One thing about grief is that it doesn’t tell you when it’s coming. It may give little signs, but it never presents itself as a bouquet of flowers and says, “Hi, I’m grief.” Oftentimes, it’s an emotion that you come to recognize in the aftermath of an event or events.
Recently, I’ve been feeling grief. Whether it’s the grief of others, the grief of feeling like I’ve lost parts of myself, or the grief of a reality I thought I would be experiencing right now, I’ve found myself sitting in this emotion more than I want. But before we go down the path of grief, I want to take a moment to share what led me here.
What Feels Like Home
I traveled to Detroit a few weeks ago to spend time with my aunt, a trip I aim to make annually. Since living in Chicago, it’s always nice to step away from the bustling city and visit a place that feels like home. For me, home is where unconditional love is. Home is where I can show up without an agenda, without feeling the pressure to speak perfectly, without having my days figured out. Home is where I can go and take what I need without being expected to give in return. As selfish as this may sound, it’s a truth that I must admit. I also believe that’s why my family and my core community hold so much value to me- because they never make me feel that I’m asking for too much. They just let me be, and I love that.
I took the Amtrak for the first time because it was one less responsibility off my plate. It was nice to be a passenger princess both physically and metaphorically. I’ve been in the driver seat so much with life lately, so it was nice to relax and let someone else take the wheel.
As I rode along, passing through the cities of Kalamazoo, Battle Creek, and Ann Arbor, I basked in the softness and stillness that the train ride offered. It even felt like the train was moving slowly just so I could take in every second of the moment. It was as if all these external factors that I had absolutely no control over welcomed me with open arms: the numerous stops, the unique people entering and exiting the train, the monuments and foliage that caught my eye as I gazed out of my window, and the nearly two-hour standstill we experienced just eight minutes away from the Detroit stop.
After finally arriving, I eagerly hopped off the train and was greeted by my aunt’s contagious smile and the warmest hug ever. It was the kind of hug that made all the intrusive thoughts I’d been carrying in the past week dissolve. And in my spirit, I felt that she needed that hug just as much as I did, since for almost three years, grief has been keeping her company after the loss of her husband, my uncle. With excitement oozing through our laughter and smiles, we loaded my suitcase in the car, and the rest of the weekend was quality time between just the two of us.
A Table for Honesty, Please
During this visit, I felt exposed to emotions that don’t translate through conversations over the phone. I had quite a few honest conversations with my aunt that were necessary to have in the very moment they unfolded. One that I specifically recall is when we were having dinner at Lumen’s Detroit. It was a nice, cozy, warm, and intimate setting (great for date night, btw!). The chandeliers were dimmed; a lit candle was the guest star; the string lights and greenery made the outside view feel like an oasis, and the open floor plan overlooking the chef’s kitchen made me feel like an extra in a romance movie scene.
As we settled in, my aunt admitted that she hadn’t eaten out in a while, let alone come downtown to enjoy dinner at a nice restaurant. In that moment, I felt that part of my purpose during this visit was to show her another part of life and inspire her to live. Not to change her, but to convey that loss doesn’t mean halting life. It’s just another pathway to discovery. And I hoped that this dinner, our conversations, getting dressed up, and enjoying the delicate craft of food would shed light on that.
The Walk That Renewed Us
Another highlight of our time together was on the last day. We went for a walk along the Detroit Riverfront, where we took in the beautiful skyline views and historic monuments. As we were walking, she began to reminisce and share stories about the lovely dinner dates she and my uncle used to have on the Princess Riverboat. I felt the grief again, but I didn’t move past it.
I let her talk. I listened. I asked questions. We walked some more. And then I began to think about time. Time, not only, in the context of having to leave soon, but also time in the context of how much of it we actually have here on Earth.
I pulled out my camera and captured the two of us enjoying the present — two people who both needed to sit in this moment a little longer than perhaps we’ve allowed ourselves to recently. And there, our warm smiles met each other again. This time, with a little more optimism and the reassurance that, no matter what, we will always be okay.
Soon after, we shared our farewell, and it was time to return to Chicago. As soon as I boarded the train, I found myself reflecting on the weekend and everything it had stirred within me. Wanting to hold onto the moment a little bit longer, I turned on my camera and looked at our pictures. With teary eyes, feeling inspired to release the best way I know how, I took out my iPad and began typing the words that naturally arrived in my mind. Without a single backspace, pause, or second thought, I finished the following piece:
Don’t Give Up, Love
I hope you embrace who you are in this moment- where you are in this moment.
I hope my presence is a reminder of the sparkle you bring to my life.
I hope that our shared laughs remind you that you deserve to feel nothing but joy.
I hope that my hello shows you courage and my see-you-later shows you resilience.
I pray that the softness that you embody so effortlessly finds its way back to you tenfold through every encounter you have moving forward.
I hope that I exemplify why life is worth living in the midst of uncertainty.
When nights feel cold, and your home’s next guest isn’t there, I hope our memories land on your heart where the desire of companionship resides.
I hope the community you’ve gained reminds you of the love you’ve always given.
I hope you know that we care far more than distance allows us to show.
I hope in your loneliest hour you are met with the calming love of God that no one can fill, not even me.
I hope when you watch your favorite movies sitting on your couch, you’re reminded that you are able to live again without permission.
I hope that when you sit down over dinner, you’re reminded to parlay.
I pray that you find it in your days ahead to live more than you’ve lost.
I pray that you scratch off your bucket list of dreams that turned cold when death took your favorite people and made them your angels.
I hope you find it in your heart to ride that bike, sing that song at karaoke, take that train across the country again, win that lottery, and move to the place your heart is calling you to.
And I pray that my life shows what happens when you choose yourself over and over and over again, even when the world tries to make you choose it.
I love you. God bless you.
Your sunshine☀️
While this is an ode to my aunt, it’s also an ode to me — and I see it as one for you, too. Because as I learn to live and grieve simultaneously, I’m reminded that I, too, deserve to experience joy.
I truly want my life to be an example of what it means to keep going in the midst of it all. And perhaps that’s what the weekend in Detroit reminded me. It gave me a front-row seat to my own bad-assery and showed me that grief, fun, and joy don’t have to compete for space. They can coexist, and I’m doing a great job of making room for it all! (:
So, don’t give up, love. There’s still so much life left to live.
With all my love,
CHR
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent and could say, I used everything you gave me.” -E.B.
