Grief & Ritual

There are the little fears—those fleeting, sharp pangs that spark and vanish almost before you notice them. And then, there are the big ones—the ones that settle into your chest and weigh you down, heavy and ever-present, like an ache you can’t quite stretch out. Some days, it feels impossible to hold both at once. We keep the small fears to ourselves, and the collective ones—those we all share—feel deafening, shared yet paralyzing in their enormity.

So how do we meet them? How do we sit with them without letting them consume us? When grief layers itself on loss, over and over, it feels suffocating. Grief is relentless—it demands time, patience, silence—all things that feel increasingly rare in this frantic world. And in a world so deeply fractured, finding our own sense of balance, of well-being, can feel like trying to catch smoke in our hands. Yet somehow, even in the haze of fear, there’s hope. There’s always hope.

For me, moving helps. Sweating helps. When my mind feels frozen, uncertain of where to even begin, my body knows the way forward. A walk, a run, a dance—anything to remind myself that I’m alive, that I can still choose movement over stagnation. But even that isn’t always enough. The weight of everything finds its way back in. Distrust of the air, the water, the food—the creeping sense that even my best, most conscious choices might carry harm. And in those moments, a little indulgence, something small and sweet, feels like the most I can give myself. Maybe that’s okay.

This world is a wild and complicated place. I feel it deeply, like when I watch my oldest son lean out the car window on the Bay Bridge, wind rushing past, rapping his heart out without hesitation. His boldness, his raw truth, and his unfiltered joy are acts of rebellion—of self-love. He’s teaching me what it means to be fearless in the face of everything: to love boldly, to speak our stories even when they’re messy. That kind of courage? That’s power.

But even so, the weight remains. There’s always more I wish I could do. For Palestine. For the Congo. For the people and places I can’t hold in my own hands. And closer to home, I wish I always had the perfect words to make my family feel safe and loved, to let my humor, my critiques, my rawness land as love and never as distance. It’s a practice, this messy act of trying and hoping and loving.

And yet, there’s joy. There’s laughter. Like when my kids, in their sweet chaos, argue over who will someday change the diapers of the babies not yet here but already dreamt of. Their joy slices through the noise, through the heaviness. It reminds me that love and laughter are real and tangible, even when fear and grief threaten to overwhelm. And so, I laugh with them. I hold them close, not because I don’t feel the fear, but because I choose to love despite it.

Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe that’s the way forward—to move, to sweat, to hope, to laugh. To love as if fear doesn’t get the final say. Because it doesn’t. It never does.