When silence becomes deafening, emotions can shift from moment to moment. Some days, it feels like they change by the minute. Lately, the silence has been so loud that I can’t hear myself think. It’s like when my aunt can’t smell anything because the noise around her is too overwhelming—strange, isn’t it? Even as I write this, I’m reflecting on how I got here.

On Juneteenth, my friend took her last breath here on earth. In July, my sweet granny passed away. Then, one year to the date after my granny’s death, my father-in-law died. My Lady’s birthday falls in July, but her death anniversary is on October 1st. A friend celebrated her birthday on October 6th, but she passed away on October 15th a few years ago. Although these deaths happened years ago, they feel like they just occurred yesterday.

In a crisis, I tend to be focused—quiet, but focused. I do what needs to be done, helping where I can. But it’s during the stillness of the night, when I’m not juggling multiple tasks, that everything shifts. It’s when I allow myself to be still that the grief and pain I’ve buried deep inside begin to surface.

I don’t like the silence.

It’s in that silence when I realize how much hurt and grief I’ve been holding in. My greatest fear is that if I stop, if I let myself feel, I’ll start crying and never stop. It’s difficult for me to reach out and be vulnerable, to cry in front of someone. I fear judgment, explaining myself, or making the pain I’ve held in feel too real once I speak it aloud.

Not long ago, I reached out to a friend. It felt strange. I had been alone that night, crying for hours. Then, I stopped and dialed her number. She’s the one person who rarely answers because she’s a busy mom with her own life, so I assumed she wouldn’t answer.

She answered.

No words came out of my mouth. All I did was cry. She listened and she didn’t ask questions or offer “it’ll be okay” statements. Honestly, she just listened to me cry. Afterward, I managed to say the many things that had been plaguing my heart. I didn’t want her to fix anything; I knew she couldn’t. All I needed was for her to listen and love me, without any judgment or unsolicited advice.

October 1st was another difficult day. I made it to work for about two hours before I couldn’t go any further. I left, called my mom, and pretended everything was fine, but she knew. She always knows. I kept the conversation together and then came home and slept.

Off to the Hills

I spent the rest of the day crying off and on, then called my mom again, asking if I could come over. She was busy but said she’d be home soon and I could come over then. I got in the car, feeling like I couldn’t breathe or hold it together. I told my husband I was leaving, not knowing when or if I’d be back that night.

It was a beautiful evening, so I rolled the windows down and drove. In the past, when we lived in our old house, I would go on drives like this to clear my head. There was no pressure to be a wife or a mom. I’d drive for hours, seeing new places, exploring new roads. Sometimes, a kid would join me, and we’d go on adventures. Once, I ended up in Dukedom, TN.

Visiting Granny

On that particular night, I drove on unfamiliar roads and ended up near Lovelaceville—close to my granny’s house. I took the “old way” and passed by the new houses. The familiar music stirred my emotions, and I cried even harder. Memories flooded back of driving down that road with her. My mind was a mess, and my body couldn’t hold back the tears.

I ended up at the cemetery where my granny, grandfather, uncle, aunt, and cousin are buried. I hadn’t been there in a long time. My heart longed for her presence—the wisdom she offered, the laughter she shared, the way she could solve my problems with a game of Scrabble, some juicy fruit gum, and a surprise bowl of ice cream.

Cortisol Break

I’m in the middle of a “cortisol break” as I sit here, tears dripping down my face. It’s a moment where the weight of everything comes rushing in, and I need time to collect myself.

I’ve been working through this for days, writing down my feelings. Right now, I’m listening to Made for More while holding onto the baby blanket my granny made for me. It’s my comfort—a kind of emotional support quilt. It’s full of holes, tears, and stains, but it’s mine. It makes me feel loved. It’s incredible how an object can do that.

Deafening Silence

The silence is the hardest part for me. It’s when the noise fades that the unresolved grief starts to surface. When my granny passed, I had just gained custody of two kids, only to lose her and them shortly after. When my father-in-law died, we hadn’t spoken for six months due to a misunderstanding. After LA passed, I couldn’t go to her funeral because my son needed chemotherapy. When my Lady died, my son was struggling with OMS, and my dad had a stroke, so I couldn’t process her death. And when Donna passed, that night was filled with pain in more ways than one.

There’s so much I’ve never processed, and the recent losses only add to it. If I could just trust in God’s faithfulness, maybe this pain wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. I know His word is true, and I do believe in it. But in my life, I struggle to see hope. I feel trapped, like I’m walking through mud. It’s hard to see a way out. If I don’t allow myself to feel, to sit in the silence and process, I don’t know what will happen. Maybe I’ll implode.