The Call to Grieve: On Grief, Anger & Betrayal

There are days I wake up in the middle of the wreckage—not one of my own making, but one I was thrust into.

And perhaps you know this feeling too.

The heartbreak of watching your life contorted by the hands of others. The weight of knowing the truth—and having it denied. The agony of waiting as courts stall, as systems deflect, as those who broke the law strategize how to avoid responsibility for the harm they inflicted.

It is in this long pause—this suspended state of justice deferred—that I feel the ebb and flow of grief and anger rise inside me.

Not one or the other. But both.

A seesaw I did not choose to sit on, tipping between mourning and rage.

I know I am not alone in this. I know many of you have sat in similar places—
places of betrayal, of loss, of truth denied and stories rewritten. Places where the sacred trust between human beings has been broken. Places where silence was forced and blame misplaced.

And so I write this for all of us who have felt the shatter.

For those whose "No" was never heard. For those who scream only now, because they could not scream then. For those who grieve, not just what was lost, but what was stolen.

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The Call to Grieve
On Grief, Anger & Betrayal

There is a seesaw inside the soul when trust is broken. One side dips into grief—the heavy ache of what was once sacred. The other rises with anger—the fire of what should never have happened. And between them swings a body, a heart, a breath trying to make sense of it all.

When betrayal comes, it often enters like a quiet thief. A glance. A lie. A silence that shouldn't have been. And suddenly the world we thought we knew
cracks under our feet, the story we held becomes unrecognizable.

Grief says: This hurt because it mattered. Anger says: This should never have happened. Both are right.

We are taught to grieve politely. To cry in private, to move on, to forgive quickly—
as though betrayal is a paper cut and not a soul-deep wound. We are told that anger is dangerous. That it burns too hot, that it clouds our judgment.
But what if anger is sacred too? What if it is the guardian of our dignity, the fierce echo of the soul saying, No more?

Grief pulls us inward, toward the tender places that still remember how to feel.
Anger moves us outward, toward boundaries, clarity, and reclaiming our name.

The truth is—they work together. Anger unearths the roots. Grief waters the ground. Together, they prepare the soil for something true to grow.

So let yourself feel it all.

Let the sobs rise without apology. Let the scream that was once silenced break free. Let the “No” you weren’t allowed to speak echo into every bone. Let yourself be furious and heartbroken in the same breath. You are not too much. You are responding to something that shattered the sacred.

This is not a sign of weakness. This is your humanity calling itself home.

And when the tears have come and the fire has spoken, there is something that returns—not the old trust, not the old story—but something more honest, more awake, more whole.

The call to grieve is not just about mourning what was lost. It is about honoring what was real, naming what was true, and saying: I will not carry this wound in silence anymore.