Grieving People Who Are Still Alive: My Brother

 

My brother that I share a mother with is ten years younger than me. For a long time, I carried the belief that I was meant to protect him.

In my mind, I saw myself as his future guardian. I used to daydream about adopting him, taking him far away, and raising him as my own. I didn’t trust that my birth mother was capable of giving him the safety he deserved. I felt that responsibility deeply, even when it wasn’t mine to carry.

That future never happened.

Early in his life, he was kept away from our mother by his father’s side of the family. It’s not my place to speak on what happened during that time. What I do know is that he suffered. I could feel it. I could see it. There was sadness in him that felt heavier than his age.

As he grew older, I felt like he was slowly poisoned by our mother’s unresolved pain. Her words were harsh. Her insults were constant. I watched emotional damage happen in real time, and I tried to be there for him whenever I could. He spent time with me. I tried to offer safety where I could.

But things shifted.

We grew less close after he began dating someone I once considered a friend. That relationship changed the tone of everything. He said things to me that were cruel and deeply hurtful—things that didn’t feel like they came from his true self. I recognized the energy behind them. It felt inherited. Repeated. Learned.

From that point on, our relationship was off and on. We tried. We drifted. We tried again.

Then my grandmother passed away in 2020, and something in him changed.

I won’t share his personal struggles, because they aren’t mine to tell. What I will say is that when I discovered he was assisting my mother while my grandfather was being abused—and then attempting to lie, minimize, or sugarcoat it—I reached my limit.

I cannot stay connected to people who cover up harm.

I cannot maintain relationships with those who protect abuse through silence or omission.

That realization hurt more than I can put into words.

I separated myself from him, just as I did from her. I blocked his number because any communication became unsafe—anything I shared would be carried back to my mother. I needed distance to protect my peace, my truth, and my healing.

I have not spoken to my brother since 2024.

And still—I wish him well.

I sincerely hope that whatever mental battles he is facing, he finds clarity. I hope he finds the strength to look at the parts he played, not from shame, but from accountability. Because healing doesn’t begin when we excuse harm—it begins when we stop participating in it.

This grief is complicated.

It’s layered with love, disappointment, protection, and acceptance.

Grieving someone who is still alive doesn’t mean you don’t care.

Sometimes it means you care enough to stop enabling what’s wrong—even when it costs you the relationship.

This is part of my glow up.

Choosing truth.

Choosing distance.

Choosing peace.

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Separating Friend Groups for Mental Clarity

Over the years, I’ve learned that not every social circle is meant for me—at least not all the time. I’ve always been someone who cares deeply, listens intently, and offers guidance and support to the people around me. But I’ve also realized that constantly being “on” for everyone can be draining, even when it comes from people I genuinely care about.

I’ve always needed space to recharge. As a child, I spent a lot of time alone, and as an adult, that need hasn’t gone away—it’s only grown stronger. I thrive in environments that uplift, inspire, and encourage growth. When I’m around low-vibrational energy, mundane complaints, or constant drama, I notice it in my body. I feel heavy. Mentally drained. It’s a subtle exhaustion that builds over time, and I’ve had to learn how to protect myself from it.

That’s why I’ve begun intentionally separating friend groups and social interactions. I’m not distancing out of malice or judgment. I’m choosing clarity, peace, and focus. I spend time with people who elevate and inspire, and I step back from situations that leave me mentally or emotionally depleted.

This isn’t always easy. I care about many people and have a large network of friends. I enjoy connecting, listening, and being supportive—but I’ve learned that if I don’t create boundaries, I lose sight of my own mental health.

Choosing who to spend energy on isn’t about rejecting people. It’s about preserving my own mental space so that I can show up fully when it truly matters—both for myself and for the people I genuinely care about.

I’ve come to understand that it’s okay to step back from certain groups or conversations. Sometimes, solitude is the best way to recharge. Sometimes, it’s the only way to protect your clarity and peace of mind. And the more I practice this, the more I realize that boundaries aren’t just protection—they’re freedom.

Separating friend groups doesn’t mean closing doors forever. It means walking in your power, knowing what energies serve you, and prioritizing your mental and emotional well-being.

In a world that constantly asks for more of us, sometimes the greatest gift you can give yourself is space and clarity. 

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Grieving People Who Are Still Alive: My Mother

 

I didn’t grow up with my mother. I was raised by my grandparents my whole life, and she was in and out. I didn’t have a close relationship with her—until my grandmother passed in 2020. That’s when I tried. I tried to know her, to build something.

