There’s a kind of grief we don’t talk about. The kind that doesn’t come with flowers, sympathy cards, or casseroles. The kind that gets buried beneath eyelashes, deadlines, and “I’m fine.” It’s the grief of the modern woman—especially the woman of color—who is expected to keep showing up while silently falling apart.
We’re praised for being strong. But strength, in this culture, often means being silent. It means carrying the weight of our world without flinching. It means wiping our tears before anyone sees them because vulnerability might be read as weakness—or worse, as drama. We’ve been taught that our pain only matters if it’s packaged in poetry. That if we must cry, we better cry pretty. Quietly. Gracefully. On cue.
But what about the grief that isn’t neat? The grief of a mother who mourns the version of herself she lost in motherhood. The grief of a woman who outgrew a friendship that once felt like home.
The grief of surviving a relationship that didn’t end in death but still required resurrection. The grief of reaching success and realizing it cost you peace, softness, or time you can’t get back. No one brings casseroles for that.
As women, we grieve every day in ways that don’t get validated. We grieve while sending good morning texts. While posting selfies. While running meetings, checking homework, and pushing through. The world claps when we “bounce back,” but never pauses to ask what broke us in the first place.
I’ve seen women mourn silently in group chats, behind steering wheels, and in bathroom stalls at work. I’ve seen them scroll Instagram while questioning their worth. I’ve seen them overcompensate with smiles, filters, achievements—and deep down, still feel empty.
We cry in private because we’ve been conditioned to perform okay. Because if we unravel, who will catch us? Who will believe us?
This isn’t just emotional. It’s cultural. Black and brown women, especially, have been taught to swallow grief whole. To wear it like perfume—something invisible but present. Our ancestors didn’t have time to grieve—they had to survive. And now here we are, their descendants, aching with generations of unshed tears.
But here’s the truth: Grief doesn’t have to be beautiful to be valid. Healing doesn’t have to be palatable to be real. Some days, your wholeness might look like crying in the shower, screaming in the car, or journaling through rage that won’t let up. That’s sacred, too.
We need to stop performing strength and start honoring our pain. The messy kind. The ugly kind. The kind that doesn’t fit into captions.
So this is a love letter to every woman who’s grieving something no one saw die… To the ones who broke their own hearts by choosing themselves… To the ones who smile but still feel hollow…
You are not alone, and your grief is not invisible. Just because they don’t see the casket, doesn’t mean something didn’t die.
We don’t cry pretty—but we cry real. And in that, there’s power.
Author Bio
Míchelle Annalèise Coles is a relationship coach and founder of Annaleise Affirms LLC. She helps women embrace joy, set boundaries, and redefine success on their own terms. Coles is also the author of Unapologetically You: The Path to Unshakable Self-Love. Learn more at www.annaleiseaffirms.com
