Tides of Connection: Grieving Together in Waves of Resilience

Lately, grief manifests in various forms for me—periods of nonverbal communication, avoidant behaviors, an overwhelming sensation restricting my breath, restlessness, disrupted sleep patterns, a weakened immune system, physiological pain, dreamless nights, rage, and meltdowns. Two months into witnessing this ongoing genocide, it feels like the most tender and delicate part of me continues to be bent and broken. The cyclical nature of it loops against my will, leaving me more wounded, disrupting everything.

Reflecting on this past summer and how I accompanied my grandmother's dignified transition to the next realm, her home, filled with three generations of descendants, made me ponder how swiftly our lineage could have ended, paralleling the lineages we witness disappearing in Palestine.

I think of multigenerational households, unable to move with their elders but refusing to leave them. I weep, understanding the deep love preventing abandonment. My grandmother wouldn't have been able to move, and I wouldn't have abandoned her. I wonder if this is how these lineages face genocide—united and unwilling to unlink. The pain in my heart deepens. Reflecting on witnessing it all, the obligation to continue without succumbing to fatigue remains.

Observing our collective movement like water, we take turns as waves. When we strike, we melt back into the collective pool, steadying ourselves before being pulled and pulling forward again. In this harsh reality, it feels beautiful to be held and to hold, connected by grief. While there’s more to say, this is all I have right now. If you feel despair, remember, you are either fluid water holding, momentum building, coiling, or the force unleashing and unwavering. Regardless, you are interconnected and needed to complete these movements. I say this to you as a reminder for myself.

I am interconnected in the collective rhythm—holding, readying, unleashing. Like a wave, I regenerate, never disappearing.