Surviving Loss: Finding Hope After Tragedy

Thanksgiving morning in 2019 dawned with an unexpected, piercing sorrow. I lost a friend to suicide.

The night before, our texts had bounced back and forth. He had things on his mind, but it wasn’t a heavy dialogue. I reassured him that life’s burdens would ease, and we made plans to talk on Sunday, hoping to laugh and lighten the mood. It’s a bitter reality to accept that he made other plans.

I was deep into my Thanksgiving Day routine, watching old episodes of Friends and A Different World themed around the holiday, when the call came. Tears streamed down my face, but I was otherwise paralyzed by the news. We had spoken on the phone about plans to hang out; he sounded like himself, but mentioned needing some time alone.

I didn’t know he had been grappling with suicidal ideation, though it wasn’t unfamiliar terrain for me. Two other friends had attempted suicide before. Thankfully, they were unsuccessful, but I knew that if someone is determined to leave, they will find a way.

Aging doesn’t scare me, but my friend’s death ignited a fear that I won’t grow old with as many people I care about as I would like.

I spent that Thanksgiving with the same friends who had introduced me to him five years prior. Though I love my family, I’m careful about when I visit. My childhood was marred by my father’s drunken outbursts, especially around the holidays. My mother, my greatest champion and favorite person, initially struggled with my sexuality, leaving some painful memories.

Over the years, my friends became my chosen family. Forming new friendships as an adult is hard, making losses even more painful. That Thanksgiving, my friends and I met for drinks and then walked to a restaurant in Harlem for dinner. The day was full of tears, but also laughter and hugs. Suicide had disrupted my life before, and I hoped this time would be the last.

The following Thanksgiving, 2020, I was preoccupied with avoiding the pandemic and preparing to leave NYC for good. I sought a better view of a burning world and the opportunity to make TV money in LA. That week, I was packing, throwing things out, smoking weed to curb my stress, and pretending to be a rapper in the mirror. I spent Thanksgiving Day alone in a Brooklyn hotel, eating takeout in silence despite friends’ invitations. I wasn’t feeling festive.

Regretfully, I missed out on cornbread dressing that year—my dad’s specialty, a comforting reminder of home and his love. But I didn’t cry about it or anything else. I was oddly proud that grief hadn’t consumed me.

On Thanksgiving Day in 2021, it finally caught up with me. My day started as usual—rolling my eyes at the news, then dancing to my playlist. Latto got me moving; Ariana Grande and 21 Savage got me belting; Beyoncé’s B’Day album always uplifted me. I also enjoyed smoking weed while listening to gospel artist Karen Clark Sheard’s “Balm in Gilead,” feeling closer to God.

But less than a minute into my routine, tears overwhelmed me. Reflecting, I realized I had lost more people, including a dear friend to brain cancer a few months prior. He was the first confidant I talked to about being gay and one of the kindest souls I’d known. I still struggle with how life can be cruel to the best among us.

I may not be as old as teenagers on TikTok make elder millennials like me sound, but nearing 40, I have two goals: to become a happy old Black man surrounded by friends. Yet, too many have been taken—by suicide, cancer, and Covid. The weight of these losses is inescapable.

Death was not a foreign concept to me—I’ve attended funerals since I was young. But experiencing so much loss this soon knocked me off balance. Born in 1984, I shouldn’t be losing this many people already. My coping mechanisms—working, hiking, boxing, smoking, drinking, dancing, binge-watching—only provided temporary distractions.

Months before I moved, my mom urged me to confront my bottled-up sadness and anger. She didn’t want me carrying it into my 40s and 50s. Reluctantly, I acknowledged she was right. I had dealt with much of my grief in silence, which only deepened my detachment from people and work. I needed to cry, scream, and not feel alone in my pain.

So, I cried when I needed to. I screamed into a pillow if necessary. Then I continued with my day, hoping it would hurt less than the last.

This subtle but significant shift in my life has been crucial.

As much as I hate to admit it, part of aging is losing people. I’m still navigating my grief, but I’ve decided not to give up celebrating the holidays. That means never spending them alone again.

Last Thanksgiving, I spent the day with André, one of my best friends who was there for that 2019 Thanksgiving. We talked about the loss, acknowledging how it will always sting. We found solace in our shared experience. The transition to LA hadn’t been easy for either of us, but we were together and happier, as we hoped to be in this city.

Now, I approach the holidays with an acceptance that they may bring celebration and tears. It’s the best way to keep my dream of becoming a happy old Black man alive.