Moving Forward - A Conversation on Grief, Identity, and Life You Didn't Plan For

In this deeply personal episode of Restless Excellence, the conversation is between sisters.

Kianna Richards, sister, mother of four, and widow, takes a seat across from her older sister, host Tonya Richards; founder of Restless Excellence and author of the forthcoming memoir Carrying the Island, in a conversation that is unfiltered, unhurried, and unflinchingly honest.

Together, they sit with the kind of grief that doesn't make headlines but reshapes a life. The loss of Kianna's husband; her partner of seventeen years (more than half of her life) and the father of their four children and what it has taken to keep going.

 In this episode, they explore:

• What grief actually looks like on a regular day; not in stages, not on a timeline
• The thousand small things that change first when someone you love is gone
• Mothering through your own grief while holding your children through theirs
• The redefinition of strength when "having it together" is no longer possible
• What actually helps and what doesn't when someone you love is in loss
• The woman she is becoming on the other side of who she was

At the center is a powerful truth: grief is not the absence of love. It is love with nowhere left to go but inward, outward, and forward. Tonya also opens with a personal disclosure of her own season of grief; a different kind, a smaller kind, but real, naming the audience members who are quietly grieving things the world does not always call grief; a job, role, or identity. 

 A version of themselves they thought they would keep being.

This is The Restless Line at its most tender… where loss, love, and leadership meet.

© 2025 Tonya Richards. All rights reserved.

Restless Excellence™ is a trademark pending.

All original content produced are the intellectual property of Tonya Richards and may not be reproduced or presented as original work without prior written permission.

Transcript

SPEAKER_02 0:00

This is Restless Excellence, a podcast for people who care deeply, work hard, and are quietly asking themselves, is this sustainable? I'm Tonya Richards. I created this space because I love the tension between achievement and extortion, the tension between being capable and being depleted, the tension between success and paper, and something feeling about in my body. The truth about work, the truth about needing work, the truth about paper, and ultimately the cost of carrying too much for too long. These conversations that we'll explore in this podcast, they aren't going to be polished. They'll be reflective and they'll be honest. And they're for people who don't want to lose themselves while building something that matters. Let's get into it. Welcome back to Restless Excellence. If you've been with me for a while, you know what we do here. We go deep, we talk about leadership, growth, identity, and the work of becoming. Today, though, is different. I'm sitting across from one of my sisters. Her name is Kiana. Before I say anything else, I want you to know I almost didn't do this episode. Not because it didn't matter, but because I feel like it mattered too much. Before we get into Kiana's story, I want to be honest about something. Because I think it matters that I, Tanya, your host, bring my whole self to this conversation. Not just the host part of me, but the full part of me. I'm actually recording this episode in my own season of grief. A different kind of grief, maybe even a smaller kind, but I still think that it's a real one worth mentioning ahead of this conversation. Now share with you all. Not by choice. I am now amongst the over 300,000 black women that are unemployed. That's not something that I say lightly. It has now been almost two months, and I'm still grieving that professional position. I'm still figuring out who I am on the other side of the work that I thought was mine and had been mine for almost four years. So when I tell you this conversation matters, I'm not speaking from the outside of grief. I'm speaking from inside of it. I'm also doing so alongside my sister, who's carrying something so much heavier than I am. And I'm telling you this because some of you listening, right now you are grieving things the world doesn't always call grief. For instance, like me, a job, a role, maybe even an identity, a version of yourself that you thought you'd keep being. It's part of why we're here. Now I'm asking her to sit with me and talk about the hardest thing that she's ever lived through. But here's why I'm doing it. Not to be exploitative by any means. There are people listening right now who are leading teams while quietly falling apart at home. People holding their children together while their own hearts are still figuring out how to keep beating. People who are showing up to meetings, to school pickups, to life, carrying something nobody around them can see. If we don't talk about this, then who will? So with that said, today my sister is going to share what it's like to navigate grief. Real grief. She is one of the strongest people I know. Though I doubt that she'd agree with that. This conversation isn't going to be polished, so I want to warn you ahead of time. It also isn't going to have all of the answers that you all may be seeking. But it's really going to be honest. And sometimes honesty is the most healing thing there is.

SPEAKER_00 6:49

Before all this, I would say I was happy, honestly. Tired sometimes. Because four kids will humble you real fast, but genuinely happy. I was somebody who loved deeply. I loved hard. My husband and I have been together for 17 years. So by that point, he wasn't just my partner. He was part of my day life. We had our own language. He used to call me Queen or Sweetheart, and I called him King or Love Bug. Every single day he'd say, Together we stand, and I'd answer us against the world. And that really was us. He was overly affectionate too. Always wanting to hold me, kiss me, lay on me. I used to act fake annoyed sometimes, like, boy, move. But secretly I loved it. Every morning he held me like he never wanted to let go. No matter what I looked like, exhausted, hair mess, feeling insecure, that man would still look at me like I was the most beautiful woman in the world. I think every woman deserves to experience that kind of love at least once in her life. I was a mother, a wife, a daughter, twin sister. And those weren't just titles to me. They were relationships I poured myself into fully. I laughed a lot too. I think people forget that. There was so much joy before this. Loudhouse, kids running through the hallway, music always playing somewhere in the background, me yelling from another room, him talking about some new dream or business idea for our family. I really loved my life. You grieve in proportion to how deeply you loved.

