Death on the Rise

Death has a way of knocking the breath out of Black America in a way we rarely talk about honestly. We’re taught endurance early. Hold it together. Be strong. Don’t break. Keep moving. But grief doesn’t care about our survival instincts. It arrives when it arrives, uninvited and unbothered, and it asks for one thing only: presence.

When loss comes—whether it’s a parent, a partner, a friend, a child, a dog who slept at your feet, or even a bird whose song marked your mornings—you owe yourself the dignity of stopping. Not explaining. Not performing. Just stopping. Grief is not a race. It is not a checklist. It is not meant to be rushed, forced, or packaged neatly for public consumption. Sometimes healing doesn’t even use words. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s tears that don’t make sense. Sometimes it’s rage. Sometimes it’s sitting on the floor staring at nothing because everything suddenly feels like too much.

Take the day. Take the moment. Scream if you need to. Yell into the void. Break something that can be replaced. Let your body tell the truth before your mouth tries to clean it up. Presence matters more than polish. What you lost mattered to you, and that alone makes your feelings valid. Scale doesn’t matter here. Love doesn’t measure itself in size or species. If it lived close to your heart, it counts.

You don’t owe the world an announcement the minute your heart cracks. There is power in privacy. Give yourself time to gather yourself before you open the door to opinions, condolences, and noise. Grief is intimate work. Protect it. You can tell people later, when your footing feels a little steadier.

And when loss happens, don’t let capitalism hijack your sorrow. Numbers will try to crowd your mind—costs, logistics, arrangements, and expectations. They’re loud, but they’re not scared. Memories are. Sit with them. Revisit the laughter and the arguments, the good days and the uncomfortable ones. Nothing real is perfect, and love without friction isn’t love—it’s fiction. Let the whole story play, not just the highlight reel.

Somewhere in that remembering, gratitude often sneaks in quietly. Gratitude for having loved at all. Gratitude for still being here, breathing, aching, alive. That part is hard, and nobody expects you to leap there immediately. Many of us retreat into sorrow like it’s a familiar neighborhood—sad songs on repeat, pity lane on cruise control. There’s nothing wrong with visiting. Just don’t unpack permanently.

Time has one brutal rule: it does not reverse. It only moves forward. And even when you feel like you’re collapsing, you’re still falling forward. The danger is missing the present moment while staring too far ahead or too far behind. Before you panic about the burning forest across the water, check what’s burning at your toes. Tend to what’s right here. Right now.

For those walking through loss, know this: you are not alone, even when it feels that way. Help exists in many forms—therapists, hotlines, friends on either side of you. Sometimes strangers are the safest mirrors. You might never see them again, or you might accidentally meet a lifelong ally. Healing is strange like that.

Today is an invitation, not a demand. Heal the battle wounds you’ve been carrying. Release the urge to assign blame or hunt for fault. Take accountability for your own healing, not as punishment, but as power. Grieve in a way that serves the person you’re becoming, not just the pain you’re carrying.

Be present. Be honest. Be gentle. Tomorrow is already on its way, and how you grieve today shapes how you stand in it.