The Weight We Carry

The call came while I was asleep. By the time we got to the hospital, he was already gone. Twenty-four years old. I had been there when he entered this world, and now, just like that, he had left it. I had imagined a future where we’d finally have the close aunt-nephew relationship I always wanted, but time ran out before we got the chance.

I know grief. I’ve lived long enough to understand how it moves — how it lingers in unexpected places, how it hollows you out when you least expect it. But nothing prepares you for the finality of death, especially when the person is young. Too young. I still hear his voice calling, Auntie! in that way only he could. I still see him in flashes — the way he laughed, the way he made everything feel like an adventure. Like the time he took my son’s turtle out of its tank, held it up, and ran through my apartment, making it “fly.” We were all yelling at him to put it down, but he was laughing — completely in the moment, completely free. That’s who he was.

Now, he’s gone. And I hate that I’ll never get to hear his voice again.

I hate how much loss shapes us. I hate that, even as I mourn my nephew, I don’t get the privilege of grieving only him. Because I am a Black woman in America, and my grief is never just my own.

I’ve been sitting with this question for a while: Why did God make me a Black woman?

It’s not that I don’t love who I am — I do. I have built a life I’m proud of. I pursued my dreams, pursued my MFA at 39, became a screenwriter and a professor, raised two incredible kids. I’ve been married for 22 years, and I still love and like my husband. That distinction matters. Love is the foundation, but liking each other after this many years? That’s a gift. He holds space for me in a world that doesn’t, reminding me that I don’t always have to be strong. I love being a Black woman. But Lord, it is exhausting.

This world does not love Black women. It consumes us, but it does not protect us. It relies on our strength but rarely makes space for our softness. And yet, I was raised in my faith to believe that God makes no mistakes. So, I wrestle with that — if I am fearfully and wonderfully made, why does my existence feel like a battle? Why does it feel like, before I even get the chance to just be, I have to fight to be seen, to be safe, to be respected?

I felt it acutely during the last election. The choice was clear — one candidate was beyond qualified, but America refused to elect her, not because she wasn’t ready, but because it wasn’t ready for her. That rejection wasn’t just political. It was personal. It was a reminder that no matter how excellent we are, how much we prove ourselves, how much we carry, this country will still find a way to deny us. That is a different kind of loss. A slow, grinding grief that settles into your bones.

And then, before you even have time to sit with that grief, another one comes.

A young Black woman killed. Another unarmed Black man gunned down. Another law passed to strip us of our rights. The world expects us to keep going, to keep pushing, to keep carrying this weight without breaking. And we do — because we have to. But I wonder, sometimes, what it would feel like to exist without carrying so much.

Losing my nephew made me feel the world’s injustices more deeply. It felt so unfair. It still does. And yet, I’ve seen similar things happen to so many others. I can’t separate my personal grief from the grief of being Black in America. They are intertwined, woven into my daily existence.

But I don’t carry it alone.

I have a tribe — close friends and family who are my lifeline. We check in, hold each other up, and remind one another to rest and take up space. We send jokes, funny memes, and videos, finding ways to laugh even when life feels heavy. Whether the texts or conversations are long or brief, just knowing someone is on the other end keeps me anchored. That’s survival.

But even with my tribe, grief is something I still have to carry on my own. So, I find my own ways to keep my nephew close. I talk to him, listen to the music he loved, and recently wrote him into a screenplay I’m producing — a small cameo, but one I refuse to let be erased. Every time I read it, I sob. When I travel, I take him with me. He had wanderlust — he’d hop on a plane in a heartbeat. So since his death, I’ve gone everywhere: Budapest, Milan, London, Vienna, Salerno, Barbados, Hawaii — twice — Toronto, San Francisco, Houston, New Orleans. I go to places I know he would’ve loved, carrying him with me in every step. And in the quiet moments, I find my own rituals to cope — walking, praying, journaling in the notes app on my phone. Hundreds of entries now, some messy, some incoherent, but they hold the things I can’t always say out loud.

What keeps me going, even when the grief lingers? Life. As complicated and painful as it is, life is still a gift. And despite my grief, I must go on.

But if I could talk to him now, I would say:

Linden, Auntie Michelle misses you so much, and I love you. I always have. I always will. I look forward to the day I see you again. Until then, please keep coming by to see me. I feel you when you do.

And to this country, I would say:

We have carried you on our backs for centuries. We have fought for you, died for you, built you. And yet, you refuse to love us back. I don’t know if you ever will. But I do know this—we will not break, no matter how much you try to make us. We are still here. We will always be here. And we will continue to rise.

Michelle Amor Gillie is a clinical assistant professor of screenwriting in the LMU School of Film and Television. A member of the Writers Guild of America West, she specializes in feature screenwriting and adaptation. Currently, she is writing a movie for Mary J. Blige’s Blue Butterfly Productions for Lifetime and writing and producing a film about WWE legend Booker T. Huffman. Gillie’s essay is one of 10 on the subject of loss collectively titled “The Road From Loss” that were solicited by LMU Magazine. The others can be found here.