SPEAKER_02 8:57

Wow. That was deep. And we're going deep from the beginning. Well, thank you for sharing that. Can you expound a bit on maybe what the everyday life looked like, some of your routines, some of your rhythms? What did your days actually feel like?

SPEAKER_00 9:32

I would have to say it was chaotic sometimes. But full of love. With four kids, there was always something happening. Somebody needing a snack five minutes after eating. Somebody missing a shoe. They swore they left right there. Questions through the bathroom door, homework, baths, school pickups, the whole thing. But me and my husband had algorithm. After 17 years, you stop needing to explain things. You just know each other. You move around each other naturally. Honestly, my favorite part of the day was usually the mornings or late nights with him. He used to wake me up in the middle of the night just to tell me some new plan he had. Some dream, some vision for our future. I'd be half asleep like, can this wait until tomorrow? And he would just keep talking, excited, breaking everything down. At the time I jokingly complain, but now I give anything to hear one more of those conversations.

SPEAKER_02 10:44

Wow.

SPEAKER_00 10:45

Looking back, that was love too. Him dreaming out loud for us. And even when we were exhausted, we always found our way back to each other. Sometimes we sit together, not even saying much. Just existing near each other after the kids finally went to sleep. And I loved it.

SPEAKER_02 11:05

Wow. Oh thank you. I can see the moments definitely. Can I just ask you what brought you joy back then? What genuinely lit you up?

SPEAKER_00 11:29

Sometimes it's so surreal, it's hard to really see. It's the way I feel sometimes. Obvious answer was my family easily. But seeing my kids happy brought me the most joy. Hearing them laugh, watching their personalities grow, just little everyday moments that didn't feel little at the time. And honestly, my husband brought me a lot of joy. He had this energy about him. Big love, big personality, big dreams. He made ordinary moments feel important. Even simple things. Riding in the car together, listening to music, laying in bed, talking for hours, joking around in the kitchen while he cooked. That was his thing. I cleaned. That was happiness to me. Watching him as a father made me love him even more. He was strict when he needed to be, but deeply loving, present, involved, encouraging. He pushed our children because he truly believed they could be great. No matter what was going on, he showed up for them. Now when I look at my oldest son, whoa, can't even believe it. That's his father's face all over again, a spit and image. Certain expressions, certain mannerisms, sometimes it feels like I'm looking at both of them at once. Some days that comforts me. Some days it completely breaks my heart. But before any of this happened, I had a lot of joy. I really want people to know that.

SPEAKER_02 13:21

Wow, I can definitely see that. And I agree with him being a spitting image of his father. I see it as well. I've watched you in so many roles over the years, as first and foremost, my little sister, as Kibrina's twin, as a mother of four. Now they're 14, 11, 8, and 6. I think I got that right. And also as a person figuring it out like the rest of us, of course. What did those roles mean to you then or before you became a widow?

SPEAKER_00 14:13

Yeah, that's a great question. I've contemplated that for some time now, for the past few months. Only things I can come up with, I still have some more thing to do on that topic, but they were everything to me in a way where I felt like I was becoming or growing through them. Being a wife, that wasn't just a label, that was a partnership. He saw me, I saw him. We were figuring out life together, and I knew who I was when I was with him. There's a kind of confidence you have when somebody has been loving you for that long. You walked through the world differently. Being a mother, that changed me in ways. I'm still understanding. Each one of my kids cracked me open in a different way. They made me softer, they made me stronger. They made me pay attention to what kind of woman I actually wanted to be. Because they were watching. Being a twin, being Cabrina's sister, that's a whole identity by itself. We grew up knowing somebody had us always from the very beginning. I think that's why I trusted love so easily. So those roles, wife, mother, sister, daughter, by the way. I have other sisters. Yes, please acknowledge us. So those roles, wife, mother, sister, daughter, they were me. They are me.

SPEAKER_02 15:55

Yeah, I can definitely see that some of the things we've already touched was who you were and trying to understand that before you became a widow. And I don't want to now ease into when things changed several months ago. So I'll start by saying that there are some moments in life that don't always announce themselves, they just seem to arrive out of nowhere, and everything that comes after is just different. I don't want you to share anything you're not ready to share or comfortable to share. I do want to ask, what did that shift actually do to you? What changed first? And please take your time with answering. I understand.

