Lamentations, the only book in the Bible named after an emotion. It speaks volumes about the human experience of grief. And boy, have I grieved.
A year ago, my mother died by suicide. This month, I faced my first birthday without her, a milestone that everyone experiences with the loss of a parent. I went to our favorite card store where Mom and I would select cards for each other. As I perused the “To Daughter” birthday cards, I imagined which one she would have chosen for me. Mom always went for the mushiest and most expressive cards, underlining the parts she found most meaningful. And let’s not forget, she always wrote a heartfelt message addressed to her “Sweetpea.” As I read the card I imagined she would have given me, I felt her love wash over me. It was a beautiful, bittersweet moment. I remembered how, every year on my birthday, she would recount the story of giving birth to me, with the sweetest smile on her face. She would describe how she felt when she first held me, what I smelled like, and what an easy baby I was.
Recently, I began spending time with my mother’s cherished belongings. I sit quietly in the presence of her precious things, holding her brush with strands of red hair, and laughing at the half-zipped dress she left behind. I chuckle at the folded tissues she kept in every pocket. I study her meticulously beautiful handwriting in the Day-Timer calendars from the early 1990s, where she recorded both important and mundane moments of her life – from being cured of hepatitis C to her first meeting with a new boyfriend of mine, to her regular hair appointments and interviews.
These intimate moments with her possessions strengthen me. They bring back memories of my mother’s soul, the innocent essence that remained untouched by the mental illness that plagued her life. They also bring back the comforting sound of her voice, like bells ringing, whenever she saw me walk barefoot onto her back porch.
But they also evoke deep grief for the voice she lost. I grieve for her because she was sexually assaulted by my Great Uncle Charlie when she was only 4 years old. I grieve for the repeated harassment she endured in her workplaces as a single mother struggling to make ends meet. I grieve for the intimate partner violence she experienced and the rape she bravely spoke and wrote about. These unspeakable traumas left wounds that never healed and contributed to her mental illness. Yet she fought back with every ounce of strength she had. She declared #MeToo in conversations, wrote about it in her journals, and expressed her trauma through vivid collages made in therapy.
My mother and I often discussed the normalization of male violence, the outrage we felt towards the average age of entry into sexual trafficking being as low as 12 to 14 years old in our country. In her honor, I will continue to be “audacious,” as she used to call me, in my unwavering fight against the entitlement some men feel towards women’s bodies. During April, not only the anniversary of her passing but also Sexual Assault Awareness Month, I will accept the Lifetime Igniting Impact Award from the World Without Exploitation organization. Their mission aligns with mine – creating a world where no one is bought, sold, or exploited. I will relentlessly advocate for the Equality Model, holding sex buyers, pimps, and brothel keepers accountable for their demand for vulnerable human bodies. It bewildered my mom to think that there are people supporting the full decriminalization of sex buying, brothel keeping, and pimping. Upholding her legacy and honoring our unbreakable bond as both mother and survivor are my utmost priorities.
I will also channel my mother’s resilience and determination in my advocacy for laws that protect the privacy of families devastated by death by suicide. I will fight for responsible reporting on mental illness, avoiding invasive details that could harm those who are already vulnerable. The reporting on my mother’s death was invasive and disregarded ethical boundaries. All reporting on suicide should adhere to medical accuracy, evidence-based information, and the guidelines established by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. We must be cautious of the potential for contagion that can lead to further self-harm ideation in vulnerable individuals.
To honor my mother and her indomitable spirit, I will address the National Press Club in May, speaking out about the need for responsible reporting. My sister and I will also accept the Lifesaver Award from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, recognizing our commitment to destigmatizing mental illness and more. It is an award I never wished for, but one that I will accept humbly, on my knees, despite the bruises I have sustained from a year of falling, crawling, and getting back up again.
On the anniversary of my mother’s passing, I am grateful to discover that Mercy Community Healthcare in Franklin, Tenn., is naming their new mental-health facility in her memory. Mercy focuses on providing care to underserved individuals and offers sliding-scale payments when necessary. It pained my mother to see people suffer and not have access to the care she could afford. This gesture would have brought solace to her distressed mind and gentle soul.
Throughout this past year, I have learned how to make the irreplaceable loss of my mother serve her legacy. In the words of Franciscan Friar Richard Rohr, “Grief may be the most honest form of prayer.” In grief, we find both lament and meaning. And in God’s economy, everything can be transformed into service for others.
While no one else can bear our grief for us, we can find comfort in the fact that we don’t have to face it alone. I have felt comforted by the work I have done to honor my mother’s memory and by the countless individuals who have shared their own stories of grief with me. Together, we walk this path of healing and resilience.
