A woman in our community shared this with me about her grief and I thought you’d appreciate it, and even relate.

This woman lost her mom when she was 19 years old to breast cancer. Then, her only sibling had a sudden heart attack in his late 40’s. Then, shortly after, her father died in a matter of days from COVID. Her dad was alone in the hospital. This woman was minutes away and not allowed to be with him, to hold his hand while he passed. There’s other miseries that punctuate the in-between spots but we really don’t need to list them all.

As tragic as her story is, and it really really is, she’s not the only one with grief. She, unfortunately, is not specially targeted by the universe to suffer. But suffering is a lier like that. (…The meaning of LIER is one that lies, as in ambush.) It makes each of us feel like we are “special” in our suffering. And then that “being alone experience” leads us to more isolation, toward progressing danger of becoming a victim to it. We are in danger of practicing “Terminal Uniqueness.”

“Terminal uniqueness” refers to the belief that one’s experiences, feelings, or struggles are so unique and individual that no one else can truly understand or relate to them. It’s a mindset that can hinder connection and empathy with others who may be going through similar challenges. In reality, while each person is indeed unique, many share common human experiences. Recognizing this can foster a sense of connection and support. And that’s not friendly.

I’m blown away that this woman reached out when she did. That she fought the current pushing her into isolation.

Yesterday marked a sad day for me, and after attending my brother’s service last night, I penned down these reflections:

What signifies healing? Is it the capacity to discuss painful matters without tears streaming down your face or suppressing the choking sensation that seizes your breath as you attempt to stifle the cry of agony?

Today, I found myself ugly crying—recalling this day four years ago when I lost my brother as I woke up. I sobbed while being embraced by my family this morning, as we tried to share the weight of this memory. During our ritualistic journey, we laid flowers on their headstones to mark our presence, and I cried again at my family’s gravesites. Despite my efforts to smile through the tears, I continued crying while driving home, in the shower, and even now in my bed. It’s the kind of crying that causes your eyes to swell shut and your sinuses to congest, forcing you to breathe through your mouth. Physiologically, it happens as you squeeze your eyes tightly to stop the flow of tears, pushing the fluid into any available space. It’s the kind of crying where sobs cannot be silenced, your heart literally squeezes in your chest, and you become light-headed from the effort. It’s unsustainable, but grief takes you there time and time again.

So, I attempt to reframe my brain, tricking my body into thinking it’s a good idea to endure this again another day. To face and even embrace what lies ahead, because those of us still here are the fortunate ones, right?

But for now, in this moment, I miss my nuclear family—the core of my memories, my childhood, the ones I call mine. I miss them from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, with every breath and heartbeat, every fiber of my being. I miss them in an abyss, a void that never diminishes. In these moments, I realize I am forever changed by their loss and acknowledge I may never find my way back because, in the center of it all, there is nothing and no one that can fill that piece of my puzzle.

Self-Care Tip: If you have your own story you’d be willing to share, please do. Be in community with your suffering.

Keep on!