A few weeks ago, I took a rare personal trip to the city. For someone accustomed to small-town life, the busy streets, diverse eateries, and constant hum of activity offered a refreshing escape. It was a breath of fresh air, a break from the predictable rhythm of my days. But this trip wasn’t just a getaway—it was something deeper.
Since my daughter passed away in the spring, life has felt uncharted. Grief is a constant undercurrent, pulling me into unfamiliar, overwhelming waters. In a small town, where everyone knows everyone, grief isn’t just yours—it becomes a communal experience. That can be a gift, but it can also be suffocating.
Someone once told me, “There’s no wrong thing to say to someone who’s grieving.” Let me tell you, that’s not true. At my daughter’s service, one of my partner’s aunts approached me, not to console but to lecture about the struggles ahead. Her words landed like stones, adding weight I didn’t ask for. I wanted her to stop talking, but I felt trapped—unable to confront her, unwilling to be rude. I blame society for this mess. Mess of rules and expectations that not only I but the rest of us feel. There is power is being to speak one’s mind and I wish I had the power but today I did not. It was my daughter’s funeral. The least she could do was be kind.
So, I simply said, “Thank you for sharing that.” Inside, I wanted to throat punch her. That moment wasn’t about comfort—it was about her. I wondered after if she felt like she could talk to me like that because she had lost a son many years before. If that was the case, she was wrong. In that moment there was nothing about her. It was about me. Sounds selfish but hey I am being honest. I was just trying to breathe and get through the day.
Ironically, since my daughter has died, I have many of those days. I just want to get through the day. Some days are easier than others but the goal remains the same. Breathe. Get through the day.
This is where the city offered something my small town couldn’t: anonymity. Few were the few short days I was where, on my morning walks, no one gave me a second glance. In shops, I was just another person in the crowd. For the first time in months, I wasn’t “the woman whose daughter died.” I was just… me.
A friend once told me the importance of being a human being rather than a human doing. I’ve thought about that a lot. On this trip, I finally understood it. In the city, I wasn’t doing anything. I was simply existing. For a weekend, I found freedom in hiding in plain sight.
Back home, it’s harder. My identity feels like it’s shifted. I’m no longer just me—I’m the lady who lost her daughter. I know not everyone sees me that way but that’s how it feels.That’s part of my story, but it doesn’t define me.
One day, I was out for lunch when a man at a nearby table turned to his friend and said, loud enough for me to hear, “This is the lady whose daughter died in the park in spring.” I sat there, stunned. WTF? I have a name. I’m a person. Couldn’t he have talked about me behind my back instead of putting me on display?
All I managed was a quiet “Hi,” but that moment has stuck with me. I’ve thought about messaging him to explain how that introduction felt. I don’t want to make him feel bad—I know he didn’t mean harm—but I want him to understand what it’s like on this side of grief. Except I know he knows. His dad died when he was young in an awful accident. Funny how we can relate but then he forgot? Something to think about, will I be there someday? Hmm….I don’t know.
So many things that I don’t know. But what I do know is that grief isn’t linear, and there’s no handbook for navigating its complexities. I’m learning as I go. I’ve decided to start speaking my truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. Because, ultimately, I am not just my grief.
And while there are no perfect answers, I know this: there’s peace to be found in unexpected places. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet of the city, where no one knows your name. Sometimes, it’s in a small act of kindness—or even in standing up for yourself.
For now, I’m still finding my way. But I’ll get there, one moment at a time.
