Truth is… I’m tired of meeting you. Yes, Grief came knocking again.
It had only been about six months since my dad passed when I found myself entering 2026 with one simple prayer: Please, let this year be lighter.
I needed a break from the heaviness. A break from the phone calls that change everything. A break from the kind of loss that makes you question how much more you can handle.
And, for the first half of the year, I was grateful. I was finding my way through the days. Learning that grief doesn’t disappear; it simply becomes something you learn to live alongside.
Good Grief, July came. And my world was rocked again. My uncle Derrick passed away.
My uncle was the joy in our family. No matter what was happening, he was going to smile. He was going to laugh. And that loud, infectious, unmistakable laugh… could fill a room.
My family is pretty close, so this loss has felt especially heavy.
It hurts to see my mother and her siblings navigating the loss of their big brother. It hurts to hear my grandfather’s scream. It hurts to sit with my cousins, sharing memories and stories, knowing that we will be able to make more with him.
There are so many things grief takes from us.
But sometimes, the hardest part is what we never got the chance to give. For me, it’s two words I never got to say to my uncle:
Thank you.
To be honest, I’ve always credited my creative journey to my mom and my brother. They are the people I’ve always looked to when thinking about where my creativity came from.
But going through my uncle’s belongings, seeing his old business cards, hearing stories about him, and remembering conversations we shared, I’ve found myself looking at my own journey differently.
He was the root.
My uncle Derrick never called himself an entrepreneur, but that’s exactly what he was. He was a photographer. A graphic artist. A video editor. A web designer. And so much more. As, I sit with this loss, I’ve realized just how much of him lives in me.
The creative path I’ve chosen wasn’t random. From California to Michigan, the career he pursued even before I was old enough to understand, would leave an imprint on the person I would eventually become.
Grief has a way of making you look backward.
It makes you revisit conversations. Memories. The last time you saw someone. The things you said. The things you didn’t.
And sometimes, it brings you face-to-face with the words you wish you had said sooner.
Thank you.
I wish I could tell him now.
Thank you for showing me that creativity could be a life. Thank you for being an example of what it looks like to make something out of nothing. Thank you for the memories that are now becoming even more precious. Thank you for the laughter that will live on in every story we tell.
My uncle Derrick may no longer be here for me to say, “Thank you.” But I can still live in a way that honors the creativity he helped inspire.
So, Thank you, Uncle Derrick. For everything.