No I didn’t know her like her daughter did.
I didn’t grow up in her kitchen, or hear her prayers echo down the hallway.
But I was asked to write her obituary.
And in that sacred request, I borrowed a grief that wasn’t mine—
and found grace that absolutely was.
There’s a strange intimacy in writing someone else’s goodbye.
You become a witness to their legacy,
a translator of love,
a midwife for memory.
And when the words finally settle,
you’re left with silence.
Not the kind that wounds—
but the kind that waits.
This week, I’ve felt disconnected.
Not because I’m lost,
but because I’ve been holding space for someone else’s story.
And now, I’m relearning how to hold my own.
It’s easy to lose your voice in the shadows of someone else’s sorrow.
To forget your rhythm while echoing theirs.
But borrowed grief doesn’t mean borrowed identity.
I lent my voice to her story,
but I won’t lose mine in the echo.
Borrowed grief teaches you how to listen.
Borrowed grace teaches you how to return.
So today, I return.
To my voice.
To my movement.
To the beauty that rises even after the benediction.
With this goodbye, my mission is complete.
Not because the work is done—
but because the honoring is whole.
If you’ve ever carried someone else’s sorrow,
and wondered where your joy went—
know this:
It’s not gone.
It’s just waiting for you to come back.