SPEAKER_01 17:03

I'd have to say that's a good question.

SPEAKER_00 17:09

What changed first? It was the silence. That's the first thing I remember noticing. It's like someone cutting the umbilical cord and I'm losing breath, dying, crumbling inside, but I have to learn to breathe on my own. And it's hard when you no longer have an anchor or even a lighthouse. Do you understand what I mean? Yeah. I can try to understand. Intrusive thoughts. In my marriage, I feel I lost a part of myself, but gained where I lacked, a strength only he gave. I feel defenseless, scared and alone, even with all the love that surrounds me, and very grateful for that love. But I still feel empty sometimes, lost and alone. I miss his scent, his touch, his kiss, his warmth, what I wouldn't give to just have one more long embrace. Because when somebody spends 17 years loving you out loud, their absence becomes loud too. I miss the little things first. Hearing Queen, hearing him say together we stand, his arm reaching for me in the middle of the night, his voice in the house, his footsteps. Just him being there. People don't talk enough about how grief changes your body too. Your body remembers somebody before your mind catches up. I'd still reach for my phone to text him sometimes. Still hear noise outside and think he was coming home. Your brain knows what happened, but your body takes longer. Honestly, one of the hardest moments for me was finally laying in our bed again after everything happened. It was my birthday, and I remember finally being able to sleep for a little while. Then waking up and realizing all over again that my life wasn't my life anymore. That kind of pain is hard to explain to people unless they've lived it. The world keeps moving. Kids still need breakfast, bills still exist, the sun still comes up, but inside you everything has changed. Wow.

SPEAKER_02 19:39

Again, thank you for sharing that so eloquently yet delicately. Now, in those early days, what was it like to wake up and realize the life you had wasn't the life you were in anymore? Do you want to just expound on that a bit?

SPEAKER_00 20:12

There's a few seconds in the morning, I would have to say. Before you fully wake up. When you don't know yet. Where your body is so living in the old life. And then it comes back to you every single morning. Comes back to you. That was the hardest part of those early days, the remembering. Over and over, you can't grieve it once, you have to grieve it every time you wake up. The world kept moving like nothing had happened. That was the strangest thing. People at the grocery store laughing, cars and traffic, kids' schedules still happening, school pickup still at three, and inside of me the entire universe had collapsed, but the calendar didn't care. Nobody inside my house could see what I was carrying. Had to keep going. I had four children watching me, so I got up, made breakfast, I answered the questions, I did the things, but I want to be honest, I wasn't really there. I was on autopilot. I was a body doing what a body has to do when there are little people who need her. The truth is in those early days I wasn't living, I was surviving.

SPEAKER_02 21:52

Now, what would you say was the hardest part of all of that?

SPEAKER_00 22:03

Hmm. It's one I don't even have to think about. The hardest part of what that was telling my children. Telling them that he had passed on. Yes. And the circumstances surrounding that.

SPEAKER_02 22:23

Right.

SPEAKER_00 22:24

Yes. Nothing prepares you for hearing your children cry like that. I don't think a mother ever forgets those faces. And every child grieves differently. One gets quiet, one gets angry, one asks questions. You don't know how to answer. One tries to stay strong for everyone else. You spend your whole life trying to protect your children from pain. And then suddenly you're standing in front of them, unable to fix the one thing that matters most. That destroyed me. Because the hardest part honestly wasn't my own pain, it was theirs. Watching children try to understand something that doesn't make sense even to adults. Watching them miss their father. Milestones happen, knowing he should be here too. That's still the hardest part. There are some things in life a mother cannot fix, no matter how badly she wants to, and realizing that changed me forever.

SPEAKER_02 23:31

Wow. Just taking a beat. But what did you find yourself needing?

SPEAKER_00 24:18

To be honest, it was hard to really figure out what I really needed at the time, even now, but generally just somebody to s just sit with me, not fix it, not talk me out of it, not tell me he was in a better place or that everything happens for a reason or that I was so strong. I needed somebody to just be in the room with me and not need me to perform anything. I needed people to keep saying his name. That's something I didn't know I needed until people stopped doing it. After a while, people get uncomfortable. They stop bringing him up because they think they're protecting you. But silence is its own kind of pain. I needed people to remember him out loud. I needed help. I didn't know how to ask for groceries, a meal, somebody to take the kids for an afternoon so I could fall apart in private. I'm somebody who gives. I'm not somebody who's used to receiving. And grief made me have to learn how to let people show up for me. And that was hard. I'm still learning it. And honestly, I needed to not be strong for a minute. Everybody kept telling me how strong I was. And I understood why they were saying it. But sometimes that word felt like a job I didn't apply for. I needed permission to fall apart somebody to tell me it was okay if today I didn't have it together. That's what I needed. Some of it I got, some of it I had to learn to give myself.

