grief: a pathway to peace
2023 beat my ass with love, but I’m better for it.
Peace (n.) 1. freedom from disturbance; tranquility. Similar: tranquility, calm, calmness, restfulness, peace and quiet, peacefulness, quiet, quietness, quietude, silence, soundlessness, hush, noiselessness, stillness, still, privacy, privateness, seclusion, solitude, isolation, retirement, freedom from interference. Opposite: noise, irritation; 2. a state or period in which there is no war or a war has ended.
In the throes of accepting that the life I had agreed to–that I had convinced myself was what I wanted –crumbled around me, I received a word from my ancestors that one of my gifts was death. I hold the power to die repeatedly, to remake myself again and again in the face of what might utterly destroy some. They loved my ability to take the ashes of my old lives and alchemize them into lessons. This year I can count the number of times I went up in flames and my spiritbodymind had to form new bonds and new ways of seeing and being. In that fire, relationships I held dear to my heart transformed into chalky dust; or rather, the fire burnt the wall I had built to keep me from seeing them as they were — nothing.
At the end of 2022, I seeded a hope that 2023 would be a year of peace. I counted my blessings in my meditation journal: I had love in abundance. I had a home. I was nearing the end of my dissertation writing. I had a job that made me unhappy but kept the lights on. I had everything I wanted, and yet, there was a nagging feeling in my spirit that tugged at the edges of my mind. I constantly found myself bargaining that if I finished this or achieved that or if this person proved to be who I knew they could be, that I would finally settle the small voice inside telling me that something was wrong, that this was not enough. I was not living in integrity with myself, constantly turning the scraps I was given in my intimate relationships into some kind of nourishment. I refused to admit to myself and to the giver that the scraps were not enough. Instead, I misnamed those scraps gifts, fashioned them as stopgaps until the magical moment when the giver would realize my worth and theirs.
After meditating on what I truly needed, I decided that I would call more peace into my life. I would pray for the ability to live restfully with my blessings.
Be careful what you pray for.
true peace requires loss
Embracing loss and grief as a way of life and the pathway to peace is one of the ways to resist capitalism, for an acceptance of loss ends a world conditioned by consumption. What most of us consider to be “peace” is actually our self-fashioned (and/or world-sanctioned) attempts to maintain the status quo. We quiet the parts of ourselves that insist that this [love, relationship, friendship, food, apology, promise] is not enough; that we are not free; that we are being disrespected and disregarded in order to hold on to the people, places, things, and habits that make peace impossible. We want to keep those people, entities, and institutions that harm us around and still sleep at night. We hold on to the delusion–which we might recognize as hope without material change–that our copresence and time is enough to bring about transformation in others. Under these conditions, peace is a stagnant comfort that resists change.
Because we cannot imagine the possibility that life might be better without what we’ve held on to so desperately, we become transfixed by the pain and discomfort of loss. We stay and trick ourselves into thinking that peace will simply find us, that we’ll be able to hold on to everything and ourselves without anxiety or depression. The world-that-is requires us to hold on to the hope-without-material-change that we can have “peace” with our enemies and still find rest. We are told we must trade our peace for money, for food, for love, for acceptance, for life itself.
Only a world molded by white supremacist violence would misname the rejection of a peace-filled life thriving under ableist capitalism; inclusion under liberal white supremacy, anti-blackness, and settler colonialism; and love under cisheteropatriarchy. Only a world where some hold the privilege to violate without pushback and have the ability to wreak violence, havoc, and destruction, would call for “peace” with what kills you. Only a world made through oppression would ask you to accept your own with a still tongue and shaking hands.
My own poorblackgirlchildhood taught me many lessons, and one of them was that peace required my silence and obedience. Since then I have learned (and felt) that silence and obedience does not bring peace; they only sustain the status quo. My ancestors helped me recognize how, in so many ways, the ones I loved used me as a shield from the consequences of their actions. They used my kindness and generosity as shelter from the terror or responsibility they deserved to face. I had determined, without realizing but always knowing, that my back and my heart could bear the brunt. I sacrificed without complaining, stuffing whatneededtobesaid so deep that it bubbled up like tar and closed my throat. The familiar throb and stickiness of servitude.
