Following the death of my husband, I reached the lowest point I have ever been in my life. I told my therapist something I never thought I’d admit out loud: if people had not been there with me at the hospital, I probably would’ve walked out and into the middle of Route 9, just to escape the pain. That’s how heavy grief was pressing on my chest.
I thought when my father died that was the deepest pit grief could drag me into. But I was wrong. Because when my father passed, I had Daniel. He was the one who dragged me out of bed, who forced me to live and not just exist. He was the one who reminded me that life—no matter how hard—was still worth holding on to.
This time around, it is just me. Me, fighting to live and not merely survive.
The Loneliness of Grief in Black Bodies
For Black people, grief is layered. It is not just personal—it is cultural, historical, systemic. We are taught to carry weight, to mask pain, to be the backbone for everyone else. But what happens when the backbone breaks? Who carries us?
I’ve come to realize that my nervous system has limits now. Upset hits differently. It lingers in my body in ways it didn’t before. Sometimes I wonder if love itself is too heavy for me now, or if this is simply another journey of discovery—another test of how deeply I can know myself, accept myself, and still remain open to life.
My Saving Grace
Travel has been a lifeline. Nature has been my sanctuary. To step into a rainforest, to stand by a river, to let mountain air wash over me—it resets my spirit in ways that no words can fully capture. I am grateful for the privilege to move my body into spaces where healing feels possible.
And yet, there are still days. Still weeks. Still moments when I cannot catch my breath under the weight of grief. Still times when I am reminded that healing is not linear, and that resilience is not the same as peace.
Grace, For Myself and From Others
As I explore life and love again, I hope to extend myself grace. To remember that I am not weak for needing rest, not broken for craving tenderness, not unworthy for desiring joy after devastation.
And I hope that those who claim to care for me will extend me the same grace. To understand that my wounds are invisible but real. That my nervous system is fragile but not incapable of love. That my presence, even in my grief, is a testament to survival.
Moving Forward
Black mental health requires honesty. It requires space to admit, “I almost didn’t make it, but I’m still here.” It requires us to stop demanding strength from one another and start offering softness.
I don’t know where this journey will lead me. Maybe love will look different. Maybe life will, too. But what I do know is this: I am learning to breathe again. And for now, that is enough.
✨ Resources for Black Mental Health and Healing
If you or someone you love is struggling with grief, depression, or thoughts of suicide, please know you are not alone. Help is available:
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — Dial 988 from any phone in the U.S. to connect with 24/7 confidential support.
Therapy for Black Girls — therapyforblackgirls.com — a directory of Black women therapists and community resources.
Black Men Heal — blackmenheal.org — free and affordable therapy for Black men.
The Loveland Foundation — thelovelandfoundation.org — provides therapy support for Black women and girls.
BEAM (Black Emotional and Mental Health Collective) — beam.community — focuses on removing barriers to mental health care in Black communities.
Please, take care of your mind the same way you take care of your body. You are worthy of healing. You are worthy of joy. And you are worthy of love.