When Grief Meets Gratitude: How Shared History Brings Connection

By Carlita L. Coley, LPC

Sometimes grief surprises us — not only in how it breaks us open, but in how it draws us close. It can bring a tenderness to moments we might have otherwise overlooked, wrapping even the smallest interactions in a sense of meaning.

After the memorial, I found myself thinking about the ceremony and about what happened around it — the quiet reunions, the soft laughter between cousins who hadn’t shared a room in years, the stories told over meals, sometimes with tears, sometimes with joy. In those moments, a softness rooted itself in silence. It didn’t erase the ache, but it added a layer to it, one that felt like connection, like a quiet thread pulling us gently toward one another. This piece is a reflection on that thread, on the connections that exists, or reawaken, in the space between grief and healing, and on what keeps us connected, even as we’re learning how to hold each other.

Invisible Table

There’s something sacred about a room filled with shared history. After years of drifting in and out of one another’s lives, all of my maternal grandmother’s living grandchildren found ourselves gathered in the same space the night before the memorial, trading familiar laughter and old stories. At the front of the room stood a large, blown-up portrait of Daryl. It was like he was sitting at the head of an invisible table, watching over us as we came together.

Reunited and it feels so good! The cousins (from left to right: Kristina, Shamika, Pamela, Sandra, Steve and me) standing together in love and remembrance of Daryl.

Some of us hadn’t seen each other in decades, and still, the connection and rhythm of cousinhood returned easily. And in that quiet gathering, I realized how loss can draw people back to one another, in the shared air, the ease of old ties, and the simple act of being present. We weren’t just mourning Daryl, we were remembering what it means to belong to one another, and imagining, maybe, what it could mean moving forward. There was something about the stillness in that room, the kind of stillness that comes when people know, without needing to say it, that something meaningful just happened. Maybe it was the grief. Maybe it was memory. Or maybe it was simply the quiet grace of being together after so much time apart. Whatever it was, I felt it. A flicker of connection, of hope, of something worth holding onto.

Aggie Pride

North Carolina A&T’s iconic bulldog stands as a proud symbol of enduring Aggie Pride, which is more than a chant, it’s an acronym for Achieving Great Goals in Everything – Producing Renowned Individuals Dedicated to Excellence, a legacy that unites alumni across generations.

The next day, during the memorial, I witnessed something unexpected, a brief moment of call and response that reminded me how connection can show up in the most subtle, beautiful ways. A former classmate of Daryl's stood to share memories of him, mentioning their time as roommates at North Carolina A&T State University. Without thinking, I softly murmured, “Aggie Pride,” the rallying cry of our alma mater. I wasn’t the only one. Other alumni across the room, strangers to me, did the same — low and instinctive, but in sync.

The speaker paused, smiled, and then asked all the Aggies in the room to stand. As I stood with them, I looked around and realized that while I didn’t know any of them personally, we were connected by a shared experience — one that shaped us, one we still carry. It didn’t matter where we sat or how we got there. We belonged to the same tribe.

That quiet chorus of “Aggie Pride” wasn’t just nostalgia. It was recognition. Affirmation. A reminder that even in grief, we can find ourselves in one another. Sometimes what brings us together is history. Other times, it’s something as simple as a shared chant whispered in unison, echoing softly through the room — proof that we are never quite as alone as we think.

More Than a Quiet Meal

Later that weekend, connection found me again — this time, unexpectedly, over hotel waffles and lukewarm coffee. As I sat in the dining area getting ready to check out, I found myself in conversation with someone recognized from Daryl’s memorial. He hadn’t recognized me right away, but when I reminded him that I was Daryl’s cousin, something in him softened. And after he learned I was a therapist, perhaps by coincidence, the conversation shifted from polite small talk to something far more honest and human.

He spoke about the challenges he was facing with one of his children — the grief, confusion, and quiet heartbreak of watching someone you love make painful choices. He teared up more than once, and despite being someone used to leading, he didn’t try to hide his vulnerability. That moved me deeply. Because for all the authority and wisdom he carried, in that moment, he was simply a father trying to make sense of something he couldn’t fix.

I offered what I could — a listening ear, a reminder from scripture, a reflection on grief. But what surprised me most was how much his story mirrored my own. His words echoed questions I’ve whispered in silence: Where did I go wrong? How did we get here? In comforting him, I felt comforted too. Our stories were different, but our ache was familiar. And in that moment, something unspoken passed between us — a recognition that grief doesn’t always wear the face of death. Sometimes it looks like disappointment, uncertainty, or the long, slow work of loving someone who’s struggling.

It was connection again, genuine, unlikely, and deeply human. And it reminded me that healing doesn’t always happen where we expect it. Sometimes it shows up at a hotel breakfast, between two people who weren’t looking for anything more than a quiet meal, and ended up walking away with something like hope.

Grief and Connection

What has stayed with me most from this weekend was the quiet thread of connection that wove itself through every moment. It moved through shared stories, through laughter and stillness, and through unexpected gestures. Grief brought us together, and left us with a sense of belonging shaped by memory and connection.

That thread showed up in the easy rhythm of a rediscovered cousinhood, in the instinctive call and response of Aggie alumni, and in the quiet honesty of a son/father sharing his grief over coffee. Though each moment was different, they were all part of the same quiet current, proof that connection has a way of showing up, even in our hardest seasons. And each endearing moment served as a reminder that presence matters, that history, even when complicated, can be a bridge, and that in honoring the connections we share, we plant the seeds for something deeper to take shape.