Smith Black Woman Grief

A Guide to Hope and Wholeness
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-5140-0965-9
Verlag: IVP
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 192 Seiten

'This excellent book skillfully showcases Smith's method for identifying and healing from grief and finding wholeness.' - Library Journal Review, January 2025 Dear Black woman, you are not alone. God has not disregarded your pain and suffering. God sees you. God knows you. God understands. In Black Woman Grief, Natasha Smith unearths a painful reality that is tangled within our nation's roots and DNA: trauma, loss, and grief are embedded in the lived experience of the Black woman in the United States. Smith talks about grief that is specifically applicable to Black women, providing them with affirmation and a safe place to exhale. Yet, amid a broken world and broken systems that have weighed down Black women for generations, Smith reminds us that there is hope because the kingdom of God is at hand. In Black Woman Grief, Natasha Smith - takes us readers through narrative and biblical truths - provides a space made by and for Black women to be seen and understood by God - encourages Black women to live a God-filled life in a grief-filled world

Natasha Smith is a wife, mother, and writer from North Carolina. Her work has appeared at Her View from Home, Focus on the Family, and TODAY Parents.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Smith, Natasha

Leseproben

1

Strong Black Woman

Come to me, all you who are weary and

burdened, and I will give you rest.

MATTHEW 11:28

“YOU’RE ONE OF THE STRONGEST PEOPLE I KNOW.”

These words from my friend were like nails screeching on a chalkboard. Though the sentiment was endearing, I knew it to be untrue. Yet I get this often. In these moments, my heart stops for a minute and I think, You give me too much credit.

Those words seem equivalent to “If I were you, I would’ve lost my mind.”

But under varying circumstances, we truly don’t know what we’ll do until we do it. We have an innate ability to endure things we never thought we could. Sometimes simply surviving is a feat of its own. Remember Oprah Winfrey’s famed line in The Color Purple: “All my life I had to fight.”

At times, that is what life feels like as a Black woman: a fight. Wrestling over how to make life better for ourselves and our loved ones without losing ourselves in the process. Battling for equality in the workplace and in our homes. Fighting for all these things while trying to not look like the angry Black woman. Malcolm X said, “The most disrespected person in America is the black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America is the black woman.”1

We must fight stereotypes. Not all of us come from broken homes, and not all Black women are single parents. Yet, for those of us who are single parents, not all of us struggle in the ways some people think.

As Black women, we fight against European beauty standards: our hair, our melanin, and our bodies. We are beautiful, yet when we’re compared to others, we’re told we aren’t enough.

So we find ourselves constantly fighting.

We fight for our relationships, for our well-being, for our loved ones, for our friendships, for our sanity, and simply for ourselves.

We fight.

Then we fight some more.

And as Black women, we are tired.

So when my friend told me, “You’re so strong,” I felt anything but strong. I was beyond tired.

I’d just shared with her how the year so far had been excruciatingly hard as it related to grief. Bandages were ripped off old wounds and sealed places of my heart were opened, exposed to the elements for the sake of attempting to heal. All because healing begins when we name the thing that has hurt us. And even as I write this, more grief is to come later in the year—my late sister Sharon’s birthday will be on November 13, the anniversary of my sister Angie’s death will fall on November 22, followed by Thanksgiving days later, and then Christmas. It happens every year.

There’s no escaping the grief, it seems.

Yet, it’s the things we leave unsaid that we battle the most. For so many Black women, grief is the unspoken thing—the invisible pain.

But as the saying goes, “Thank God we don’t look like what we’ve been through.” Can I get an amen?

So yes, being strong is a beautiful thing, but it can also be isolating. What is it about appearing strong that makes us feel so empowered? We often hear things like, “Nothing fazes her,” “She never cries,” “She’s not afraid of anything,” “Life never gets her down.”

I think about my mom and her losses: her miscarriage, and the losses of her dad, two adult children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, her husband, and several siblings. I think about how she’s dealt with them all. On the outside looking in, I admit I’ve said countless times, “She’s the strongest woman I know.”

You’ve probably said this about your mom. And it’s probably been said about yourself and other Black women.

Take a moment and pause.

Now, name all the strong women you know.

