at sea, Egil was devastated. He stopped eating. He lay in bed and waited to die.

But his daughter came to him with a challenge. She reminded him that he was a poet. She asked him to write a poem in honor of his son. And he did. Through writing, he found a way back to himself, not out of grief, but into it.

When I work with my own grief, I journal. I write every day. Sometimes it’s just a sentence. Sometimes it spills across the page. What matters is that it’s a conversation; I write to the people I’ve lost. On the page, I still talk with them. That’s how I stay connected.

According to the Reflection App, journaling can help people process grief by offering a space to release emotion, organize chaotic thoughts, and express love or pain that doesn’t always have another outlet. It doesn’t fix anything, but it helps us stay close to what matters.

When Did It Change?

Before Christianity arrived in Scandinavia, burial was a personal act. People were laid to rest close to home, on family land, often within view of the living. The dead were part of daily life. You could visit them, speak to them, feel their presence nearby. Grieving wasn’t something separate from everyday reality.

That changed when Christianity became law. New rules required burials to happen in churchyards, often far from where people lived. Families could no longer bury their loved ones on their own land. Visiting a grave now meant traveling and being seen. Sitting and talking with the dead, once a private, natural act, became something frowned upon and forbidden.

The emotional shift was profound. What had once been a shared space between the living and the dead turned into distance: physical, spiritual, and cultural. For many, it wasn’t just a custom change. It was another kind of grief.

And this shows up today. Most burials happen in regulated cemeteries, often far from family homes. Graves are visited occasionally, not regularly. Talking to the dead is done silently, or not at all. And while there are good reasons for some of these changes, we’ve also lost something: closeness, ritual, and keeping grief woven into everyday life.

What If We Took Notes from the Norse?

What if grief wasn’t something to hide?

What if we built rituals that worked for us, not just for closure, but for connection? What if we let memory live in daily life, not just on anniversaries?

The Norse didn’t treat grief as weakness. They didn’t push it aside. They remembered. They told stories. They visited graves. They made space for mourning and for continuing bonds with the people they had lost.

We could do more of that, too.