Say Their Name: Grief, Memory, and Lessons From Fallout

Okie dokie…let’s get started. Have you heard of Fallout? It is a popular television show and video game set in a post-apocalyptic world where an alternate future was shaped by nuclear war. Blending dark humor with retro-futuristic 1950s aesthetics, it invites you to explore the ruins of civilization while navigating survival, factions, and ethical dilemmas. It is fascinating for a variety of reasons; I am a big fan of the television show but have not played the game. I will admit that Lucy MacLean is one of my spirit animals and I donned her wedding dress look for Halloween last year...Pip-Boy and all. ;)

But one of the most compelling reasons for my fascination has nothing to do with explosions at all.

Fallout isn’t entirely about nuclear war; it’s about living the long aftermath, where grief has outlasted even the blast of the atomic bomb.

In a Season 2 episode, Norm, a vault dweller, has escaped Vault 31 with some unexpected followers (I promise-I won’t spoil that). He explores an abandoned Vault-Tec building with his fellow travelers and comes upon Claudia exploring a long-vacant office, who’s having a much harder time coming to terms with the end of the world than everyone else.

Norm enters the space where she stands alone with a quiet check-in: “You okay?” And suddenly the cumulative loss becomes personal. Not abstract. Not theoretical. Parents have died. Friends. A cherished pet. Loss doesn’t rank itself. Love doesn’t either. When gently asked if her cat has a name, she looks up with care and the answer comes plainly: “His name is Puppy.” There’s no grand speech. Just the name. Norm endearingly replies, "Ah, puppy the cat," to which Claudia replies, "Funny, right?"

That moment matters.

In that moment, Norm could have offered any number of words or platitudes. Instead, he chose simple presence. He chose acknowledgment over avoidance. He chose to let grief be named. In grief, saying the name is often the point. It’s not about fixing anything or making it better. It’s about refusing to let the person disappear into silence. Over and over, grieving people say the same thing: please don’t shy away from them. Please don’t avoid saying their name. Naming is a way of keeping them present. It acknowledges that this person existed. That they shaped a life. That the relationship still matters even after death.

Silence can feel like erasure. Avoidance can feel like abandonment layered on top of loss. But saying a name out loud—especially when the world has changed beyond recognition—is an act of connection. It’s a way of saying with conviction that you were here, you mattered, and you still belong in the story of my life.

In my work with grievers, sometimes people say this explicitly. A version of this sentiment, shared by a support group participant, has always stuck with me: “When people stop saying their name, it feels like they disappear all over again.” And people don’t always say this outright—but they show it. When given the chance, they write names. They place them carefully. They return to them again and again. They take pride in writing them and hearing them. Some grievers even talk about their deceased as still listening, reinforcing that speaking their name is not only symbolic and a ritual — it’s relational. A clear message has emerged for me: grief does not want silence. It wants acknowledgment.

Supporting grievers in this way often means resisting the urge to stay silent and moving past our own discomfort and fear of saying the wrong thing. Saying a loved one’s name out loud, asking gentle questions about their life, and making space for stories can help keep them present rather than erased. Remembering their person on ordinary days, not just anniversaries, and allowing emotions to arise without redirecting or minimizing them communicates care. Even when it feels awkward, naming the person and inviting remembrance is profoundly powerful.

So, in a post-apocalyptic world, Fallout shows us that what survives isn’t just bodies or bunkers. It’s memory. It’s attachment. It’s the instinct to keep speaking to and about the people we love—even when everything else is gone.

Fallout Episode: Season 2, Episode 5, “The Wrangler”

A Resource to Explore:

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

This bestselling memoir explores the author’s first year after her husband’s death in vivid, honest depth. It doesn’t shy away from naming her husband and reflects how continuing connection and memory shape the grieving process.

Image by lenzius from Pixabay