At a very young age, I learned what it meant to grieve. My brother, Oscar, was dying. My family and some friends had been in a car accident. Shocked and desperate, I ran and hid in a closet. I had spent the day with a family friend, Marcia, accompanying her to the laundromat and then to Baskin Robbins, where I picked Bubble Gum. The feeling of joy now overshadowed by fear. Marcia drove me home. I didn’t know what to expect. My mind raced with confusion and terror.
The house was full— wall-to-wall carpeting of family and friends. My parents had made the heart-breaking decision to remove life support, as my brother's 7-year-old brain showed no activity. My mother lay on the couch, immobilized by unimaginable pain at the loss of her baby. My father asked my brother and me to sit with him in Oscar’s bedroom. We gathered at his feet. With deep sadness and compassion, he guided us, creating a safe space to express our feelings. “Let’s cry together,” he said. We wept. It felt unreal. I was terrified. Just the night before, we were playing games, laughing together—and now, he was gone.
Grief had gripped us, and there were no stages to explain the pain that suffocated our joy. I remember lying in bed with my cousin Jeanie, both of us feeling as though we were trapped in a nightmare, wishing to “wake up.” It all spiraled into a whirlwind of activity. At the wake, my mother instructed us not to wear black but to celebrate Oscar’s life with happy colors. I wore a red dress. The intensity of emotions overwhelmed me. People waited in line to pay their respects. I can still hear my Aunt Carmen wailing as she lifted Oscar’s lifeless body from the coffin.
I remember the long line of cars driving to the burial site in Syracuse to say our final goodbye to Oscar. After his passing, family traditions came to an abrupt halt, as we struggled to move forward in a world forever changed by our loss. No more family dinners, Sunday Mass, or holidays. We moved to Puerto Rico, as if a new location could somehow help us cope with the pain of his absence.
As I reflect on this pain, I now think about the grief we face as a nation, feeling its weight as I did my own. Executive orders, threats to federal funding, and the removal of people deemed "dangerous" or "not belonging" simply because they are different. It feels sudden and tragic, as though we are reliving a familiar loss for some and experiencing a new one for others, chasing a historical ghost seeking revival.
In these moments, I keep coming back to one phrase: “Stay connected to hope.” Hope does not negate the need for advocacy and justice, but beckons a partnership.
How do we stay connected to hope? This has been my question for the past few weeks. Just like when Oscar died, there are no simple answers. But I’ve learned that, like grief, hope is best found in community. I find hope in gathering with like-minded people who want to serve the most vulnerable among us by providing equal access to healthcare, housing and education. I find hope in the voices of those using their art, music, acting, singing and writing to make a difference. I find hope in creating safe spaces to talk about grief, inviting others to express themselves without judgment. I find hope in family, friends and prayer.
Though I’m not blind to the challenges we face, I remain hopeful that, collectively, we can endure the fear, the loss, and unanswered questions. Like my father after Oscar’s death, I invite you to gather with one another and express your grief. And like my mother, I invite you to wear vibrant colors to celebrate life—wear the red dress.
Sadness and joy can coexist. Stay connected to each other. Take care of one another. Express yourself through art. Be the voice in the desert. Remember to rest. Remember to pray. Remember to stay connected to hope, for justice cannot thrive without hope, and hope cannot thrive without justice.
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