A Tale of Grief, Growth, and Healing. A Year in Reflection.
Writing this feels like returning home, like the dusting off of an old skill, rust and all. I realize I haven’t written much in over a year, which is unlike me. My absence? Chalk it up to the chaotic, overwhelming, and often comical hellscape that was 2024. The year brought me heartbreak, frustration, aimlessness, and, most difficult of all, grief. Yet within all of these experiences are lessons—some already learned, others still unfolding.
Writing has always been my bridge to connection, reminding me I wasn’t alone, and that others understood what I was feeling. So here I am, waking up my keyboard and dusting off my notepad, hoping we can continue to support and inspire each other.
Now, 2024 wasn't all bad—because even in the midst of a shitstorm, you can find something beautiful I suppose. But much of my year was overshadowed by my first dance with grief. It sort of felt like a tango, or perhaps a bachata, with grief’s sharp, unpredictable movements, and each twist and turn catching me off guard. Yet, at times, I embraced it closely, hesitant to let go because there were moments when it felt like it was all I had left.
Some of you know, and others may not, but my boyfriend, Peter, passed away on November 21st, 2023. It’s a day that will forever be etched in me. At first, losing him shattered me in ways I didn’t think possible. I’m not kidding. My entire year became consumed by it and just when I thought I had found the beat, the music would change—unexpected and disorienting. But in those jagged movements, I also found something raw—a truth about my own resilience.
Grief is a funny thing because, aside from the obvious, it’s omnipresent. It never quite leaves your side and it doesn’t always show itself as mourning the person you’ve lost. Sometimes, it manifests as grieving a fantasy—the things that never were, the potential that will never be. You find yourself missing not just the person, but the life you imagined together, and in that absence, you're forced to confront the rawness of life itself.
In between mourning Peter and grieving the loss of a future, I found myself anxious about what would come next. A familiar feeling of loneliness began to consume me and that's when I realized: the loneliness I was feeling wasn’t born from Peter’s passing alone—it had always been there, beneath the surface, possibly even when he was by my side.
Growing up, I had always felt different. Much of it stemmed from being misunderstood, feeling unlovable–almost alien to those around me. Being transgender marked me as 'other' in a world that struggled to see beyond binary definitions of gender. But Peter, in his way, was the first man to truly see me and not as what the world had imposed on me.
To be frank, my relationship with Peter was not perfect—like many relationships, we faced our share of difficulties. Whether he was the love of my life, I honestly can’t say. But what matters more was what Peter represented to me. His ability to see me for who I truly was—beyond labels, beyond the ‘otherness’—was transformative, and it’s an experience I wish for every trans woman to have.
When I met him, a man who embraced all that I was, there was an immediate sense of relief, as if I could finally exhale. He didn’t need me to fit into a predefined box; he accepted me as I was. His acceptance wasn’t just about me being a trans woman—it was about him recognizing my complexities, my flaws, my strengths, and my dreams. It was the first time in my life I felt truly seen, without filters or judgment, and it was a feeling that I will cherish forever.
Peter’s death brought deeper truths to the surface. I realized I had always been haunted by this fear of feeling like an outsider. Grief magnified this because it is such an intimate, subjective experience. No one can truly understand what it feels like. And no matter how many people surrounded me, there was always an air of disconnect.
Peter’s absence, after knowing that feeling of true acceptance, triggered a cascade of anxiety and self-doubt. Old insecurities began to resurface, almost gnawing away at me. It was as if Peter’s presence had pacified these old wounds for a while. In time I realized it wasn’t just about losing him; it was about confronting what had always lived within me.
For many months after Peter passed, it felt like I was decaying in bed, unable to move, praying for time to speed up. People often tell you that the only way through grief is through it, and God, did that advice piss me off. The idea that I was supposed to sit in my pain until, one day, it magically faded—or at best, became manageable—felt far too passive for me.
What I felt was an overwhelming 'what now?' It was like I was suddenly exposed, alone, and vulnerable—as if one strong wind could make me crumble. Everything began to feel forced. Writing became a chore. Social gatherings triggered anxiety. Conversations felt like work. I felt trapped, lonely, and lost. Yet, despite it all, I ended up choosing to confront my grief in the most unexpected way.
One day, fed up with waking up consumed by my own self-pity and feeling like I had nothing left to lose, I made the bold decision to spend two months in Rome, alone.
Rome held memories of happier times with Peter, and I knew I needed to escape—to break free and rediscover a sense of aliveness. I had never done something so bold alone before and I felt I needed to shock my system. I was terrified, unsure if it was a foolish mistake, but I knew I had to do something. The prospect of Rome wasn't just an escape; it was an invitation to rediscover what grief had muted and confront these feelings head-on.
In that leap, I discovered a resilience I never knew I had. Living in a foreign country, truly alone, forced me to face some of these wounds. Embracing the unfamiliar and stepping outside my comfort zone, I realized that loneliness could be a catalyst for transformation. It wasn’t a void to fill, but a space where I could grow and evolve. In the stillness, I began to find clarity—a chance to see myself not just through the lens of grief, but as a whole person, with all my complexities, strengths, and flaws.
For so long, I had carried an anxiety about not feeling seen, only to realize I hadn’t been seeing my own strength. Standing there, looking out over the cityscape of Rome, I felt a deep pride for choosing myself. In facing what terrified me, I rediscovered the courage I thought I had lost. Slowly, Peter’s memory has begun to transform from a weight into a gift, and I am finally beginning to dream of a future that excites me. By leaning into my isolation rather than letting grief consume me, I’ve started to feel alive again.
I’ve come to understand that the grief I had been consumed by wasn’t a place I had to stay forever. It didn’t define me; it was simply part of my story. What I’ve learned, through the pain and uncertainty, is that healing isn’t linear—it’s messy, hard, but also powerful. And while my experience with grief revealed deeper truths about myself, in the moments I thought I was at my weakest, I rediscovered my strength.
This experience has shown me that even in our most painful moments, we hold the power to choose how we respond. These moments can be painful but it’s not about running from the pain, but about sitting with it, embracing it, and letting it teach us. Growth doesn’t happen by waiting for the storm to pass—it’s something we create by standing tall in the midst of it.
So here I am, writing again, sharing again, and moving forward with a heart that has been tested but remains open. The most important lesson I’ve learned is this: we are not defined by our pain or our loneliness, but by how we rise from it. I continue to choose to rise—stronger, more whole, more attuned to the possibilities ahead. The rain will always come, but in its wake, we can choose to dance in it. The beauty lies in how we find our rhythm, even when the chaos surrounds us. Perhaps that is the true gift of a shitstorm: resilience—not in spite of it, but because of it.
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