There is some news that no one wants to hear. But as renowned writer Joan Didion observed in her 2005 memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking (Knopf Doubleday), not one of us—no matter how charmed our lives may seem—escapes bad news. On a bright, sunny October day in 2024, such news came for me. I woke up to a text message informing me that my friend Mark had been hit by a semitruck and killed.
I don’t remember how I managed to go to work and teach that day—but at moments like these, my students are lifelines. This kind of sudden, tragic death isn’t what anyone wants or expects. But sadly, it is all too common. In recent years four of my loved ones have died tragically, unexpectedly and prematurely—three of them hit by cars, one from a complicated medical situation. Every time when the call or text or email has come, I’ve found myself paralyzed in bed, grieving people whom I’d never expected to lose so soon.
While all of these deaths—as well as the deaths of various older relatives and friends in recent years—have provoked grief, Mark’s death was particularly painful in that I was limited in where I could seek support. My sorrow over his loss was what Dr. Kenneth Doka has defined as “disenfranchised grief”: pain that is not recognized or accepted by society.
Examples of disenfranchised grief typically include grieving deeply for people who are not immediate family members—for example, a divorced spouse, a work colleague, an illicit lover, a grandchild, or a pet. It can also include grief over a lost job, a lost relationship, or any other loss people are limited in their ability to empathize with. We’re usually expected to move on from such losses quickly and to remain on top of work and daily tasks. Disenfranchised grief is any painful loss whose weight we must shoulder alone.
Mark was an ex-partner who verbally and emotionally abused me. Dating him was unquestionably a mistake, and for the nearly two-year duration of our relationship, only a handful of people knew about our involvement. Frankly, I was embarrassed (which itself did not bode well for us as a couple). Mark trafficked in conspiracy theories and controversial political opinions. He was an alcoholic and could be belligerent when drunk. He suffered from untreated bipolar disorder and OCD and couldn’t hold a job. He’d lost his driver’s license and had no car, so to visit him I had to drive to his town, which was 50 miles from mine. He did not have many friends. I joked that he’d latched onto me because I was the only person left who would tolerate him; he’d driven everyone else away.
I have enough life experience to know this was not going to be a healthy relationship. But like many of us during the COVID-19 pandemic, I felt extremely isolated. I was living alone in the small Iowa town where I’d moved for a job that never felt like the right fit. When Mark—whom at that point I considered an acquaintance—called and wanted to hang out in late 2020, against my better judgment I agreed. But at that time, I would have taken attention from just about anyone.
Over time, though, Mark became more than “just about anyone.” He showed me the tree he’d planted with his father in the house where he grew up, the community college where he’d taken art classes after getting his GED, and a stunning painting of a dove over the Bible he’d done for a local church—a painting that now hangs in my home. He loved antique malls and ice creams and long walks along the Mississippi River, where he’d count the pelicans. I admired his talent and resilience, his deep desire for connection and community.
On his good days he was thoughtful, generous, humorous, and passionate. One way he showed his care was by buying me used clothing from thrift stores or free clothing from his local Benevolent Society. He had an artist’s eye and bought me flattering clothes in line with my tastes. But the gifts had strings attached. “Don’t wear that in front of your male friends,” he said about certain items. Fights ensued when I refused to agree with his demands. If I stopped picking up the phone, I could expect to receive 20 calls in a row at times.
I eventually ended the romantic relationship and in 2022 moved from Iowa to Pennsylvania. However, we did maintain some limited, occasional contact, particularly when his mother‚ who had always been kind to me, died of pancreatic cancer. But eventually he’d always push me too far, leading me to block his number once again. In October 2024, we were about to have our first telephone conversation in over a year when his father texted me with the bad news: He had been hit by a truck and killed in what the police ultimately ruled a suicide.
The grief was gut-wrenching, and outside of therapy, it was a pain I mostly had to shoulder alone. At that point I was dating a new person who, though he offered brief condolences, had little interest in hearing details about Mark. My parents didn’t know about the relationship, nor did most of my friends. Those who did know were limited in their ability to respond. “How can you feel so sad about someone who mistreated you?” they asked. The answer is complicated, as was the grief. Indeed, part of me was relieved to know that now he’d be unable to hurt me. But I knew that at his core was a beautiful, creative, intelligent, wounded person who desired to live, as we all do, with dignity and love.
I mourned his death by holding a memorial service at the church which houses his painting. He always believed he’d die young; he frequently asked me if I’d attend his funeral. I didn’t expect to plan it. The church’s minister listened with compassion as I told our story. He planned a service around the famous line from Paul’s letter to the Romans: Nothing can separate us from the love of Christ Jesus. Though only five people attended, I was grateful to be accompanied in the grief.
On the side of the road where Mark died, I wrote a message in chalk: You are forgiven, not forgotten. Today, I continue to wear the clothes he gave me. He hurt me, but he also brought beauty into my life. I loved him and continued to love him even after I walked away, even when I moved on to new relationships and experiences. I rarely throw clothes away; I wear them until they fall apart. In the same way, I don’t throw away relationships or memories of them, no matter how complicated.
In the United States we are notoriously bad at dealing with grief. In Poland, All Saints’ Day is a national holiday when all businesses close and everyone visits the cemetery to honor their dead. The growing popularity of Mexican Day of the Dead celebrations in the United States is a testament to our collective need for rituals that make space for the truth of death and dying.
There’s so much pain our culture expects us to carry in silence. I’m thinking of a friend of mine who yearns to have a child but has suffered multiple miscarriages. She’s struggling with the question of how hard to try before accepting that having a child may not be possible.
I’m thinking of my friends who are undocumented, currently living in fear and mourning the loss of this country and the promise they thought it held.
I’m thinking of my mother, who is 83 and has lost much of her mobility as well as vision in one of her eyes. She’s having a very hard time adjusting to the losses of ability that old age brings. She says that as a young person I can’t understand, but I know that if I live long enough, someday I will experience these losses myself.
I’m thinking of everyone who is haunted by the consequences of past decisions—others’ and their own—everyone who lives with regret, who asks “what if.”
As we honor our dead and prepare for the penitential season of Advent, may we find spaces of welcome and listening where we give one another the freedom to share complicated losses. May we come to know that there truly is nothing that can separate us from the love of Christ Jesus. And therefore, no matter how isolated we may feel, in the end nothing separates us from the love of one another.
Image: Unsplash/Pierre Bamin
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