Grief is a quiet destroyer. It creeps in silently, without warning, and before you know it, you’re someone you barely recognize. It shows up in your mind, your body, and your spirit—sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time. For me, it showed up as a dull ache in my chest, a sour stomach every time a song reminded me of what I’d lost, and a fatigue so deep no amount of sleep could fix it. It was the heaviness in my voice when people asked, “Are you okay?” and I’d respond with a lie I had rehearsed far too well.
Every day for a long while, something inside me broke or weakened. I'd wake up and feel different—fragile. Some days I didn’t want to wake up at all. But I did. I got up, masked myself in intention—survival mode. I focused on making it through another hour, another second. Anything to avoid falling apart in front of people who wouldn’t know what to do with my shattered pieces. I tried to hide the heartbreak, the permanent watermarks on my cheeks, and the unpredictable waves of grief that could be triggered by something as simple as a familiar scent or a song on the radio.
But grief wasn’t all there was to my story.
Somewhere along the way, in the thick fog of pain, I realized I couldn’t keep living like I was barely alive. I had to reclaim my identity. Rediscovering myself felt like a midlife crisis with no warning signs—one minute you’re surviving, and the next you’re standing in the mirror wondering, Who am I? Not just in a poetic sense. Literally. Who. Am. I?
When I became a parent, I lost pieces of me I didn’t even realize I was giving up. I was no longer just Latifah—I was Iman's mother. Beautiful and honorable, yes, but all-consuming. My name, my essence, my womanhood—all wrapped up in motherhood. And when loss ripped through that identity, I was left hollow, confused, and invisible to myself.
So I started over.
I had to learn how to shop for just me again—how to order off the single menu and not feel ashamed. I had to find joy that wasn’t tethered to someone else’s happiness. I had to fall in love with my own presence. I had to teach myself how to love—deeply, honestly, and unconditionally. Not just romantic love, but the kind that starts with the self and radiates outward.
Loving unconditionally isn’t some fairytale. It’s not a performance. It’s not sitting on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s not sacrificing yourself for the sake of being chosen. It’s meeting people exactly where they are—flaws, messiness, and all—and loving them enough to know when to lean in and when to step back. To protect your peace, your energy, and your heart.
The silence taught me that.The stillness demanded I face myself, stripped of distractions and excuses. It taught me to be accountable—not for what happened to me, but for how I choose to move forward. To live life instead of just existing in it.
These days, being alive feels different. There’s a sense of rejuvenation in my bones, even when my heart aches. I still lick my wounds, but I do it with pride, because it means I survived another battle. I’ve found a new kind of stability—not perfection, not unshakable joy, but a balance that keeps me grounded. I take on each day like it’s a gift and a challenge, and both are true.
There’s still a void. I won’t lie. A space that nothing and no one can ever truly fill. That hole is real and permanent. But the more I learn who I am, the more I hold myself accountable, the more I LIVE life—the smaller that void becomes. Not because the pain has disappeared, but because I’ve made more room for joy, purpose, and peace.
They say time heals all wounds. I still want to find out who “they” are and ask them who started such a bold face lie. Because in my world, time hasn’t healed the wounds—it’s just given me space to tend to them better. To understand them. To stop picking the scabs and start letting the scars tell my story.
I won’t become what I’ve been through.I will become everything I choose to rise into .And that… that is my redemption.