Denial is A River- I’m Still Grieving
This year, on the third anniversary of my dad’s disappearance (March 22nd), I surprised myself—I had a genuinely good day. No fetal position, no carb-loading for a grief marathon. Just a day that felt... normal.
Two weeks before the anniversary, I reached out to my closest friends and told them I might need support. We penciled time on the calendar for them to come over. As someone who tends to isolate and then reemerge, this was a big deal. Asking for help has always felt like begging to me, so reaching out took real effort.
Look at me, taking all the right steps and curing my grief! (Kidding—I just took a speedboat down the river called Denial and parked where grief feels temporary.)
March is my personal season of emotional turbulence—my version of seasonal depression. It means sleepless nights, tossing, turning, and tear-stained pillows. I expected those tears to be for my father, but this time, they were for my mom. April 1st would have been her 64th birthday.
Most people know me through stories of my father, complete with my terrible Jamaican accent for effect. But my mother? I share her story in smaller doses.
When I was nine, she began ping-ponging between my hometown of Providence and her hometown of Chicago. She passed away when I was 19, my brother was 23, and she was just 40. Now, at 42, I have so much empathy for her. I cannot imagine what she was coping with—young, raising two kids, still figuring out who she was. She was thrust into adulthood as a teenage mother, and now I’ve lived more adult years than she ever did. It’s a thought I carry with me constantly.
Even though she’s been gone for more than half my life, she is still with me—both physically and mentally. My parents literally did a 50/50 split on my face, with my mother getting custody of the northern region. My prominent forehead, once-glorious bushy eyebrows (tragically snatched away by early 2000s waxing trends), and almond-shaped eyes? All courtesy of Charlotte Marie. My tenacity, quick wit, and sense of style? Also hers.
I’m building this company and community for grievers—but like my mom was, I’m still figuring it out. Coping with grief isn’t something you master, and I’m reminding myself of that as much as I am you. The overachiever in me still wants to ace this, but the truth is, grief doesn’t come with a passing score or an end date. The irony? No matter how long I’ve lived with it, I’m still surprised by its waves. Sometimes, I catch myself wondering why I feel a deep sadness, as if being orphaned at 39 isn’t a valid enough reason. I struggle with not wanting my grief to define me, but I’ve learned to allow myself the space to feel it all.
This year, I’ve had more good days than bad. But these past two weeks? A rollercoaster. All I can do is buckle up. I’ve been white-knuckling my way through the inevitable drops, anticipating the bumps that come with the turns. Then, for a moment, when I feel safe, I’ll let go of the handle bars, grab some sky, open my eyes—before the ride starts all over again.
