Today, I lost my grandmother, but I can’t let myself cry. It feels wrong to cry for her now. When was the last time I saw her? When was the last time I spoke to her? Quite a long time, I would say. Even though I’m sad and grieving, the long silence between us makes me feel unworthy of my own grief.

My memories of her, of my childhood in Cameroon, feel like they belong to another lifetime—like they happened to someone else. I’ve changed so much since then. I’m still the same person in some ways, but so different in others.

Living far from “home” brings its own kind of pain, one that you learn to suppress. Life here consumes you, so it becomes easier to focus on the future, to look forward, not back. If you keep looking behind, you’re constantly mourning what you’ve lost, and the nostalgia is too overwhelming. So, you focus on thriving, not grieving. Or at least, that’s how I dealt with it.

When my sister said she needed to talk, I knew instantly—it was to tell me someone had died. My first instinct was to hope that nothing would disturb the fragile balance I’m trying to maintain. I said to myself, please, not now. There’s already so much going on. I don’t have the time, the space, or the means to travel now, the emotional bandwith. Even when faced with the loss of a loved one, my first thought was about logistics. In those moments you are reminded of how consuming life can feel. Even in the face of loss, there is the need to stay in control.

I often recall my childhood memories with my grandparents in the village as some of the best times of my life. I felt free, surrounded by nature, love, culture, food, rituals, and traditions. However, as the years passed, that life began to feel more like a dream—distant and unreal. Now, with my grandmother’s passing, it seems like that dream is gone for good.

Grieving as an immigrant is complicated. How do you express grief when words aren’t part of how you process it? In my culture, grief is shared in community—by being present, by helping, by showing up. But how do you mourn when you’re far away and can’t do any of that? How do you mourn when you can’t physically be with the people who understand your loss? When there’s no one nearby to share in your sorrow, grief becomes isolating…

As an immigrant, grief is a constant reminder that a part of you is slipping away. The distance isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, too. Every day, I feel like I’m moving further away from the person I used to be. One day, I might not even recognize her anymore.

Immigrant grief also forces you to make impossible choices. You can’t attend every funeral or be there for every loss. Between work, family responsibilities, and financial obligations, you’re forced to decide which loss is the most significant, whose death requires your presence. Do you drop everything, take on more debt, and travel to pay your respects or homage to the person you love? Or do you stay, torn between duty and grief?

These are the questions that torment me; they tear me apart, and no answer brings me peace. Each attempt to resolve them only weighs heavier on my soul, leaving me feeling more broken.

With love always

R-D