But she carried her own trauma, unprocessed and heavy, and it showed. Her heart was full of hatred toward the family, and she brought it all to me. She was toxic, mean, disheartening, and cruel in ways I never expected from someone who’s supposed to be your mother. I remember trying to protect my grandfather when I saw him being abused in the home. I called APS because I couldn’t watch it happen, and instead of understanding, she threatened to call the cops on me. It was a confusing, heartbreaking moment—trying to do the right thing and being met with anger instead of care.

There were times in my life when she chose the men she dated over me. She married and moved away without me. And while she raised my brother differently, giving him things I never received, I don’t see that as blame—I see it as part of her story, part of her unprocessed pain. It didn’t make it easier for me, but I recognize it’s not the whole of who she is.

It hurt. Deeply. It was unbearable to see someone so cold, so distant, toward their own flesh and blood. I tried to navigate it, to connect, to love her in the ways she wouldn’t let me. But she didn’t respect boundaries, and she kept calling my phone—back to back, back to back. I could not take it. She was not kind to my son either. There was backstabbing, gossip, and constant negativity.

I had to make a choice. I had to find a way to protect myself. So I blocked her number. I cut contact. I have not spoken to her since 2022. She played a role in my grandfather’s passing, and a huge part of me has forgiven her—but forgiveness doesn’t mean I have to let her back in. I have to maintain my peace. I have to honor my healing.

Grieving someone who is still alive doesn’t always look like conversation or closure. Sometimes it looks like distance. Sometimes it looks like saying, “I love myself more than I can risk loving you right now.” And that’s what I did.

This is my first step in learning how to grieve people who are still here, without letting their pain consume me.

This is part of my glow up.

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Grief That Never Had Time to Rest

Grief has been a constant presence in my life for a very long time. Not just emotional grief—but the kind that settles into the body, the mind, and the spirit.

The first loss I experienced was in 1997. I lost my aunt, my mother’s oldest sister. She was my best friend. After she passed, my world became darker, and I didn’t know how to navigate life without her. Looking back now, I realize I never truly mourned her. In many ways, I never learned how to properly grieve any of my family.

The most devastating loss came years later with my grandmother. I took care of her. I saw her daily. She was woven into every part of my life—and then, slowly and suddenly, she was gone. That loss sent me into a deep depression. At the same time, I was trying to build a relationship with my mother, but it didn’t work. Instead of my family coming together in grief, we drifted further apart. I felt forgotten. Alone.

I had many sleepless nights. And even now, I still cry for my grandmother. That pain hasn’t disappeared.

The following summer, I lost my father. Between losing my grandmother and my father, COVID happened. That wasn’t the cause of their deaths, but the isolation made everything heavier. I was already grieving, already alone, carrying a silent pain that still surfaces from time to time.

Then there was my grandfather—the person I spoke to every single day. Hearing him describe the abuse he was enduring weighed on me mentally and emotionally. When I tried to help him, I was threatened for it. Eventually, he came to live with me for the final months of his life. He passed away in my home.

It has only been a little over a year since his passing, and I am still riddled with grief.

I try to focus on the good memories. But that grief is layered. It ties back to my grandmother. To not being able to say goodbye to my father. To my aunt, whom I never had the chance to properly grieve. And on top of all of that, I am also grieving people who are still alive—people who have hurt me deeply.

I’ve spent most of my life being the support system for everyone else. And now, I find myself in a place where I realize that I need support too. I’m still learning how to navigate that.

Right now, I’m not ready to go deeply into every aspect of my grief. This is simply a conversation starter. Maybe, in time, I’ll share more. For now, I’m healing—slowly, intentionally—and doing the best I can.

And for today, that has to be enough.

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Held by Faith When Others Left

 There is a particular kind of pain that comes from being abandoned during the moments you need support the most. It’s a pain I have carried quietly for much of my life.

I have faced situations that could have broken me, and sometimes I still sit in awe of my own survival. Over the years, I’ve been in relationships—some serious, some deeply committed—but the pattern extended beyond romantic partners. I have also been left by family during critical moments when I needed stability, clarity, and care.

One of the most difficult seasons of my life came when I was seriously ill and unaware that fibroids were the cause. I was passing out, unable to work, and still responsible for caring for my minor child. During that time, the person I was engaged to marry walked away without warning. What followed were discoveries and realizations that added layers to the pain, but the core of it remains: I had to survive that season alone.