SPEAKER_02 26:02

Wow. Oh, thank you. So let's talk about what grief actually is. People they talk about grief like it has a shape, like it moves into stages, in one direction, on a particular schedule. But from what I've watched you walk through the last several months, that's not how it works at all. What does grief actually look like for you on any regular day?

SPEAKER_00 26:55

It's not what people may think. People imagine grief is the crying, the funeral, the hard moments. It is that sometimes, but mostly on a regular day. Grief is quieter than that. It's smaller. It's woven into everything. Grief is standing in the cereal aisle and seeing his favorite cereal and just pausing, standing there for a second longer than you should, then putting it in the cart anyway, because you can't not put it in the cart. Then putting it back, then walking away. Grief is the moment after something funny happens when you go to turn to the person who would have laughed with you and they're not there. Grief lives in that turn. In the half second of forgetting before you remember. It's hearing a song in a car and having to pull over. It's a smell. A jacket in the closet. You can't move yet. The way the kid says something he used to say, and you don't know whether to laugh or cry. So you do both. On a regular day, grief is just present, like a weight you've learned how to carry, but never get to put down. But it's always there. It doesn't leave. Wow.

SPEAKER_02 28:29

What was his favorite cereal?

SPEAKER_00 28:34

Frosted flakes.

SPEAKER_02 28:35

Of course, frosted flakes.

SPEAKER_00 28:38

Yes, he left it.

SPEAKER_02 28:39

Wow. I love those too. Now, when it comes to grief, what do people get wrong about it? What do they say or do that just get missed?

SPEAKER_00 29:02

Hmm. Where do I start? For example, the five stages thing. People love the five stages. They want it to be like a checklist. They want to know where I am. Are you in acceptance yet? Like grief is a staircase you climb and then you're done. It's not. I've been in five different stages in one afternoon. I've been in acceptance and rage at the same time. Grief doesn't go in a line. People wanted to have a timeline. I noticed it around six months. People start to expect you to be better. They don't say it, but you can feel it. There's a polite amount of time you're allowed to be visibly broken, and after that, you're supposed to be functional again. The phrase is Lord. The phrase is He's in a better place. It was here with us. Everything happens for a reason. There's no reason that would make this make sense. And please don't try to find one for me. God doesn't give you more than you can handle. I had to learn how to not do that one. I think I may have said that.

SPEAKER_02 30:19

So my dad. Yes.

SPEAKER_00 30:24

Got that from you. The biggest one. People stop saying his name. I think they're afraid of upsetting me, but not saying his name doesn't protect me. It erases him. I want to hear his name. I want my kids to hear his name. He existed. He matters. The comparing. People will tell you about somebody they lost, a grandparent, a pet. And I understand the instinct. They're trying to connect, but there's no comparing this. Just be with me where I am. You don't have to match it. Because I'll be with you where you are.

SPEAKER_02 31:02

Yeah, thank you for sharing that. I think that's very insightful. It would help a lot of folks listening who may be navigating grief or observing someone and supporting someone who's navigating grief. Now, what surprised you most about your own grief? Something that prior to this or as you were navigating the last several months that you didn't see coming?

SPEAKER_01 31:37

How physical it is.

SPEAKER_00 31:41

Physical? Physical, like you feel it. How draining. Also, like for instance, it's about to be about six months since my husband's passing, and it's about to be his birthday. And it comes in ways, to be honest. Comes in real ways because when you feel like you're making it and you're doing a little bit better, there's always a trigger. Nobody told me that grief lives in your body. I've had headaches I never had before. My chest feels heavy in a way I can't explain. I get tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix. There were weeks where I forgot how to eat. Weeks where I couldn't stop eating. That surprised me. I thought grief was an emotion. It's not. It's a full body event. The other thing that surprised me, how much I would laugh. That sounds wrong to say, but there have been moments where something happens and I laugh until I cry. Then I cry for a different reason. You don't lose your sense of humor, you just learn to hold it next to the heaviness. Honestly, I've surprised myself with how much anger I've had. I'm not somebody who walks around angry. I never have been, but there have been moments where I was furious at the situation, at God, at him sometimes even, though I know that's not fair. At people who got to keep their husbands, at myself for things I should have said and didn't. Anger I didn't know was in me, that part scared me at first. The biggest surprise is that I keep finding parts of me I didn't know existed and at the same time feel like I'm a fragmented person who keeps losing pieces of themselves. Wow.

SPEAKER_02 33:43

Thank you for sharing. Now does it show up in unexpected places? Moments where you're just living your life, and then suddenly there it is.

