Grief and Loss

As a child, I found solace in my thoughts using them as a means to escape from reality. I was also quietly blended into the background while listening and watching intently. I observed people and situations. I was nosey. My childhood was a whirlwind of changes and challenges, but I found stability in my grandmother.

My grandmother was my rock. After raising six children, she stepped up to raise me, my older sister, and my brother because of my parents struggles with addiction. She prayed a lot, sang worship songs, and was in church alllllll the time (at least that’s what it felt like when she dragged me with her). She always made sure we knew that in times of trouble, we needed to turn to God first. Her unwavering faith was the cornerstone of my upbringing and has continued to guide me through life’s toughest moments.

Losing my dad is a wound that I feel will never fully heal. Our relationship was complicated; I was strong-willed and vocal, traits I surely inherited from my grandmother. As an adult, he kept his distance because he said I was “so much like my grandmother.” The close bond that my sister had with him in his final years only deepened my sense of loss and missed opportunity. I was stubborn and hurt, and until the very end, I refused to let him in to really get to know me. The distance left me with lingering questions, regrets, and pain that surfaces when I least expect it.

In my father’s absence, my grandfather and my uncles became my father figures. I learned how to whip up meals out of practically nothing, stand up and fight without a thought of backing down, and more than anything, they made sure I laughed. They filled my life with joy and provided the support and guidance I so desperately needed. Each memory with them is a treasure, a reminder of the love and lessons they imparted, but there is also immense pain. Like my dad, I feel like at some point I was abandoned. This feeling was especially heavy in the last few years when three of my uncles passed away. Sometimes, grief consumes me to a point where I believe like they were only there for me when I was a kid because they knew my grandmother was tired and needed help. Other times, I recognize that when I called on them, they were right there. I can still remember every time I was told, “I’m so proud of you”, and it helps me remember that they did pay attention to and truly loved and supported me.

Despite the guidance and love I received, coping with these losses has been an ongoing struggle because there was also a level of toxicity and so much trauma that involved them and others. I can’t ignored that. I haven’t developed specific strategies to manage my grief. Expressing how these losses have impacted me is still difficult. The pain is compounded by the loss of friends and my eldest cousin in recent years, deepening my sense of hurt and isolation. Most of the people I called on when my emotions and feelings would get the best of me are gone. The people I trusted to pray for me over the phone, in my living room, or at the altar are gone. The people I turned to when I yearned to get close to God and just talk to someone with the same desires are gone.

Faith has been my anchor through these unstable times. The people I’ve lost knew and loved God, and I believe they are with Him now. They represented Christ in ways that I only now understand impacted my faith profoundly. Yet, they didn’t teach me or support me in knowing God to the extent that I could fully grasp His love for me. This realization has been a significant part of my grief journey recently. The more I crave love, support, conversation, and prayer rather than advice, the more I realize that sometimes I struggle to believe without a doubt that God is enough.

The balance between the pain of the losses I’ve experienced and the joy of our memories is a delicate one. Sometimes, I can smile at the good times we shared. Other times, when anxiety or depression takes hold, I miss the comfort of picking up the phone and hearing their voices, knowing they would lift me up in prayer, tell me to get it together, or simply make me laugh.

Grief never stops, but life goes on. If I could offer any advice to those navigating their own grief, it would be this: Grief is a journey, not a destination. More than anything, my experiences have taught me the brevity of life and the importance of knowing God deeply. I want my life to be rooted in faith, a legacy of love and understanding that I can pass on to those I cherish.

Grief has a way of shaping us, of carving out parts of our hearts and filling them with memories and lessons. As I continue to navigate this journey, I hold on to the faith my grandmother instilled in me, the creativity and laughter of my uncles, the support of my friends, and the hope that one day, I will fully understand and embrace the depth of God’s love.

Just like I lived in my head as a kid, making sense of the world around me, I find myself retreating to my thoughts to navigate the pain of loss. Hopefully, one day, I will also confidently lean on my Faith in God to guide me through. Life is short, and I want to make sure the impact of my life is rooted in faith, passed on to those I love.

If you are navigating grief, remember that you are not alone. Reach out to those around you, seek support, and lean into your faith. Share your journey with others and let your story be a source of comfort and strength.

Matthew 5:4 (NIV): “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (NIV): “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”