I originally started this blog to release the pain and resentment I felt toward my family for the lack of support I received while grieving. It was a safe space for me to finally say the things I was holding in. But just a day after I posted my first blog, my cousin Tony passed away.
Tony was more like an uncle to me, he was always a phone call away. Over the last few years, I had pretty much become his secretary, handling all his affairs because his health was declining. Just a week before he died, I randomly decided to host a BBQ for my estranged uncle and invited Tony. My uncle came super late, but Tony showed up on time with his daughters and grandkids, something that rarely happened. We had such a good time together, full of laughs and family joy. Looking back, I know that it was God who placed that gathering on my heart. That BBQ was the last time his kids saw him alive.
Tony passed on May 14. Six days later, on May 20, my sister, my mother’s other daughter passed away, too. The morning Tony died, I got a weird feeling that I was going to find my sister dead because she had not called me in a few days. I went to her house and her door was unlocked. She wasn't there. I found her four blocks away from her house. She was alive. But not for long... Even though I had seen her death coming, it broke me. My mother’s two-year anniversary was just in between, on May 16. All I could think about was how my sister’s health rapidly declined after our mother died. And before that, my mom’s mental health took a deep dive after her own mother passed in 2014. She changed, she became angry and bitter. Then after my dad died, her physical health crumbled. She went from walking to being bedridden. Watching what grief did to my mom and sister was terrifying.
I held my sister’s funeral on June 6. The night before, I decided to watch Tyler Perry’s movie Straw. It’s about a single mother who spirals into psychosis after her sick daughter dies from a seizure. She didn’t have any real support. The father was gone, her relationship with her own mom was rocky, and the only help she received came from strangers. Watching that movie hit me hard. I cried from a deep place.
And then I thanked God. Because honestly, that could’ve been me.
I know what it’s like to break from the weight of grief. I remember holding my first daughter in 2014, watching her die in my arms after birth. I felt like a part of me died that day. I spiraled—gained weight, hated everything, and drowned in depression. Then in 2017, I lost my second child, a boy, the same way. But that time, I told myself I wouldn’t go that deep again. I had seen what that darkness could do, and I didn’t want to lose myself completely.
Through those experiences, I’ve learned to thank God for sending the right people during the hardest moments. I didn’t have much family to lean on, but God always placed a stranger, a kind soul, someone, in my path to carry me when I couldn’t carry myself.
It was during this season that I also realized something darker: there’s a generational curse in my family. A heavy spirit, addiction, alcoholism, and trauma, that has many of my elders in a chokehold. And the generation after them? Many are products of the crack epidemic and the failures of the Reagan era. How can they help me grieve or be present when they’re still stuck mentally, emotionally, spiritually?
On the day of my cousin’s and sister’s funerals, I made a decision: I gave my family grace. I realized they don’t even know how they got where they are. They’re numb, they’re stuck, and they’re surviving. I gave them grace.
But let me be real, it hurt. I planned and paid for both funerals by myself. Two cousins helped with memorial posters, and I realized they’re the only two in the family who see the dysfunction for what it is and are actively working to break the cycle for their kids. That realization meant a lot to me.
But what stung the most was how the elders, the ones who raised us, didn’t check on me. Not a single card. No flowers. Not even a decent phone call. Not one of them dropped off a box of chicken or came to sit with me in silence. Nothing.
That kind of silence speaks volumes.
But I’ve stopped holding it against them. Maybe they really think I’m the strong one. Maybe they just don’t fool with me. Either way, their behavior is just another symptom of the generational curse.
This whole experience taught me something powerful: I need to give myself grace, too. I’ve been so hard on myself, trying to keep it all together, grieving alone while carrying everyone else's weight. But I can’t afford to lose my mind. My sister battled bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I know what that looks like. I have to keep my mental health in check. That starts with releasing my idea of family and the little expectations I was still clinging to. Because we’re all struggling. The only difference is I know how to acknowledge my trauma, carry my grief, and work through it. That’s a gift and a burden.
But I count it all joy.
Because thank God, I don’t look like what I’ve been through.
And even in my mourning, I still have hope. I believe that something good is going to come from all this. That my pain can become a testimony. That one day, I’ll stand as proof that joy really does come in the morning or in the mourning. That God will give me double for my trouble.
I don’t know what’s next, but I believe what God said: that we can have life and life more abundantly.
And that’s what I’m standing on.
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