Grief can best be described as an unpredictable weather condition. For anyone who’s visited the Caribbean, it’s like one of those storms that comes out of nowhere. Imagine lying out on the beach, letting the sun rays penetrate your melanin with a cocktail in one hand, eyes closed, and head tilted toward the sun. Then you open your eyes and see the storm clouds. Before you can collect your vacation read and beach bag, there’s a downpour. There’s no way to escape it, you’re in the storm. While you don’t know when it will end, it’s a common enough occurrence that you know it will pass. This scenario encapsulates my relationship with grief. I often don’t know when it’s coming. I’m suddenly hit with a wave of emotion–sometimes, it knocks me down, but I always get back up.
On March 22, 2022, I received a call from my sister, telling me that our father was missing. Days later, his car was found burned beyond recognition, and as I type this, we still have no answers about what happened to him. We, as well as the authorities, have presumed him kidnapped and murdered, which is, unfortunately, not uncommon in Jamaica. I immediately jumped into action, hiring legal counsel domestically and internationally, making several trips to the island from Los Angeles, back to my hometown of Providence, Rhode Island for court appearances, and spending as much time as possible with my sister in Florida. My mind was busy as I worked with my sister to keep his affairs in order. I was running on adrenaline for almost a year and still working as an entertainment publicity executive. I even managed to get a promotion during this time. Then my trauma and grief showed up in the form of major depressive disorder and anxiety.
As an overachieving, first-generation Jamaican raised most of my life by a single father, we didn’t discuss feelings. Our native tongue was accomplishments and constant acceleration. My father showed me he loved me by being a provider, and I showed my appreciation with good grades and good behavior. The “I love yous” and affection were implied by the roof over my head, clothes on my back, and stocked pantry. So, when I began to experience grief, I was overwhelmed because I suppressed my emotions for years.
The loss of my dad also meant the loss of my last surviving parent. It’s hard to explain how exposed I feel without my mom and dad. It feels like playing football without a helmet and hoping for the best. The hits will come, and the hope is that they aren’t so severe that they leave irreparable damage. There’s also an identity shift. For anyone who meets me now, will they truly have a sense of who I am without encountering who I come from?
But there’s a new version of me that I’m discovering and learning every day. Left behind is the stoic person who doesn’t express their feelings. My mask has been removed. Now, there are times that I can’t show up. Even when I want to, I don’t have the capacity for it. That means disappointing the people I love, sharing that I’ve had a panic attack, and being honest when I’m unable to fulfill a commitment. As someone who’s often described as strong, admittedly, doing this at first felt weak. Now, I find so much power in honoring myself instead of defaulting to my people-pleasing nature. Grief has come with boundary enforcement, prioritization, and peace.
I’ve been able to get to this point because last summer, I joined a grief group at HOPE Connection, a non-profit dedicated to helping people grieve and heal. The group was specifically for adult children who lost their parents. Everyone in my group was a woman, and we all lost our dads. We met virtually on Saturday mornings and found a safe space to talk about our fathers. While we were different in many ways, we were all overwhelmed and didn’t know how to ask for help, and even though we had difficult sessions at times, we created our own little tribe.
This showed me the importance of having community during grief and inspired me to start Sorry For Your Loss (Cards) (SFYLC), a greeting card company and community for grieving people. Each card has a QR code that recipients can scan to share how they need to be supported. It takes the guesswork out of how to show up for someone you love. There are wellness resources on the site, like things people can do to reduce stress and anxiety, including yoga, going for a walk, and a growing list of books to check out. We recently hosted a nature therapy walk with Rewilding Together, where we learned about the healing energy found in being outdoors. The goal of this growing business is to recapture joy for those in mourning and help them cope in their daily lives.
I’ve had customers tell me how useful the card has been for them and how it’s helped them to start conversations about grief. Unfortunately, within the last six months, there have been three people who are very close to me who have lost family members, and I’ve sent them cards. One of those people is my business consultant, who guided me through starting SFYLC. This was her first time experiencing such a loss, and she expressed how thankful she was for the cards and resources.
In turn, I’m thankful. My purpose is to be of service to people. The fact that I’m able to help someone while they’re grieving keeps me motivated to find new ways of coping for myself. Whether that’s uncovering new wellness practices or discovering new books, I’m unlocking new ways to heal that don’t just help me but the wider community.
Sunday will be my third Father’s Day without my dad. So many others like me won’t be able to celebrate with their fathers. If that’s you, use the day to honor yourself by doing whatever feels right for you as you ride the ever-shifting wave that is grief.