SPEAKER_00 34:02

Always, all the time. Like it's paid on the clock and has a job. Because I could be in the grocery store, like I said, school events, that's a hard one. Father-daughter dances, the kids' birthdays that pass right after his birthday that's coming up in two days. It's also our anniversary. So it's like anywhere I go, in my car, anything I see, any way I move, it's just really hard, though. It's hard to see other parents, especially other fathers on the sidelines, when your kids are hoping that their father would be there and they're not. I'm still not used to that one. Holidays are obvious. Everybody braces for holidays, but honestly, nobody's checking on you. When there's no occasion when it's just you in your life and you realize that it is what it is now. And the kids' milestones. That's a deep one for me. Every milestone they hit is a celebration and a fresh wound. Because he's not here for it. The first day of a new school year, a lost tooth, a graduation, a moment that should have been ours. That's now mine alone to witness. I take pictures and I think I'm taking these for two of us. I'm seeing this for both of us. I'm carrying both of our hearts in mind.

SPEAKER_02 36:10

Wow. Well, thank you for sharing again. And please let me know if you need to stop at any moment in time. Through all of that that you shared from my observation, you're still showing up. Showing up for your kids, for your life, even for the people who need you. Now, what has that been like to keep going while still carrying all of this?

SPEAKER_00 37:00

Honestly, some days I don't know how I'm doing it. I look back and I can't tell you how I got from there to here. I just said you don't think about it. You just keep going because the alternative isn't an option. From the outside, people see a woman who's handling it. They see somebody who's still showing up, still working, still raising her kids, still functioning, and I am. But there's so much underneath that nobody sees. So much. I cry in my car. I cry in the shower. That's the place where nobody can hear. I have moments where I sit on the edge of my bed and I can't move for 10 minutes, and then I get up and I make somebody a sandwich. The world doesn't see that part. The world sees the sandwich. What it's been like is exhausting. It is exhausting to grieve and parent and live and work and be a person all at the same time. There's a love that keeps me going. Love for my kids. For him still. But the life be built that I don't want to dishonor by stopping. Some days I keep going out of strength. And some days I keep going because I know he would want me to, because he loved me too much to want me to stop. So I keep going. Wow, that's real, Kiana.

SPEAKER_02 38:36

So let's now touch a bit on you being a mother of four. One of the things I keep thinking about is what it's like to be a mother in the middle of your own grief. Because you're not just processing this for yourself, you're holding your children through it too. So how have you been doing that? Mothering through all of this.

SPEAKER_00 39:21

Really don't. The thing nobody tells you about being a grieving mother is that you don't get to fall apart on your own timeline. Your kids have a timeline too. They have a question at 7.30 in the morning. They have a bad day at school, and they need their mama. You don't get to say not today. You have to show up. So what I've been doing is this. I let them see some of it. Not all of it, but some. And I don't want that. But there are also many moments I protect them from. I don't fall apart in front of them when I can help it. I save that for after they go to bed for my car. I've named my car Tears for that reason. Oh wow. I've been trying to be honest with them about what I don't know. I don't have all the answers. I tell them I miss him too. We're gonna figure this out together. That's hard for a mother to say. We're supposed to have it together. But pretending I have answers I don't have would be worse than telling them the truth. That's how I've been doing it. Imperfectly, honestly, one day at a time.

SPEAKER_02 41:01

Have there been conversations with the kids that stayed with you within the last several months?

SPEAKER_00 41:16

Yes, there have been. More than one. One of my kids asked me, and I'll never forget this, huh? Mommy, are you going to die soon? Oh wow. Are you going to die too? Wow. And I had to stop. Because the honest answer is everybody dies eventually. But that's not what they were asking. They were asking, am I going to be okay? Am I going to lose you too? What I told them was, I am here. I am right here. I'm not going anywhere. I don't have to go. And I'm doing everything I can to take care of myself because you deserve a mama who's around for a long, long time. That's the conversation I keep going back to because it told me what they were really afraid of. Another one, one of my kids said to me, I'm scared. I'm going to forget what his voice sounded like. And I almost lost it. That broke me. Because I have that same fear. I have it every day. I told them. We're going to remember together. We're going to tell stories. We're going to look at videos. We're going to say his name. We're not going to let him fade. And those conversations changed me because my kids were teaching me something. They were telling me what grief looks like in a child's body and how different it is from what it looks like in mine. They were grieving things I hadn't even thought to grieve.

SPEAKER_02 43:00

So you said that they've taught you something. Children, they see things that we always don't always see and let ourselves see. Can you just expound a bit on what they have taught you in this season of your life?

