Finding My Way Through Grief: How My Mother's Death Shaped My Journey

By Michael Smith

It’s been over three decades since that October day in 1992, but the memory of losing my mother feels as raw as if it happened yesterday. She was only 29, a young mother trying to turn her life around, and I was 11, struggling to understand why life seemed to work against us. Her death marked the beginning of a journey that would shape me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

Losing her wasn’t just about losing a parent; it felt like losing a part of myself. My mother was more like a big sister, a best friend, someone who truly saw me. But when she was gone, I felt isolated, forced to navigate a world that suddenly seemed even more complicated and unkind.

I didn’t know how to process my grief, so I buried it deep inside. I pretended it wasn’t my story. At school, I smiled, tried to blend in, but never truly felt like I fit in. My classmates had what seemed like simpler lives—two-parent homes and minor worries. They weren’t weighed down by the silence I wrapped myself in.

I became the quiet kid, content to stay unnoticed. I convinced myself that it was better to not stand out, better not to let anyone see the real me. In hindsight, I realize that this need to hide came from a fear that, if people truly saw me, they would see all the parts of my story that I wasn’t ready to share.

As I got older, my habit of bottling up feelings only intensified. I believed that nobody cared about my experiences—that my pain wasn’t significant enough to share. This belief held me back, preventing genuine connections with others.

It wasn’t just my mother’s death that made me feel out of place. I wrestled with questions about my identity—racial, sexual—parts of myself that felt too complex to share. Even now, those struggles are part of me, though they remain mostly unspoken.

Ironically, the very feeling of being different—of not fitting in—pushed me forward. I didn't want to be defined by my grief, yet I couldn’t escape its influence. So, I kept going, convincing myself that everyone has their own burden to bear, and mine was just another in a sea of many.

There’s a strange comfort in knowing life goes on, even when your world feels shattered. It’s what kept me putting one foot in front of the other, even when the silence inside me felt overwhelming. But that same realization made it harder to seek help or let anyone in. Acknowledging my story would make it real, and I wasn’t ready for that reality.

Looking back now, I see that I’m still learning to break the silence I built around myself. Sharing my story is a step toward reclaiming my voice, toward understanding that my past doesn’t make me weak—it makes me human. Healing is a process, and I’m far from finished, but I’m learning that there’s strength in vulnerability, and that healing isn’t something you do alone.

Writing about my mother’s death and its impact on me isn’t easy, but I hope that by sharing these parts of myself, I can connect with others who have felt isolated or burdened by unspoken struggles. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we’re all carrying something, and in sharing, we find the strength to move forward.

A Day in October: The Story of My Mother's Passing
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