Grief is a constant companion when you’re queer and disabled in the South, and this year has been no exception. The 2024 election did not just unleash another wave of hate targeting LGBTQIA2S+ people; it brought an overwhelming sense of fear, especially for trans folks and those of us living with disabilities. It feels like our very existence is under siege with laws are being passed to strip away our rights, communities are fractured under the pressure of relentless attacks, and hate speech has moved from whispers to shouts, echoing through policies and public spaces alike. For me, grief is not just about personal loss. It is about the collective weight of watching my community endure these constant assaults, the suffocating fear of what might come next, and the exhaustion of living in a world that treats our identities as battlegrounds. It is grieving for the youth forced to grow up in a world that debates their worth, for families torn apart by policies banning care, and for the countless moments of joy stolen from us by this unrelenting hostility.
Living here, I feel the tension between love for my home and the exhaustion of constantly fighting to exist within it. Grief feels like a low hum in my chest, sometimes rising to a roar. But when I take the time to really listen, it brings me moments of clarity. Grief is also a teacher, guiding me toward connection, healing, and resistance.
Here’s how I’m learning to hold space for my grief while staying grounded in hope.
Naming Our Intersectional Grief
Being queer and disabled means carrying grief that’s layered and intersectional. It’s not just the heartbreak of losing loved ones or navigating personal challenges; it’s the everyday grief of seeing our identities erased, our rights stripped, and our lives treated as disposable.
When grief hits, I try to remind myself that it’s okay to feel all of it, the anger, the sadness, the numbness. Grief isn’t just something to get through; it’s part of how we process the world. Naming it feels like a small act of power: a way to say, I see what’s happening, and it matters.
Creating Queer-Centered Rituals
Ritual has been one of my biggest tools for navigating grief. It doesn’t have to be elaborate; sometimes it’s as simple as lighting a candle at the end of a hard day, listening to music that makes me feel alive, or writing letters to loved ones I’ve lost.
For me, queer-centered rituals feel especially healing. They’re a way to honor who I am and who we are as a community. I’ve started incorporating pieces of our culture into my rituals: rainbow candles, songs by queer artists, or even just wearing something that feels unapologetically me. These moments remind me that grief and joy can coexist, and that my existence is worth celebrating, even in the face of loss.
Centering Disability Justice in Grief
As a disabled person, I’ve learned that the grief of losing people or rights is compounded by ableism, sometimes subtle, often blatant. When grief spaces don’t consider accessibility, it sends a clear message: you don’t belong here.
That’s why I center disability justice in my own healing practices. For me, that looks like creating rituals that honor my energy levels and pain cycles. It’s giving myself permission to adapt or even skip something if it doesn’t feel possible. And when I’m in spaces with others, it means advocating for accessibility: asking for captions, alternative formats, or whatever’s needed to make sure everyone can show up fully.
We all deserve spaces where our grief is held with care, not conditions.
Somatic Healing That Meets Me Where I Am
Grief isn’t just an emotional experience; it lives in my body. That’s especially true as someone navigating chronic pain and disability. Somatic healing has been a lifeline, but I’ve had to adapt it to work for me.
For me, somatic healing means gentle stretches in bed when I can’t get up, deep breaths during pain flares, or placing my hand over my heart when emotions feel overwhelming. It’s about finding small, tender ways to reconnect with my body and let it know: I’m here with you.
Healing doesn’t have to look like what anyone else is doing. It just has to feel like kindness to yourself.
Building Community in Hard Times
Living in the South, it’s easy to feel isolated, especially when grief is heavy. But I’ve found so much strength in connecting with others who get it, queer and disabled folks who understand this fight and share this journey.
Sometimes that’s a virtual support group; other times it’s a text thread with friends who check in when things get rough. Community doesn’t have to be big or formal; it just has to remind you that you’re not alone.
Grief as Resistance
Grief can feel so heavy, but it also reminds me what matters. Each time I sit with my grief, I’m reminded of the love I have for my community, the joy I find in our culture, and the resilience that has carried us this far.
Grief isn’t just sadness: it’s love in another form. And every time we honor that love, whether through ritual, connection, or simply surviving another day, we’re resisting the forces that try to erase us.
So if you’re holding grief right now, know this: You’re not alone. Your grief is valid. Your identity is sacred. And together, we’ll keep finding ways to honor our losses, hold each other close, and imagine a future that holds space for all of us.
Let’s keep going, one small act of love and resistance at a time.