Jaime is a Jamaican Leo born in the year of the tiger and raised among wildcats in New York. She leads with that to say: there’s a whole lot of fiery energy emanating from her core. Her fire warms and illuminates, asserts and energizes, resurrects and rejuvenates, commands respect and consumes. She was born in Jamaica and grew up in New York with her parents and two younger brothers. She had a great childhood and adolescence filled with pure love and goodness. Jaime moved to Connecticut her senior year of high school, earned a full scholarship to the University of Connecticut, moved to Amsterdam, moved back to NY, met and married Chris (her late husband), moved to Paris, got pregnant, moved to Italy, birthed a prodigy, moved to Switzerland, moved to England, lost her husband to suicide, and moved back to Connecticut with her daughter to be with family and figure out what’s next...

When did you experience your big loss and grief and who was the person in relation to you? 

On January 22, 2021, I lost my husband and my daughter lost her daddy, Chris, to suicide.

What words would you use to describe his character?

Chris was vibrant and passionate. He was practical and logical and rational, but made space for dreaming. He had a warm and inviting smile that made people feel welcome, at ease, and appreciated. He was a natural leader who carried himself with confidence, compassion, and enthusiasm. He had an open mind and an open heart. He was driven and disciplined. He was kind and generous. He was loyal. Though he was an introvert at his core, you’d never know it--socially, he was always charming, charismatic, and gregarious. He was selfless. He was a damn good dad--one of the best I’ve ever witnessed.

What is your earliest memory of Chris?

The day we met. I arrived at a restaurant in the East Village to have brunch with friends. Chris was there and he approached me as soon as I entered. “I’m going to marry you one day,” he said. I rolled my eyes and laughed, amused that this guy thought he had something with his little English accent. He was cute and charming, though, so I looked at my wrist--I had time that day.

Have you integrated the loss of Chris into your everyday life?

I don’t know. It’s still so new and I’m not sure what that looks like yet.

I was on edge for the first few months after he died and couldn’t grieve in peace. I had to delay my grief and put that energy into protecting and caring for our daughter; tackling the immense amount of admin, paperwork, and life-changing decisions that come with a spouse’s death; and I had to battle a number of toxic people with a dearth of emotional intelligence (and regular intelligence) attacking me and trying to drag me down. I was on high alert and didn’t have the time, space, energy, or vulnerability available to sacrifice.

Days after Chris’ death, deep in despair, I pleaded to my friend: “What do I do now? WHAT am I supposed to do?” She replied, “You live.” Simple and stoic, but it was earth shatteringly poignant for me.

I didn’t really have a choice, did I? Truthfully, I would have loved to crawl into bed to cry for weeks and hide away from it all--the truth, the pain, the devastation, the heartbreak, the fear, the feelings of guilt, the new responsibilities, the new burdens, the horrible people--but I have a 5 year-old girl to raise and that work does not and cannot stop. Plus, I had to carry her sadness, confusion, mourning, anxieties, anger, and grief along with my own. So I summoned all the internal fire that I could. And when the fire needed to be rekindled, I humbly and gratefully accepted sparks of love, joy, courage, energy, assistance, gifts, wisdom, and healing from my tribe.

People kept asking if I was taking care of myself. If I was engaging in self-care. While I appreciated the sentiment, it felt a little ridiculous. How? When? With what time? With what energy? You need time and energy to conceptualize what the self-care will be and then you need time and energy to do the self-caring. So no, there was no Self-Care Sunday. Self-care was on the back burner. I was in survival mode. It was Survival Sundays. And Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays...

It wasn’t until a month or two ago--when most of the drama finally calmed down a bit and my daughter started at her new school--that I felt like I could finally fall apart… and maybe start to think about self-care. It wasn’t until I fell asleep on the waxing table that I realized how drained my soul was. There’s nothing like drifting in and out of sleep while someone ripping hair out of your body to tell you that YOU. IS. TIRED. So I slept. Parts of me tried to convince me that I should be productive, but I shut those parts up, listened to friends and family, listened to my body, and gave myself plenty of grace and compassion in taking time to rest. I would wake up, get her ready for school, put her on the bus at 8:15, go back home and sleep until 2:30 when it was time to get her off the bus.

