The First Wound: Where Grief Took Hold
Foundations of Loss
- What is my first memory of grief or loss?
In 2nd or 3rd grade, I was hanging laundry in my grandmother’s backyard when my aunt Dorothy—bold, troubled, and terminally ill—returned home to die. At 2:15 PM, she passed, and I watched my grandmother break. I didn’t yet understand death, but I saw grief take hold of someone I loved. That moment marked my first encounter with the weight of loss.
- How did my relationship with your estranged father shape your understanding of grief?
He was absent, emotionally and physically. When family members died, he never reached out. I learned that grief is often something you endure alone.
- What did you lose that was never entirely yours — a relationship, a dream, a goodbye?
Between the ages of 8 and 16, I lost eight family members. But losing my grandmother hurt the most. I blamed myself, thinking I could’ve saved her if I’d acted sooner. I lost not just her, but the chance to make it right.
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Ambiguous & Complicated Grief
• What makes your grief feel complicated or hard to explain?
I blamed myself for my grandmother’s death and lived alone in her home for months. The loneliness compounded my pain.
• Have others dismissed or misunderstood your grief? How did that impact you?
No one dismissed it outright, but few could comprehend it. Most couldn’t imagine losing eight loved ones by age 16. I received no counseling, no guidance—just silence.
• What would you say to someone who believes grief only belongs to death?
Grief begins with death but lives in what’s left behind—emptiness, confusion, the need to rebuild. I found purpose through faith, community service, and taking care of my body and mind.
Grief Bridge Online: Your Partner in Mental Health
Unspoken Conversations
• If you could speak one truth to your father today, what would it be?
When your son died, I showed up for you. I gave you the comfort you never gave me. But after the funeral, you disappeared again. I deserved more than a text twice a year.
• What words remain unsaid in your relationship, and what do you wish you'd heard?
Why grieve one child while ignoring the one who’s still here? I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t enough.
• What did you need that he never gave you, and how do you now offer that to yourself?
I needed presence, love, and acknowledgment. Now I give that through service—volunteering with trauma teams and launching Grief Bridge Online to support others through loss.
Empowering You to Achieve Happiness
Moments of Reflection & Growth
• How has grief changed you—emotionally, spiritually, physically?
Grief made me a witness, a comforter, a guide. I’ve become the person I once needed—validating pain, holding space, and offering hope.
• What strengths have you discovered in yourself through grief?
I can sit with others in their worst moments and help them breathe again. I know how to hold pain without running from it.
• When have you felt closest to healing, even if only briefly?
When I committed fully to my faith and showed up consistently for others, I felt the weight of my responsibilities lift.
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Patterns, Triggers & Time
• What moments bring your grief to the surface — birthdays, smells, songs?
Grief is layered. It shows up when expected—and when it’s not. Sometimes it crashes in; sometimes it whispers through ordinary things.
• Does grief feel different now than it did a year ago?
It no longer consumes my mornings, but I still carry it at night. It’s no longer a storm—I walk beside it now. It teaches, reminds, and gives purpose.
• How do you cope with the hard days, and what do you wish others understood?
I let the tears fall. I play music. I remember the joy alongside the pain. I wish people knew healing isn’t linear, and tears don’t mean weakness.
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Legacy, Meaning & Closure
• What part of your father’s story lives on in you, even if it hurts?
His contradictions live in me, too—strong but distant, loving yet unreachable. I’ve had to unlearn the silence, but I recognize it when it resurfaces.
• What does closure mean to you? Do you believe it’s possible?
Closure used to mean answers or resolution. Now, I know it’s rare. Sometimes, closure is simply accepting the fact that you will live with the questions.
• If your healing could help someone else, what would you want them to know?
Grief doesn’t expire. It evolves. Even if the relationship was broken or brief, your pain is valid. Say their name. Write the letter. Be angry and grateful. Love and mourn. Healing isn’t forgetting—it’s learning how to live anyway.
This space—Grief Bridge Online—exists because I couldn’t find one like it. So I built it. Not because I’m fully healed, but because I’m healing—and I believe your story deserves that space, too. You belong here. Your grief matters.
Grief Bridge Online: Your Partner in Mental Health
A Safe Place: Grief Bridge
• What does a “safe place to grieve” look like or feel like to you?
It’s a space where I don’t have to explain my pain or hide my sorrow. It’s not always physical—it can be a journal, a website, a moment of quiet, or someone who simply listens. Here, there’s room for all of it: the unfinished stories, the unspoken anger, the awkward laughter, the heavy silence. A safe place to grieve honors both who and what was lost—connection, time, potential. Most of all, it reminds me that healing doesn’t have to be a lonely process.
• How can your story help someone permit themselves to feel?
I share not because I’m an expert, but because I know what it’s like to hold it all in. Grief doesn’t have to be tidy or justified. If someone reads my words and whispers, “Me too,” maybe they’ll stop apologizing for their hurt. Perhaps they’ll cry. Or scream. Or write. Maybe they’ll finally let themselves feel. Your grief is real—even if it’s messy, even if no one else understands.
• If someone finds this website at their lowest point, what do you want them to hear from you?
You are not alone. You don’t have to explain your pain or prove it’s valid. Stay here. Breathe. Let the tears come. This space was born from my need to be seen in my grief. It’s imperfect, but it’s honest. Healing is possible—not all at once, not cleanly—but slowly, piece by piece. And I’ll be here, walking with you.
With grace,
Demetria