These wounds reach back even further. The absence of my own mother created a foundation of abandonment early in my life, one that echoed through later experiences. Since then, there have been moments when family members withdrew suddenly, leaving me suspended in uncertainty at times when decisions were urgent and consequences were real.

Even now, I find myself handling the aftermath of situations I didn’t create, standing alone in responsibilities that were never meant to be carried by one person.

I took a step back from the world for a while. Depression had settled in, and grief weighed heavily on me after losing my grandfather—who passed away in the very home I now occupy alone. The silence is loud, filled with memories and reminders of what once was.

What has been hardest to accept is that the support I needed did not come from the people I expected it to come from. This realization stings, especially because I have spent much of my life being the one who shows up. I have cared for others, supported family, and given of myself even when I had little left to give.

Still, I remain standing.

Each time I have been pushed to the edge, I have found a way through. Not because the path was easy, but because my heart remains sincere, my intentions remain good, and I trust in divine order. I believe that the Most High continues to provide for me—not as a reward, but as protection aligned with choosing goodness, even when it is difficult.

I do not carry hatred.
I do not seek retaliation.

I choose boundaries. I choose distance where necessary. 

Though I may currently be navigating a storm, I hold firm to the knowing that something brighter waits on the other side. It always has.

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Grieving People Who Are Still Alive: An Introduction

There is a kind of grief that doesn’t come with condolences, casseroles, or closure.
It doesn’t come with permission.

It’s the grief of realizing that someone you love—or once loved—can no longer exist in your life the way you needed them to. Not because they passed away, but because something in the relationship made it impossible to stay.

This is the grief of people who are still alive.

I’ve had to grieve people who are still breathing, still walking this earth, still existing in proximity to my life—but no longer safe for my heart, spirit, or growth. People who hurt me. People who couldn’t meet me where I was. People I hoped would change. People I had to release, not out of anger, but out of self-preservation.

This type of grief is quiet and confusing.
Because the world says, “At least they’re still here.”
But emotionally and spiritually, something still ended.

I had to mourn the version of them I believed in.
The relationship I tried to nurture.
The future I imagined.
The love I kept extending even when it wasn’t returned in a healthy way.

And I had to do it without closure.

Grieving someone who is still alive doesn’t mean you hate them.
It doesn’t mean you’re unforgiving.
It means you finally chose to stop abandoning yourself in order to keep the connection alive.

This post is the beginning of a series I’m calling Grieving People Who Are Still Alive.

In the posts that follow, I’ll be sharing personal stories about different relationships I’ve had to grieve while the people themselves are still here. Each story carries its own lessons, wounds, boundaries, and awakenings. Names and details will remain intentional—not to protect harm, but to honor healing.

These stories are not about blame.
They are about truth.
They are about what it means to heal honestly.
They are about the glow up that happens when you choose yourself, even when it hurts.

If you’re reading this and feel a tightness in your chest, a quiet recognition, or a sense of “this sounds like me”—you’re not alone. This grief is real. And it deserves space.

This is where I’m holding that space.
For myself.
And for anyone learning how to let go without hardening their heart.

This is part of my glow up.

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✨ Welcome to The Triple 4 Glow Up ✨

If you’ve found your way here, take a breath—you’re in the right place.

The Triple 4 Glow Up was created as a space where healing doesn’t have to be heavy and spirituality doesn’t have to be perfect. I’m a gamer and Twitch streamer who also happens to be deeply connected to spirituality, intuition, and personal growth. My life has been a mix of lessons, signs, laughter, pain, growth, and moments that forced me to slow down and heal—and this blog is where I share that journey honestly.

I’m nurturing at heart. I lead with gentleness, compassion, and understanding—but I also believe healing sometimes requires truth, boundaries, and a little tough love (given with care, always). I’m not a girly girl, but I do embody divine feminine energy in my own way: grounded, intuitive, protective, and deeply human. Here, I’ll talk about spiritual healing, alignment, signs like 444, and the real-life experiences that shaped me—sometimes seriously, sometimes with jokes, because laughter has always been part of my medicine.

This isn’t a space for pretending to have it all figured out. It’s a space for growth, reflection, humor, and becoming. Whether you’re here for spiritual insight, personal stories, healing energy, or just to feel less alone—you’re welcome.

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