It still feels so uncomfortable. At its worst, it consumes my whole body. My brain, my head, my throat, my chest, my guts, all the way down to my toes. I just want to climb outside my body and run far away from the thoughts and the feelings. I wonder how I stop the tears from streaming, my chest from tightening, my head from pounding, my mind from racing, my throat from closing, my guts from wrenching, my heart from breaking…

I cry alone in the hours of darkness because I don’t have the capacity to deal with the burden that my burden creates. My sadness makes others sad, which makes me more sad. I don’t want to deal with their discomfort in not knowing what to say. I don’t need anyone to say anything, really. I just need them to share time and space and solace with me. But sometimes, I just want to cry it out on my own. 

But then, I have to get up. I have to wipe my tears and take my daughter to school and then to swimming or gymnastics or tennis or soccer. I have to continue educating and enriching and entertaining her big little life. She won’t stop, so I won’t, either.

My daughter is wise beyond her years and she is helping me immensely in coming to terms with and integrating Chris’ death into our lives. She says that we shouldn’t be sad because he is still here -- he has been reincarnated as a butterfly (she calls him “butterfly daddy”) and he is probably deep in the forest somewhere.

So, long story short, I can’t quite decide yet if I have integrated his death and am processing this productively or if I’m just dissociating. I’m new to this!

How would you define the word “HOPE”?

A friend shared with me a poignant meditation from The Daily Stoic: hope and fear are the same. Descartes postulated, “Hope is a disposition of the soul to persuade itself that what it desires will come to pass” and “fear is another disposition of the soul, which persuades it that the thing will not come to pass.” Both emotions are projections of a future that may or may not happen and both are the enemy of the present moment. “Hecato challenged: ‘cease to hope and you will cease to fear.’ . . . The primary cause of both these ills is that instead of adapting ourselves to present circumstances, we send our thoughts too far ahead.” I don’t believe that either emotion is bad--they’re both necessary--it’s just imperative to find a healthy balance. I continually ask the universe to grace me with the peace and clarity necessary to minimize the want and worry of hope and fear. I have found a sense of calm and freedom in the awareness of and acceptance that the present is all I possess. I don’t take anything for granted and I’m endeavouring (issa process!) to avoid trying to control outcomes.

What does the word “healing” mean to you?

Coming to terms with, feeling at peace about, and no longer being triggered negatively by recent or past traumas.

I’m on the path to healing, but I’m certainly not there. It still feels incredibly surreal and I’m still struggling to come to terms with so much--that it happened, how it happened, why it happened. I’m still battling internal feelings and external feelings of blame and guilt. I know, logically and rationally, that suicide is far bigger than anyone who was left behind, and I know that I couldn’t have done anything, and I know that neither I nor anyone else is to blame, but… it’s still hard to escape those thoughts and feelings. It’s work in progress. 

I know, too, that I haven’t healed from the trauma of disrespect and attacks launched at me by certain people on Chris’ side because a recent email exchange set me OFF. I was steaming mad for the whole day. I know that I cannot let other peoples’ ignorance and trauma responses affect me, but it’s a work in progress. My friend says that it is the burden of enlightenment--it hurts you in the end because you have to deal with the ignorance and ensuing aggression caused by others’ limited sight.

I know, though, that I am at least on my way to growth and healing because I eventually found gratitude in the encounter. I am grateful for the perspective this gives me. Their deficits will give me abundance. Their lack of perspective fills me with even more compassion and understanding. Their lack reminds me that my perspective is limited and I won’t ever have the full story. I once read that “if someone’s behavior doesn’t make sense to you, you’re missing a part of their context.” Their lack will remind me to consider others’ unique contexts and perspectives. It will force me to take pause before judging, admonishing, or abusing others (that’s not quite my style, anyway!)

Further, I read that grief does not shrink over time. Rather, we grow around our grief.

A friend gifted me with a Japanese Kintsugi bowl, alerting me to this longstanding Japanese tradition and how I can grow around my grief and use the principle of Kintsugi as a guiding metaphor in my healing journey.

