As I prepare to write this blog entry, there’s a part of me that wishes I switched the order in which I presented the two articles featured in my National Siblings Day tribute. Last week’s entry felt sentimental and more lighthearted. This post is heavy. If you are open to exploring the fullness of grief, I encourage you to brave through this piece when you have the mental and emotional capacity to be my witness. Thank you in advance for your care.
In the past 10 years what have you learned about grieving/healing?
I’ve learned that I don’t know what I’m doing! At least that’s what it feels like sometimes, especially in the moments when I’m deep in my grief. Ultimately, I have learned a lot; I’ve also learned that I, like so many others who are grieving, are just trying to figure out how to live and grieve at the same time.
I have learned that grieving is labor. Invisible labor. Losing my sister has resulted in me losing parts of myself. In the past 10 years, I have labored to restore myself to some semblance of wholeness, moving through life knowing that there’s a part of me that will never be whole fully. Aside from bereavement that professional spaces grant immediately after a loved one has passed, Western society, in particular, does not accommodate grief/grieving. So I’ve had to create my own accommodations. I’ve learned that losing a loved one is a profound loss that never goes away. In some ways, Patrica’s death has gotten harder with time, which is hard for me to admit to myself and my loved ones who sustain me. I honor my sister’s life and legacy to keep her memory alive and to remind people that I am still grieving.
What else, if anything, has the pain of your sister’s loss and the subsequent grief taught you about yourself?
It’s taught me that I am strong. I am resilient. I am prepared to handle any challenge that is ahead of me. There is a part of me that cringes at this response because I know how the “Strong Black Woman” stereotype gets weaponized to inflict violence on Black women and girls. That being said, it is important for me to recite these affirmations to myself as a reminder that what I am going through right now — this dissertation included — is light work in comparison to what I have endured over the past 10 years. For example, when Patricia passed, I was teaching at a charter school where each classroom was named after a college as a way to “inspire” the students (clearly I have a lot of feelings about this but that’s for another post). My Kindergarten class was named NYU, the school where Patricia was studying to get her masters degree in social work. She was supposed to graduate that year. Every day, I entered a classroom that had NYU paraphernalia everywhere. The Bobcat logo was on every classroom label — cubbies, classroom supplies, student desks, etc. I taught in that classroom every day. I brought Patricia’s NYU cardigan to cover me in that space and taught Every. Day. I am strong. I am resilient. I am prepared to handle any challenge that is ahead of me.
Speaking more broadly, I’ve learned that nothing is permanent. One of life’s guarantees is that we will lose people that we love to death and just…life. This perspective has helped me to attune to what really matters — living. Patricia died at 26. She had so much that she wanted to accomplish within and beyond her career that will never be realized. Yet, I will forever be able to tell stories about who she is: funny, brilliant, vivacious, petty, insightful, strategic, and resilient among many other things. As short as her life was, there was so much meaning in it because she lived. She reminds me to live. When it’s all said and done, I hope people don’t remember me for my dissertation. I try to remember this in the moments when the dissertation consumes me.
Imagine 10 years into the future. What is made possible from grieving and healing?
10 years from now, I hope that I’m alive quite literally, but in every sense of the word. I hope that I’ve learned to embrace death. I know that sounds morbid, but my fear of my own mortality and the mortality of my loved ones who are earthside prevents me from living life as audaciously and fully as I desire. In the end, constantly anticipating death makes you stop living; thus, I want to learn to embrace the reality of my mortality in a way that allows for me to be so present in my every day, soaking up all that I can from the short time that I have on this earth. 10 years from now, I hope that I have pursued the dreams that are held only in my heart because I am too afraid to put it on my vision board. I hope I am still finding reasons to dance to remind myself that I still got it and that I have the capacity to be and live freely in my body.
For anyone who is grieving from the loss of a loved one, a breakup, hard life transition, etc.,
I hope you have the space to grieve, however that looks and feels like for you.
I hope you find a community of people who are willing to bear witness to your grief, and that they cover you with love, grace, and tenderness.
I hope remembering — whoever and whatever — brings you joy.
I hope you know joy as intimately as you know grief and find ways to navigate with the two existing alongside one another.
I hope you experience the fruits of your labor. Cause grieving is work.
I hope you love again. And again. And Again.
I hope you heal.
I hope you can add to this list because you are fortified with the type of faith that allows you to believe that life is worth living and looking forward to.
With love, gratitude, and hope,
Mimi