Grief is a very weird feeling.

It hits you in ways, and waves, you didn’t expect.
It’s a word that holds so much power over your emotions, thoughts, and connection between each, as well as the connection to people.

For the past 30 days, I’ve experienced grief like no other, in a way I didn’t expect. And I’m no stranger to the feeling of grief. Every year on March 18, I’m reminded of the day my grandmother took her last breath. In January, I sat in an empty hotel room penning an open letter addressed to no one that would ever read it about the loss of love I’d been experiencing slowly that was clear would never return to me. In November 2024, I dealt with grief in a physically painful way.

As I sit here writing this, I’m pained by the loss of a few things cultivated by one physical thing:

• loss of motivation
• loss of creativity
• loss of proof of work
• loss of creative momentum
• loss of self

Grief hits harder when you’re watching something take its last breath, when you hear its final goodbye. And still, the loss doesn’t settle in until it does.

As creatives, we rely heavily on technology and the ways it helps us keep the creative train flowing. For me, I don’t have the most robust resources, so I appreciate everything that I own, and I’m grateful for the ways it helps me move forward.

When I invested in my “big girl” harddrive last year, it was a huge turning point in my creative drive. I finally had the means to create, document my works, build a directory, and make my computer run much more efficiently.

2025, though it had its moments, was arguably the best year, and most successful year, I’ve had creatively in a very long time. I tackled new creative concepts, brought forth more intentionality to video production and visual storytelling collaborations, I pushed through obstacles and setbacks that held me back from actually reaching my fullest potential in the past. People were not only beginning to see the work I create, but they were beginning to understand the WHY behind it all, which was the whole point.

But then, everything went dark.

My harddrive and my computer were no longer connecting.
Plug in.
Plug out.
“Malfunction?”
There’s no way.

Plug in.
Plug out.
“Malfunction”
“Unreadable”.
What are you saying to me?

I took a deep breath. I didn’t panic. I asked for recommendations and sought them out. I drove. I got opinions.

“Can’t help with this. Try this”

I drove. I got opinions.

“Can’t help in store. Let’s send this off. It will probably cost you.”

It’s costing me already by not having it. I don’t care.

Packaged.
Sent.
Wait.

“Your harddrive is unrecoverable. We can’t recover your data.”

My heart stopped.
I couldn’t breathe.
I actually could not feel my breath leaving my body anymore.

“Thank you for the explanation,” i typed teary eyed.

More waiting.
More opinions.
Same results.

I looked up, and I hadn’t left my home, or the bed, for weeks.
Emails came in. Opportunities were rampant. But I didn’t care.
How was I supposed to create when all of my work created is gone.
When clients need projects that can no longer be completed?
How can I look to the future when I’m forced to think of the present?

“What will they think about me? Will they feel like they wasted their time? Does this mean I’m inadequate? I should have done x. I should have been more proactive.”

Why. Is. This. Happening?

As a woman of faith, processing this loss made it 10x harder than easier.
I’m hearing the prayers. I’m hearing the advice to speak life into something – but to no avail.
Hope was falling short of encouragement.
Motivation was falling short of action.

The more days that went by, the more the grief settled in.

Your work is gone.
The ideas you have are now at a standstill.
You have conversations to have.
You have accounts to rectify.
You failed.

Breaking the news to others made it even more real – especially those that relied on my creativity to see them through.

My daily routine turned into tear-strewn pillow, gut wrenching cries pulled over on the side of the road, and days turned to night where sometimes the only thing I could do was sit and stare at the ceiling, praying, hoping that despite my feelings, maybe i’ll find some reprieve.

My grandmother is a strong, Scorpio woman, but I still had to cope with her loss.
The one I love is a strong Virgo man, but I still had to cope with his loss.
My external harddrive never suffered any falls, but I still had to cope with its loss.

Grief has no limits, timetables, or stipulations.
It comes. It destroys. And you are in charge of rebuilding.

Sometimes, even the strongest doesn’t survive.
The strongest hardware.
The strongest people.
The strongest love.
The strongest dreams.

What I wish I knew is how to be prepared for the gut punches, the unexpected loss, the unexpected pivots, the unexpected emotions that come with grief.

What I’m learning in this moment is how to get up. How to settle on one thing that will help me take one step forward again.

As a creative, doing any labor of love is still going to take some work.
The hits won’t pass you over just because you’re doing your best.
In fact, they may prioritize you to see if you’re as tough as you talk.

I still love what I do.
I still desire to make a difference in what I do.
I just don’t know how to anymore.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.
It just means I have to begin again, and be okay with simply becoming.

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“What I Wish I Knew” is a journey of trial, error and overcoming. In this 4-week series, I’m taking you behind the lens to channel my deepest fears and empowerment through action and changed behavior.

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