What I’ll Carry Forward: A Personal Reflection on Grief

Sometimes grief shows up without warning. It doesn’t knock first. It doesn’t ask whether you’re ready. It just arrives—quietly, or suddenly—and sits beside you like it’s been there all along. As a therapist, I spend a lot of time sitting with other people’s grief. I know how layered it can be—how it loops back on itself, how it shows up quietly and then all at once. It shows up differently for everyone. But when my cousin Daryl passed a few days ago, I was reminded—personally and unexpectedly—that no amount of training prepares you for the grief that belongs to you. And I needed to find a way to give that experience a voice—to trace the edges of this loss, and to reflect on the kind of presence Daryl was in my life.

The Quiet Center of the Cousins

Daryl was the first grandchild in our family line—the oldest of the cousins, a kind of quiet elder. His presence was a subtle, but strong thread that set a tone simply by being. He was a constant among us, a quiet anchor, a touchpoint that gave shape to our generation, even when life pulled us in different directions. In that way, Daryl’s life had a kind of gravity. And now, in his absence, something feels off-kilter—like a familiar point of reference is gone, and everything has lost a bit of its rhythm, the way it does when someone who shaped the feel of the family is suddenly no longer there.

When a Good Soul Leaves the Room

Me and my cousin Daryl—who quietly held so much space in our family and in my heart. I didn’t know how much I’d miss him until he was gone. (2009)

The more I sat with the weight of this loss, the more I returned to what I’ve always felt whenever I was around him—he was simply a good person. Every time we crossed paths—whether as children or adults—there was a natural warmth, a sense of safety, a quiet kindness in him. He was the kind of good that stayed with you—he carried a goodness that felt natural, something that made you feel at ease just being near him.

And now, as I’ve been learning more about the life he built in Nevada—the friends he made, the connections he nurtured, the kind of man he was—I find myself moved all over again. With each new detail, I find myself getting a fuller picture of someone I already felt deeply about, and that brings with it both pride and sorrow.

There’s a particular kind of sadness that comes with losing a good soul. It feels heavier because their way of being was steady, healing, and true. When a good soul like Daryl leaves the room, the quiet they leave behind is loud. For me, that silence has held more than sorrow—it’s caused me to reflect on the depth of what we shared, even if it wasn’t shaped by constant contact. There was an ease between us, a sense of something rooted and genuine. And now, with him gone, I’m feeling the quiet significance of that connection in a way I hadn’t fully named before. Sometimes, the connections that don’t need explanation are the ones that shape us most.

Answering the Call

In the days after Daryl passed, I felt pull to not just grieve, but to do—to step in, to support, to make sense of the sudden weight his absence left behind. I found myself needing to help steady what felt uncertain—because it felt like a way to honor him. I reached out to his mother, my aunt Jackie and asked how I could help. When she called me back, I could hear it in her voice: the overwhelm, the grief, the not knowing where to begin. She started listing everything she was trying to manage—things she didn’t have, didn’t know, didn’t know how to do or obtain. So I dove in. I started making calls. Gathering information. Navigating logistics. I stepped in to help bring calm to chaos and a kind of quiet structure in uncertainty. I offered this part of myself, in a way, as a tribute to Daryl. Being able to show up like that helped our family move through a difficult moment. And unexpectedly, it helped me, too.

What I’ll Carry Forward: A Reflection on Grief

Grief has a way of uncovering feelings we didn’t expect, memories we thought were faint, connections that suddenly feel heavier with meaning. Losing Daryl has brought all of that to the surface for me. It wasn’t just sadness. It was a quiet aching for something that lived in the backdrop of my life. This grief caught me off guard with a kind of heaviness that lingered. It didn’t knock me over, but it slowed me down. It pulled at my energy but asked me to keep showing up—for others, for my family, for myself—even when I didn’t feel fully steady. And through that slowing down, I began to understand just how much he meant to me, and that something about him stayed with me. I also realized that even grief can offer something lasting—that loss, while painful, can still leave behind a kind of quiet wisdom, love and awareness that were meant to be carried forward.

Coming to that understanding needed stillness, reflection, and the kind of space I usually offer to others. I spend much of my life holding space for other people’s pain, but this time I had to do that for myself. And I’ve learned that tending to your own grief isn’t just about having the right insight—it’s about making room to feel it, slowly and fully. Writing became that place for me. It gave form to emotions I couldn’t always speak, and helped me follow the quiet threads of this grief. In putting these words down, I found room for what I hadn’t fully grasped before. I was reminded that the weight of missing someone isn’t measured by how often you saw them, but by how deeply they settled into your sense of the world. This grief has shown me how some people shape us in quiet, lasting ways—and losing them brings into focus what truly matters.

I don’t have a neat ending for this. What I do have is the feeling that Daryl’s way of being—steady, kind, unforgettable—will keep finding its way back to me, in the soft places where love resides.

By Carlita L. Coley, LPC

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About the Author

I’m a writer, therapist, and cousin moving through grief. I wrote this reflection in honor of Daryl, whose life and legacy left an imprint that I’m only beginning to understand more fully. Writing helps me slow down and stay close to the things that matter, especially when the words are hard to find.