July 26,2022

I thought about how to begin this process of sharing insights. What do I share, what do I keep to myself, what rules should I follow informed by my field? I believe all these questions (and more) will probably be hallmarks as I embark on this journey of sharing my thoughts, feelings and observations as a clinician and human being participating in this deeply important work of psychological therapy and practice (aka therapy). I decided I really can’t begin without acknowledging my own process of love, loss and healing. It is only fitting that I begin with a dedication to my late husband (so weird to say late husband…has to be a better title). Without him, I would not be the person or clinician I am today. He is a part of the courage it took to build this website and expand on who I am as a professional.

My husband passed away of COVID 19 during the height of the pandemic in NYC in 2020. I begin with this dedication and reflection because I know many have experienced loss in the past 2 years. If you are like me, you may have been humbled by experiencing a significant loss for the first time. Perhaps the pandemic represented a loss of what you have come to know as your own version of normal with regard to people, places or things. In the case of loss due to a physical death, I have been struck by what my life looked like before experiencing death of a loved one and after. It is quite the awakening that is no longer a theoretical concept for me. My introduction to death pre-loss was through the stories of an acquaintance, family members, a client, articles, film or T.V. I could empathize but I really didn’t have a sense of knowing—I could only imagine. Now, there is this jarring shake to the senses that I couldn’t have ever imagined. There are the splinters of memory that continue to ebb and flow throughout time. I understand the desire to complete a circle through wishes of what I could have done or would have liked to do if I had only known what was coming. There is a kind of disorientation around self. Who am I now? The answer to this question is ever evolving. The unexpected new identity I didn’t choose is suddenly, widow, black single mother.

I took some time off before getting back to work. The one identity, other than mother (there are others but this is my focus), that had not changed was being a psychologist. Yes, I am first generation American by way of Trinidad. So, I went back to work. My clients gave me the opportunity to do something I couldn’t do for my husband in his final weeks of life. I was able to in some way touch them, metaphorically, speaking. I could help heal in some way. Being with my children was another saving grace. I could see his mannerisms, jokes, and interests through them. Every behavior or act that I previously just walked through without much thought took on more meaning. Being in my body was more meaningful than ever. I can breathe. I get to take a walk. I get to run in the park. I get to experience my 5 senses. I get to be here. What am I doing with this opportunity? What would he do if he had what I have now? Moreover, how could I continue what we built together?

Each day is a remembrance. I am awakened and reawakened by new understandings around the depths of loss. The concept of being well and the experience of invisibility and visibility are evolving concepts to me in grief. People ask, “How are you doing?” I wonder internally is there really an answer that captures it? I know we seek something packaged and whole. Something like a full- on recovery or maybe a definitive statement. During the thick of the pandemic my answer to a friend who asked (How are you?) was, “It is really like a patchwork quilt with all these colors. It’s not just one color. Some days the dominant color is blue. Other days, there are other colors.” As time goes by, I am discovering this invisible pain. I think people expect you to be fully healed as time goes by. My experience through this loss is my husband is omnipresent. I am learning to live with him in a different way. In terms of the pain of the loss, it’s like having an injury. It heals sort of… but only I know that leg doesn’t work the same way it did before. I have to learn to walk a little differently and I can’t move in the world as if my leg doesn’t feel different because it does. I’m continuing to learn how to walk.

I dedicate this blog to my late husband who is forever a reminder to believe in myself and continue to build. I dedicate this blog to anyone who has loved and experienced loss. I see you. I dedicate this blog to my clients who helped give my work, our work, so much meaning during a challenging time in our lives. I dedicate this blog to my two children who continue to amaze me and teach me through their humanity, grace and resilience.

Here’s to love, loss and continued healing.
Peace,
Dr. Simone