Growing up in the UK in the 70s and 80s in a Caribbean household, I was surrounded by family photographs and constant affirmations of my dual heritage. Being born to Jamaican and St. Lucian parents was a source of pride—something special. But outside my home, the world minimized my existence. Schools, the media, and society reduced Black history to slavery, erasing the richness of our culture.

As time passed, my confidence grew, and three years in, I was promoted to an even greater leadership role. I felt empowered. I believed in my abilities. I was excited for the future.

Until, suddenly, I wasn’t.

Grief is a strange thing. It doesn’t follow a clear path, nor does it offer any warning signs. It creeps in at the most unexpected times and overwhelms you in ways you didn’t think were possible. But through it all, I’ve managed to show up for myself and for others—sometimes without even realizing I was doing it. I didn’t force myself to be “strong,” but somehow, I’ve been able to embody strength. I’ve had moments of vulnerability and tears, but in those moments, I’ve also had moments of clarity. It’s as if my soul has quietly held me, telling me that it’s okay to feel all the emotions, that I can still be graceful while grieving.