My silence suffocated me, and only I had the power to make breath possible again. It started with opening my mouth and confronting the root of my suffering: the fear of being alone, disliked, and unloved.
true peace does not demand your silence
When I was a teenager, I prayed to love like God. I wanted to have the capacity to sacrifice anything and everything for love–I wanted to be so infinite that I would be able to give all of me and still have something left. I wanted to embody 1 Corinthians 13:
1 Corinthians 13
Amplified Bible
The Excellence of Love
13 If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not [a]love [for others growing out of God’s love for me], then I have become only a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal [just an annoying distraction]. 2 And if I have the gift of prophecy [and speak a new message from God to the people], and understand all mysteries, and [possess] all knowledge; and if I have all [sufficient] faith so that I can remove mountains, but do not have love [reaching out to others], I am nothing. 3 If I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body [b]to be burned, but do not have love, it does me no good at all.
4 Love endures with patience and serenity, love is kind and thoughtful, and is not jealous or envious; love does not brag and is not proud or arrogant. 5 It is not rude; it is not self-seeking, it is not provoked [nor overly sensitive and easily angered]; it does not take into account a wrong endured. 6 It does not rejoice at injustice, but rejoices with the truth [when right and truth prevail]. 7 Love bears all things [regardless of what comes], believes all things [looking for the best in each one], hopes all things [remaining steadfast during difficult times], endures all things [without weakening].
8 Love never fails [it never fades nor ends]. But as for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for the gift of special knowledge, it will pass away. 9 For we know in part, and we prophesy in part [for our knowledge is fragmentary and incomplete]. 10 But when that which is complete and perfect comes, that which is incomplete and partial will pass away. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. 12 For now [in this time of imperfection] we see in a mirror dimly [a blurred reflection, a riddle, an enigma], but then [when the time of perfection comes we will see reality] face to face. Now I know in part [just in fragments], but then I will know fully, just as I have been fully known [by God]. 13 And now there remain: faith [abiding trust in God and His promises], hope [confident expectation of eternal salvation], love [unselfish love for others growing out of God’s love for me], these three [the choicest graces]; but the greatest of these is love.
I studied these verses, committed them to a kind of soul memory that allowed every relationship to be a place to practice long-suffering love. I practiced a kind of martyrdom that disciplined my tongue into stillness. That stillness I named keeping the peace, placing my own needs so firmly underfoot that even I misrecognized them as unholy and unfit to be met. As I grew older, I noticed that while keeping the peace kept people in my life, it did not make them or me happy. My disciplined silence was not enough for them or for me, nor did it lead to me experiencing tranquility or love. It only made me a willing sacrifice.
seek peace and pursue it
This year, ol’ girl Peace came through to pry everything I held with tight fists, especially those people who I decided in some way shape or form that I couldn’t live without though their presence caused me distress. No sacrifice was too much, so I practiced a patient-yet-painful silence in their presence and kept the peace. I did not know that peace came with reckoning and unraveling, but how else would I truly come home to myself without severing the connections that actually made peace impossible?
Though my unraveling began in winter with the end of a friendship based in need and not love, I weathered the peak of my undoing during the summer. It began with a dear friend of mine. They still loved someone who had abused me. I thought I was doing the right thing by minimizing the pain of the abusive relationship, by keeping the ̶p̶e̶a̶c̶e̶ silence. Though he could never hurt me again, the harm inflicted from years of sexual, emotional, and verbal abuse marked my life in ways that are irreversible. Part of me hoped that my friend would see the truth without me saying a word. But even when I admitted softly one night that he had raped me several times over the years that we were together, I was met with p̶e̶a̶c̶e̶ silence.
I carried the denial of my own pain and need for safety when I visited for their birthday. He was there, and once I laid eyes upon him I realized that I had unknowingly held hope-without-material-change that he was different, for I had not done everything I could to protect my peace. I was not the only one holding on to that delusion. My friend insisted that he had changed. The sacrifice of our relationship alongside their own burning flesh as offering to the altar of friendship had transformed him into a different man. The main difference I had observed was that he unleashed his unkind words onto them, not me.
I wanted to keep my friend happy, so I offered the familiar painful-patient silence that I had offered so many others in the past. I watched my friends laugh with someone who had made it clear multiple times in the past–with his words and his body–that he thought my life was not worth living. That I was someone not worth loving. In the aftermath, I found myself crying in familiar (dis)belief that once again the ones I was closest to betrayed me. I realized too, that my silence about the depth and breadth of abuse protected his peace and made mine impossible. I had to see that I was not too much for insisting that I feel good around my friends. Feeling good around my friends meant staying away from people who mean me harm. That also meant requiring my loved ones to protect me.