Chances are that those who come to mind—including Black matriarchs like Harriet Tubman and Rosa Parks—all experienced a hardship, a devastating loss, or some type of suffering. But we often fail to realize the strong Black woman badge is only earned through sacrifice. You may have seen the meme floating around on social media that says, “Check on your strong friend.”

We might say, “Check on the strong Black woman.”

Familial Expectations and Caregiving

Research suggests that caregiving is a historical and cultural tradition of Black women.2 And it can easily seem as though Black women are disproportionately caregivers within their homes. There is insurmountable loss because Black women who are caregivers are deemed better at caring for everyone else than themselves. In my own family, the role of caregiver has been predominately taken by women.

Over the years, my mom’s caregiving responsibilities have involved raising her children and grandchildren, tending to her husband’s health—including his chest problems, stroke, and diabetes—caring for her mother, providing both paid and voluntary caregiving services in the community, volunteering at church, and looking after kids in the neighborhood. My mom would be considered part of the “sandwich generation”: individuals who find themselves caring for their aging parents and their children and/or grandchildren.3

At the age of eighty, my mom is still helping to care for her one-hundred-year-old mother, which is commendable. We all love that Grandma can live at home and be cared for by family. Yet, I know the deep challenge this has placed on my mom. There were times when she had to choose between supporting us, my dad, or my grandma. And with my mom’s impending health issues, continuing to be her mom’s caregiver is challenging.

My mom lived with us for three months after being newly diagnosed with diabetes. It was challenging navigating the landscape of this new-to-us disease, understanding how it impacted our daily lives and the new limitations it imposed on my mom’s life. This experience reminded me of the times I cared for babies while in the throes of fresh grief; I faced the unknowns of navigating new terrain, balancing self-care and my responsibilities of caring for my children.

We don’t need to have kids to be deemed part of the sandwich generation. As the youngest girl in the family, I was on babysitter duty for years, especially during the summers. During my tween and teen years, I babysat my nieces and nephews. It was expected of me. I loved it most times (until I felt I deserved to be paid for my labor). Still, babysitting them taught me a lot. And I have great relationships with my nieces and nephews that I may not have had otherwise.

I thought I’d drown from caring for our youngest son, a bouncing baby boy. Since I had my kids later than my older sisters did, my parents were much older at the time. I felt a little salty because I didn’t receive the same support my parents gave my sisters—which made it seem as if all the caregiving fell on me. Granted, my dad passed away before really getting to know my youngest kids. And my mom was and is still caring for her mom.

My younger cousin was the primary caregiver to her mom, my aunt, who was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Though she has brothers, the caregiving weight was put on her shoulders.

This isn’t to say that caring for our loved ones is a burden. However, it takes a toll on our ability to process grief and trauma. We often put self-care on the back burner because we don’t even have time to tie our shoes. We constantly do and do and do for others, neglecting ourselves until someone has to do for us.

My grandma had eleven children, and only the women have been part of the caregiving rotation. I’m pretty sure it’s not because they’re the only ones capable. It’s still hard to see my mom in a demanding caregiving role at her age. This confirms to me that Black women remain primary caregivers throughout their lifetimes. How can we rest? How can we balance it all?

Along with our grief, we often carry the losses and the experiences of our family who have gone before us and who are now with us. And this often shapes and informs expectations and coping mechanisms within the family.4 My mom and so many of us Black women carry so much.

I’ve seen my mom cry at funerals, and I’ve heard her crying in the wee hours of the night while praying. I’ve done the same: tucked the grief away neatly to not make a scene in front of others—even my family. With the immensity of loss experienced, someone on the outside looking in would say, “You’re so strong.” But we carry these “strong Black woman” labels because no one sees what happens when the mask is lowered in the shower or on the bathroom floor, when we can’t see through the tears streaming down our faces. But I understand the importance of letting my kids see me cry. I need to let them know how important it is to process and express emotion. We don’t have to hide behind masks, because it’s not healthy.

So I pray as you continue to read this book that you feel freedom in expressing your exhaustion, frustrations, hurt, and pain. To help your kids and those around you know it’s okay to not be okay.

Now, let it sit for a moment. And just breathe.

Because none of us is ever as strong as we appear to be.

Defining Strong

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