SPEAKER_00 43:22

That children care more than we know. I underestimated them, Tanya. I'll be honest. In the beginning, I was so focused on protecting them, on keeping things normal, creating that normalcy, on holding it together for them, that I almost missed the fact that they were holding things together for me. My oldest watching me carefully, my youngest leaning in the close. They were taking care of me in their own ways, and I had to wake up to that. Me that grief doesn't need fancy words. They miss their daddy, they say it plain, they cry, and then they go play. I've been learning from that. They taught me that joy is allowed. There were days early on where I felt guilty laughing. Like how dare I? How can I? What's wrong with me? And then my kids would do something silly and the laugh would come out before I could stop it. And I look at them and realize they need to see me laugh. They need to know Joy still lives in this house. They've taught me about pace. Kids grieve in little moments. A question in the car, a memory at bedtime, a drawing, a song. They taught me that you don't have to sit down and do grief like it's an event.

SPEAKER_02 45:01

So given everything that we've talked about thus far and what you've experienced again over the last several months, has your definition of strength changed? Does it look different to you now than what it used to look like before?

SPEAKER_00 45:26

Completely. We watched our mothers and grandmothers carry impossible things without ever letting anyone see them flinch. And we thought that was what strength was. But what I've learned this year is that strength isn't not flinching. Strength is flinching. And then getting up and going to work anyway. Strength is crying in the shower and then making the lunches. Strength is admitting you can't do something and asking for help and letting somebody actually help you. The strongest thing I've done in this season isn't a showing up. It's the falling apart in private and then choosing to come back out. Strongest thing I've done is let people see me at my weakest and not pretend I was okay. Strength isn't a solo sport. I used to think strong meant I don't need anybody. Now I know strong means I let the right people in. My sisters, my twin, my kids, my faith, the handful of people who showed up and stayed. They are part of my strength. I'm not doing this alone. And I don't have to. That's what changed.

SPEAKER_02 46:59

Because I can tell you that we've really shown up for you as your family. Absolutely. And not always knowing if that was what you needed in that moment or the right thing to do. So hearing you say this is very validating, and of course, we're gonna continue to do that.

SPEAKER_01 47:21

Thank you so much.

SPEAKER_02 47:23

So can we talk a bit about who you're becoming? I think about this a lot. How grief doesn't just take something from you, it also does something to you. It sort of rewrites who you are. So who do you feel like you're becoming?

SPEAKER_00 48:08

I feel like I'm becoming a woman I haven't fully met yet. That's the honest answer. I'm in between I'm not who I was before, and I'm not who I'm gonna be on the other side of this. I'm somebody in the middle. There are pieces I'm starting to recognize. I'm becoming somebody who knows what she can survive. That's a different kind of confidence, the kind you get from making it through. I'm becoming somebody who doesn't waste time, not because I'm in a rush, but because I know now what time really is. I know what one phone call can do to a life. I don't take for granted the people in front of me anymore. I tell my kids I love them more than I used to. I call my sisters more. I'm becoming somebody more honest with myself mostly. I used to have a lot of rules about how I was supposed to feel and what I was supposed to do. Grief broke a lot of those rules. There's a version of me coming out the other side, somebody soft in some places, strong in others, still figuring it out.

SPEAKER_02 49:27

Definitely no, and take all the time you need to figure that out because it's definitely a process and a journey. Now, are there parts of yourself you're meeting for the first time or finding again after a long absence?

SPEAKER_00 49:48

Yes, absolutely. I'm meeting a woman who has to make every decision by herself. I never had to be that woman before. He and I made decisions together, even the small ones. Now it's just me. I sign every form, I decide every move. I'm the only adult in the room when something hard happens. I'm meeting the woman who has to be both parents. I don't love that part. I would give anything not to have to be that, but I'm doing it. I don't want the lesson, but I'm taking it. And I'm finding parts of me I lost track of. There was a girl in me before marriage, before kids, who loved certain things just for herself. Music, writing things down. I lost touch with her when life got full. Not in a bad way. I was happy, but she got smaller for a while. She's coming back quietly. She's reminding me she's still here. I'm meeting myself again. The version of me that exists outside of my roles. Wow.

SPEAKER_02 51:04

Well I'm glad that you're meeting yourself again. And that version of you that existed. I've heard people say moving on, and I've always had a problem with that phrase, to be honest. You don't move on from something like this. You can just move forward. At least that's what I think. Now, what does moving forward look like for you right now? Even if it's just one small thing that you can share.