My friend and I discussed what happened, and we repaired our relationship. I forgave myself for the self betrayal of my silence and vowed to never tie my tongue in silence to keep the peace again. I spent many days grieving the friendships that I thought I had, grieving the politic I thought I had. Ultimately, I had to grieve an old self by sitting the truth that suffering in silence, despite what I had been taught my whole life, did not make me a better person, nor did it grant me peace. It left me alone to tend to my wounds.
I’m hoping that my vulnerability — the risk I take in unraveling before you — transforms me and leaves me in perfect peace.
The bare minimum of what I needed was all he could show me–that was the maximum that he could give. Instead of seeing that alone as reason to let him go, I held on for dear life. It was more than I had received before. At least I did not leave conversations with him needing to pick up the pieces of my self-esteem. At least he held me in ways that made me believe love was possible. He made my life easier in a lot of ways; he seemed interested in knowing me and the things that mattered to me. But that was not nearly enough to sustain our relationship, so I circulated my good energy. I made him the love of my life, so the near-daily negotiations I had with myself to keep him in my life when he stonewalled me: He didn’t mean to abandon me. Yeah, I told him time and time again that the silence hurt, but he always wiped away the tears he caused. Maybe I am too sensitive. That was more “compassion” than what I had received from previous lovers. Or negotiations I conducted to placate the anxiety I felt when faced with the reality that he contributed almost nothing financially: Will I have to take on the cost of this? Will he contribute? Yeah, this doesn’t feel right, but who else will love me this way? I felt this inner turmoil was the necessary tax for the “peace” I felt in the relationship. Nobody was perfect. I held on to a hope-with-very-little-material-change that my love and the depth of my sacrifice would transform him into the partner he had the potential to be. And to be real, it felt good to sleep beside that nigga. Laughing and talking with him became two of my greatest delights. His love made it easier for me to love myself. And though he was not like my previous lovers, he was not enough.
Nothing could have prepared me for the pain I felt when he said he wanted to end the relationship two weeks before I defended my dissertation. The breakup started with excuses about him not being good enough for me (which was true) and ended with a confession that he had cheated on me during the same month that my aunt died and that we celebrated his grandmother’s 70th birthday. He revealed to me that he had an “unhealthy relationship with sex,” and that dependence drove him to betray me and our “perfect” love. He said that he simply cheated because he wanted to. I was perfect; there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was what he had always done in relationships. His confession stirred up many emotions for me, but the one that surprised me the most was relief. I could stop negotiating with myself. Finally, I was forced to face the reality that despite all the disciplined silence I practiced in loving him, forsaking my peace for his love ultimately harmed me. I still wanted to work through things because I loved him more than I loved myself. I was willing to forsake my peace for him.
My initial impulse after his confession was to swallow my hurt and my pride in order to try to work things out. I figured there would be time to share whatneededtobesaid. That time never came because he ghosted me after a year and eight months of being together. In his absence, I was unsure of how to make sense of the relationship that I had cherished so deeply. I did not know what to do with the gnawing pain of loss as I celebrated the life-changing achievement of finishing my doctorate. I was not ready to embrace the new beginning in my life because I held on to all I had left of him–my grief, a painting, and a couple love notes. I was not ready to accept the peace knocking at the edges of my heart, for I no longer had to worry about what he was doing, how he was doing it, and with whom he was doing it.
Things became even more unsure when I shared my loss with my grandmother, the woman who had always made it clear that I had a home with her. She scolded me, told me to get over myself, to stop being so stubborn and to be quiet and listen to him. Surely I had said or done something wrong to drive him away. I was too driven, too passionate. I did not have the qualities to keep a good man like him around–and surely, she would know, given that she is alone. He was supposed to be the father of the child I promised her. (Note: I never promised her a child. It seems she had lots of plans for my relationship too.)
I grew angry and sad. I had hoped-without-material-change that she would support me, but she betrayed me too. I could no longer hold my tongue still to keep the peace and out of “respect” for her. In a loving but firm tone, I told her that he and I weren’t getting back together. She took that moment to remind me of the poorblackgirlchild who would do what she said without expressing hesitation.
