Making Room for Grief — Part Two
Not long ago, we shared a conversation about making room for grief within our sisterhood.
We talked about how hope and heartbreak can coexist. How the women we lose are so much more than their diagnoses. How we can honor their lives by sharing their stories, speaking their names, and remembering the little things that made them unforgettable.
We wrote about making room for grief.
And now, heartbreakingly, we are being asked to make room for more.
We’ve lost another sister.
And sometimes, there simply aren’t words big enough for that.
When Another Loss Feels Like Too Much
There is something uniquely difficult about grief within a cancer community.
We come together because of something none of us would have chosen. We build friendships in waiting rooms, support groups, retreats, and conversations that often begin with a diagnosis but grow into something so much bigger.
We become sisters.
We celebrate clean scans, finished treatments, birthdays, and milestones. We send encouraging messages, share resources, and remind one another that we are not alone.
And then, sometimes, we lose someone.
And then someone else.
And the grief begins to accumulate.
It’s not that we loved one woman more than another. It’s not that the newest loss somehow matters more.
It’s that our hearts are already carrying so much.
Every new loss can reopen the tenderness of the ones that came before. We remember the women whose voices we miss. The conversations we wish we could have one more time. The photographs that make us smile and cry in the same breath.
And perhaps we find ourselves wondering how many times a heart can break and still remain open.
The Grief Beneath the Grief
There’s another part of losing someone in a cancer community that can be difficult to say out loud.
Sometimes, when we lose a sister, we aren’t only grieving her.
We are also confronting our own fears.
For women living with cancer, navigating recurrence, or celebrating years of no evidence of disease, the loss of someone who understands our experience can bring uncertainty rushing back.
We may feel frightened. Angry. Guilty for being here when someone else isn’t. Relieved about our own circumstances and then uncomfortable with that relief.
We may wonder why her treatment stopped working. Why her cancer returned. Why she didn’t get more time.
And sometimes, beneath all those questions, is the one we’re almost afraid to acknowledge:
Could that happen to me?
These feelings can be uncomfortable, especially when we want our attention to remain on the woman we’ve lost and the people who loved her.
But acknowledging our own fear doesn’t diminish our grief for her.
It simply means that loss can touch more than one tender place at a time.
There is room for those feelings, too.
You Don’t Have to Find the Hope Today
At Teal Diva, hope is part of who we are.
But perhaps we need to remind ourselves of something.
Hope is not an obligation.
You don’t have to find the bright side of losing someone you love.
You don’t have to turn her passing into an inspirational message.
You don’t have to be the strong one, the positive one, or the person who knows exactly what to say.
You are allowed to be sad.
You are allowed to be angry.
You are allowed to say, “This is unfair,” without someone reminding you to stay positive.
Because sometimes it is unfair.
And sometimes the most loving thing we can do is acknowledge that.
We don’t need to explain away the pain to make it easier to bear. We don’t need to wrap grief in beautiful language before we give ourselves permission to feel it.
Sometimes, we just need to miss our friend.
What Sisterhood Looks Like Now
In our first conversation about grief, we wrote:
“Hope isn’t the absence of grief. Sometimes hope is knowing that when grief comes, your sisterhood will be there to hold some of its weight.”
Those words feel different today.
Not because they are any less true, but because we are being asked to live them.
So what does that look like?
Maybe it means reaching out to the sister who has gone quiet.
Maybe it means sending a message that says, “I’m thinking of you,” without expecting a response.
Maybe it means sharing a photograph or a funny memory, giving someone permission to laugh in the middle of their sadness.
Maybe it means checking in next week, or next month, when the initial wave of condolences has passed and the absence begins to settle into everyday life.
And maybe it means admitting that we need someone to check on us, too.
Because the women who offer comfort are often grieving just as deeply as the women receiving it.
We don’t have to take turns being strong.
We can simply take turns holding one another.
Let Her Be Remembered for Living
When we lose another sister, the temptation may be to retreat into the sadness of what cancer has taken.
And cancer has taken far too much.
But it doesn’t get to claim the entirety of someone’s story.
There were ordinary Tuesdays and extraordinary adventures. Inside jokes and favorite songs. Families, friendships, accomplishments, and dreams. There were moments of courage, certainly, but also moments of silliness, stubbornness, tenderness, and joy.
She was a whole person.
And she deserves to be remembered that way.
So let’s keep telling the stories.
Let’s remember what made her laugh. What she loved. What she taught us without even realizing she was teaching.
Let’s speak her name when it feels right, while respecting the wishes and privacy of those closest to her.
And let’s remember that honoring her doesn’t require us to make her life or her death mean something beyond what it already did.
She mattered.
She was loved.
And we wish she were still here.
That is enough.
We Are Still Here for One Another
There is a particular kind of courage in continuing to love people when you know how deeply their absence might hurt.
But perhaps courage isn’t even the right word.
Perhaps it’s simply love.
We continue to open our hearts because the friendships are worth having. Because the laughter is real. Because the moments of connection matter.
Because even knowing what we know, we would still choose to know these women.
Every single time.
We cannot promise that our sisterhood will never experience another loss.
We cannot promise that hope will always feel easy or that tomorrow will bring better news.
But we can promise to keep making room for one another.
For the women celebrating.
For the women struggling.
For the women grieving.
For the women who are frightened and don’t quite know how to say it.
And for the women whose absence will always be felt.
We don’t need to have the right words.
We don’t need to have all the answers.
We just need to keep showing up.
Not because we have learned how to make grief hurt less, but because we have learned how much it matters not to face it alone.
We made room for grief.
Now, together, we will make room for one another.
And for today, that is enough.






































