SPEAKER_00 51:40

Well, I can say you're right that moving on is the wrong phrase. I hate that phrase. Moving on suggests you leave something behind. I'm not leaving him behind, leaving nothing behind, no crumbs. He's coming with me. Just in a different form. Moving forward for me looks like small things. It's like making the bed some morning. Just making the bed is the whole accomplishment. That's moving forward. It looks like saying yes is something I would have said no to a few months ago. A dinner with a friend, a walk, conversation, anything that gets me out of the house and reminds me there's still a world out there. Even though sometimes I don't want to be in it. It looks like letting myself imagine, not big plans, just little ones. Maybe next year. I'll take the kids somewhere. Maybe in a few months. I'll start that thing I've been thinking about for a long time. You're supposed to enjoy all those little moments. You don't know when you'll miss them and have them pass by with no memories. It looks like saying his name on purpose out loud to the kids, to friends. Not as a sad reference, but as a regular one. He would have loved this. Remember when he did that? Keeping him alive in the language of our everyday life. That's a forward motion too. He loves him in the scene. And honestly, it looks like this conversation. Sitting across from you and telling the truth. Six months ago, I couldn't have done this. I wouldn't have had the words. The fact that I can sit here today and talk about him without falling apart. That's moving forward. The fact that I will fall apart later in my own time in my own way. That's also moving forward. It's all moving forward. Just slow. Because I'm definitely gonna fall apart after this. Even during this. Thank you for those little mini breaks, girl.

SPEAKER_02 53:53

Well, thank you for your honesty. Again, this is a very important conversation, and I'm glad that you are willing to share some insights about your particular experience. So I want to spend some time just talking about what actually helps in this moment. And I wanted to ask you something practical because there are people listening right now who love someone in grief and genuinely don't know what to do. What has actually helped you? Not what people think helps, what has actually helped?

SPEAKER_00 54:42

Hmm. That's a good question, Tanya. I have to say the people who didn't try to fix anything. That's number one. The people who just showed up and were present, who sat with me, who held space without filling it with their own words. There's a particular kind of love in a person who can be with you in your worst moment and not need you to be okay. Those people are rare. Find them, hold on to them. Real practical help. Somebody bringing food without asking what I wanted. Somebody picking up the kids without making it a whole thing. Somebody saying, I'm gonna come over Saturday morning and do your laundry and then doing it. That's love and action. That helped me more than any speech. My sister, I have to say that. My sisters, my twin, my family, the people who knew me before all of this, they could see me when I couldn't see myself. They knew when to call. They knew when not to. They reminded me who I was. Therapy. I want to say that out loud because I think a lot of black women don't say it out loud. I'm in therapy. There's no shame in that. Not all the love in the world from family and friends can replace what a trained professional can do for you. They are not the same thing. You need both. My faith. That one has definitely been complicated. I'd be lying if I said it's been easy, but on the days when nothing else holds, my fate holds. There's something bigger holding me up when I can't hold myself. And honestly, time. I hate to say it because people use that phrase like a cliche. Time heals, it doesn't heal. It lets you breathe a little more.

SPEAKER_02 56:45

Thank you for sharing that. And also for talking about your experience with therapy. It's not lost on me that we're in May and it's mental health month. So I just wanted to amplify how important that is. Thank you for sharing. Can you also talk about on the flip side of that? We've talked about what helped. Can you talk about what hasn't helped even when it came from a good place?

SPEAKER_00 57:16

Hmm. The advice. So much advice from people who have never lost anyone close to them. You should try this. You should do that. Have you considered? I know they mean well, but grief is not a problem to be solved. It is a reality to be lived through. The forced positivity. Look at the bright side. He wants you to be happy. Focus on what you still have. I do have a lot and I'm grateful. And also I am allowed to be in this. I am allowed to grieve what I lost without somebody trying to talk me out of it. Don't rush me to gratitude. I get there in my own time. Oh Tanya. We hear some of the things some people say. It baffles me. The disappearing after the funeral. People went back to their lives. I understand that. They have to, but some of the people I expected to be there weren't. Not because they didn't care. I think because they didn't know what to do. So they did nothing. And nothing hurts. If you don't know what to say to a grieving person, just say, I don't know what to say. But I'm here. That's enough. Silence is worse than awkwardness. The comparison. I mentioned this earlier. People telling me about their losses to try to relate. I understand the instinct, but every loss is its own thing. Don't tell me you understand. Tell me you're sorry. I'm going through this. There's a difference. The pity, the look, you know the look. Of course, I know the look. The head tilt, the whisper voice. I'm still a person. I'm still funny. I still want to laugh. I still want to talk about regular things. Please don't reduce me to my loss every time you see me. Some days I want to be Kiana again. Not the widow. Just Kiana.

SPEAKER_02 59:22

Yeah, no, I totally get that. And thank you for sharing that for those who don't know what to do, saying that they don't know what to do or they don't have anything to say is great insights because not a lot of people would even think about that. So if there's one thing you'd want people to understand about supporting someone through grief, what would it be?

SPEAKER_00 1:00:04

Through grief is that just show up and keep showing up. That's the whole thing. The first week everybody shows up. The first month most people show up. After that, most people disappear. That's when the grieving person needs you most. Not in the loud public moment of loss. In the quiet, private moments. Three months in, six months in, a year in when the world has moved on, but they haven't. Don't ask. Let me know if you need anything. That puts the work on the grieving person. They're too tired to ask. Just do something. I'm bringing Denny. I'm taking your kid. Be specific. Be reliable. Be there. Say the name. Say their person's name. Don't be afraid of it. Bringing them up doesn't remind us. We never forgot. It tells us you remember too. That's a gift. And finally, don't expect us to be the same. We're not, don't try to bring back the old version of us. Make room for the new version. Get to know who we are now. We're not who we were. And that's not something to mourn.