“When you were younger, you used to listen to me. What happened to that girl? What happened to you?” she asked.
“I’m no longer a child, Grandma. I am an adult now. You are free to offer your opinion, but I have to make my own decisions.”
I was shocked that my own grandmother wanted me to keep the peace at the expense of myself–in order to produce a child that she figured would remedy her loneliness. That day, through my tears, I had to swallow the truth that my silence never actually served me. Why would the woman whose words and actions had turned away everyone else in the family be good to me? Why did I hold the fantasy that I was special to her? I was not her favorite because she loved me more; I was her favorite because I would quietly do what she said. I learned that peace requires discernment–a knowing of what to share, when, and with whom. That moment marked a rift in my relationship with her, and I realized that I had to let her go too. Neither one of us knew at the time that cancer grew inside her. Now, as she starts chemotherapy for her stage 4 ovarian cancer, I have to navigate supporting her and maintaining my peace.
As time passed, I realized that I had been given a gift in the loss of the “love of my life.” For the first time in my life, the only person I had to provide for was myself. The peace that surpasses understanding came wrapped up in the acceptance that the “love of my life” was a love for a season. He did not hold the capacity to truly love me as I was, nor did he have the capacity to hold who I was becoming. His selfishness compelled him to drop me; his trauma pushed him to do it coldly and without compassion. But he did not drop me into a void to be consumed by grief and sadness. When I stepped out from the shallow pit of my own self pity, I realized that I had not fallen into an abyss but into the love I had been looking for so desperately. I was overtaken by the love of friends, my ancestors, and myself. In the end, all I lost was a nigga who was never mine to begin with. In the end, I gained such peace and recognized such love that even my tears feel different. My fear of being alone, unloved, and disliked became revealed as the lie it was. I am surrounded by love. I receive and radiate love. My love knows no bounds, and when I walk in truth and in integrity, neither does my peace.
I want to feel and to be at ease. I want to feel and to be at peace. I recognize that most days, ease and peace are a choice.
Each experience I have–whether good or bad–teaches me my worth. I know that I can survive the loss of something/someone that I thought made me. My ability to still be here is a testament to the beauty and sanctity of my life.
I would like to spend my days wrapped in peace. In order to do that, I must grieve the life I thought I wanted. Each shedding I’ve experienced this year has taught me that those that I thought were integral to my life were not. That holding on to them was in fact life-ending for me. Clinging to anyone who did not add peace to my life was disruption and distraction. It was self sabotage and a manifestation of the deep-seated belief of my own unworthiness that kept me bound, for I did not truly believe that I deserved to love my life. I thought I had to make my life lovable, to prove myself as lovable, rather than accept the love that was always already present while releasing everything that made love, peace, and joy impossible. When I am truly at peace, I feel a kind of contentment with myself that doesn’t push me to settle. I protect my peace at all costs–even if it means I must disrupt others’ complacency masked as stillness.
One truth I’ll hold in my heart and in my spirit is that my commitment to peace requires me to surrender to my purpose and to challenge my fears and doubts. If I am truly committed to peace, I must embrace my greatness and recognize my time and energy as the gifts they are. If I am committed to peace, I must believe in my own abundance and in the abundance of my community.
If I am truly committed to peace, I must be ten toes down in my struggle against oppression, for I recognize that I will not find peace in the presence of what necessitates my destruction. I will not be able to buy the peace I need to continue to be in principled struggle.
As I embrace grief and transformation as the other faces of love, rather than resist them as enemies of my happiness, I find more peace and joy in each of my days. Lately, I wake up dancing. With each swirl of my hips, I ready myself for what will come, knowing that death will bring a new version of me.
Every new version of myself I love more. Every new version of myself feels like home.
Acknowledgments: Joy James’s In Pursuit of Revolutionary Love: Precarity, Power, Communities, Megan Thee Stallion’s Cobra, bell hooks’s All About Love, and a conversation with Christina Sharpe and Dionne Brand inspired this essay. I am deeply grateful for the Black diviners and healers Mystic Rainn, Jeida K. Storey, Miurel Cerrud-Cordoba, Dayna Nuckolls, Hathor-Sekhmet El, and AMEN who helped me see how much my ancestors loved me and how necessary it is show love for myself through a willful disregard for others.