SPEAKER_02 1:01:21

Wow. Well, thank you for that. Now, I believe that love doesn't disappear. I think it just sort of changes form. It becomes something you carry differently. So with that said, how do you carry that love now?

SPEAKER_00 1:01:50

I would say I carry that love in everything. And how I love my kids, I make decisions, and how I move through my house. I carry him with me in ways I didn't know were possible. He's not gone. He's just in me now. In a different form. I carry him in my laugh. He taught me how to find that joy and now I'm still using it. I carry him in a way I parent. There are things I do because he would have done them. I still try to give grace, but there are things I say because they were his words. My kids will grow up hearing their father's voice through me even when they don't know that's what's happening. The love isn't behind me. It's woven into me now. He gave me 17 years of love. And that love became part of how I'm built. You can't undo it.

SPEAKER_02 1:02:45

Wow, I like that description a lot. Now, what do you want your children to know? Not just about what happened, but about how you moved through it.

SPEAKER_00 1:03:05

I want my children to know I didn't pretend. I want them to know I cried when I needed to cry. I laughed when I needed to laugh. I asked for help when I needed help. I fell apart and I got back up. I told the truth even when the truth was hard. I want them to know they were never a burden. Not once, not in my birthday. They were the reason I kept going. They were the proof that life still had something for me. Every time I looked at their faces I knew I wasn't done. I want them to know that love doesn't end. And when somebody you love dies, they don't stop being yours. They become yours in a different way. I want them to grow up unafraid of love because of how I love their father before and after. I want them to know it's okay to be sad and happy at the same time, to miss him and still build a life. And I want them to know wherever they go, whatever they become, they came from a real love that didn't get to finish on its own terms, but matter just the same. That's what I want them to know. Also, as Marcus Aurelius once said, what we do in life echoes in eternity.

SPEAKER_02 1:04:30

Wow. That's deep. Thank you for sharing that. What does love look like for you today in your actual everyday life?

SPEAKER_00 1:04:43

Love looks like getting up. The way my daughter braids her hair, the way I taught her. Who learned it from her grandmother. That's three generations of love in one little braid. Love looks like Sunday pancakes. We still do Sunday pancakes. He's not at the table, but the tradition is. That's love. Love looks like the friend who still texts me on the hard dates. Who remembers without being reminded. Love looks like my sister sitting across from me right now. Asking me hard questions and trusting me to answer them. That's love. That's been love my whole life. Love looks like me, still here, still trying, still soft, even after all this. Love for myself, love for what I came from, love for what I'm still becoming. Love looks like everything. I see it everywhere now, in the small things, in the air, in my kids, in him still, in me. And that's what love looks like today.

SPEAKER_02 1:06:03

That's beautiful. Thank you for sharing that. Now, I have to admit that I don't have a perfectly wrapped ending for this one because grief doesn't really do endings. What I do know is this. Some of the most profound leadership I've ever witnessed hasn't happened in a boardroom. When someone decides I'm going to keep going. That's where profound leadership actually happens. That's what my sister's doing. Kiana, I've watched you your whole life. From the time you were a little girl, growing up in Brooklyn, to the woman sitting across from me right now. And I want you to hear this from me. The way that you are walking through this tough season of your life is leadership. Thank you for saying yes to having this conversation. Thank you for being honest. And thank you for reminding me and everyone listening that strength doesn't always look like having it together. Sometimes strength looks like this, exactly what you exhibited.

SPEAKER_00 1:07:36

Thank you again for having me, Tanya. Restless excellence is amazing. And I can't wait for everyone to see everything that you've been doing. It's amazing. I can't wait for them to get their hands on your book. It is amazing. Carrying the island. The disclaimer: don't hold my answers against me. I'm here today to give true transparency on my personal feelings, thoughts, and actual account. I know no two people are the same, but I hope our conversations today can open others up to feel here, speak with an open mind and open pathways because I know there may be something I say that resonates with others, but also teaches others who may not know how I feel that there's no right way to grieve. And I have learned that the hard way for the past few months since losing in love with my life, my king, my one and only. Tyson, Edward, Richard Nelson. Grief is complex, and I hope my experience can help others. By the way, we listen and don't judge.

SPEAKER_02 1:08:44

We don't judge. To everyone listening, if this conversation touched something in you, please reach out to someone. Not with advice, not with a fix, just your presence and say the thing. Make the call. Just show up. That is what it means to lead a human life in a season like this. This has been Restless Excellence.