“When a valuable or cherished ceramic object is broken, the Japanese repair the piece with lacquer mixed with precious metals—gold, silver, or copper—so that the breaks are not only visible, but form a pattern of their own, testifying to the object’s history while transforming how it looks. The repaired object remains its old self while becoming an emblem of resilience and newly envisioned beauty” (Peg Streep).

I cannot expect that I will be restored to my previous state of being. I have been damaged, but I am not a fragile artifact or a piece of cherished art (debatable, actually) that must be repaired so as to look like the damage never happened. It is far more productive to my growth to consider healing with openness and acceptance.

When you can’t go back, you have to worry only about the best way of moving forward (The Alchemist).

What gifts have you found in the midst of your grief?

• Surrender: there is peace, clarity, and freedom in surrendering to the will of the universe. Anything else is just a bundle of anxious feelings. And those don’t feel good to me. I need all the good feelings I can get right now and forever.  

• Fearlessness: This is the worst tragedy and trauma I’ve ever experienced. I could choose to be afraid that I will lose other people or things that are dear to me, but I won’t. I feel like now that I have experienced great loss, the shock, confusion, and pain are building up useful callouses. I cannot and will not be afraid to live, to fall, to fail, to lose. A dear friend inspired me to avoid wondering, “why me?” and instead come at life hard saying, “TRY ME!”

• Resilience: When you have no choice but to bounce back, you bounce back. And now you know how to bounce back. Achievement unlocked. 

• Love and Compassion: I’ve always known how loved we are, but damn. Our people REALLY love and take care of us. 

• Generosity: Our tribe has consistently given their time, energy, love, money, flights, resources, advice, and healing/cheering gifts to fill in the gaps that Chris’ death created. 

• Perspective: Now I know what it’s like to lose a spouse. Now I know what it’s like to have to guide a child through loss and grief. Now I know what to say. Now I know what ABSOLUTELY NOT TO SAY. Now I can be even more understanding for those who have experienced the same or similar. That’s a valuable superpower to me. 

• Calm: This is the most tumultuous period of my life, but I have chosen to sink into the chaos and the unknown because I don’t have any choice or control in the matter. I have chosen to be still and trust in the universe, for It is in the stillness that the body and mind find refuge.

What have you found to be the most beautiful part of life after loss?

I don’t know that I’m quite there on this journey, but I am confident that I will find it. Right now, though, I find it hard to accept and appreciate moments of beauty and happiness because I feel guilty. I feel like I should be grieving and mourning forever to honor Chris’ life, pain, and memory. And, ridiculously, to fall in line with peoples’ expectations of what grief is supposed to look like. I feel like people are expecting me to always be in hysterics, but a) I have a kid to raise and b) there are only so many tears and emotions that can come out--or that I allow out each day. I know none of it is rational or helpful or productive, but I dare anyone who has experienced loss to avoid it.  I do believe, though, that renewal is upon me. I feel an internal and external shift brewing. I know that incredible things are coming. I know that I am highly favored. I put good into the universe and it rewards me. I will not be afraid to shine my light at full brightness. I will not allow anything to suppress the brilliance of my mind, heart, or soul. I will illuminate in this hour of darkness and be a beacon of light for my daughter and for others.

What kind of grief support have you found to be most helpful?

I have a bereavement therapist who is helping to guide me through this journey and onto the next phase. Ruby and I will start attending family grief support meetings next month.

A few members of my tribe in particular have been especially wise, supportive, and generous in creating space for me and for my grief. I can be completely candid and transparent with them without fear of judgment. They seem to know exactly what to say to make me feel better, challenge intrusive thoughts, and suggest alternative perspectives.

What do you want the world to know about your husband?

I want the people that knew him to know that everything they thought and loved about him was real and true--we just need to come to terms with the notion that perhaps we didn’t know him as well as we thought we did. And that’s okay--he kept a big and dark piece of himself to himself.

What makes you feel most connected to Chris who is no longer here?

Our daughter. She resembles him, she’s left-handed like him, she’s dedicated and motivated like him, her hands remind me of his, she’s stubborn like him. She is him and she is us.

Is there any specific or a symbol that you look for that reminds you of Chris?

Butterflies. Ever since my daughter decided that he was “butterfly daddy”, I have seen more butterflies and butterfly motifs right up in my face than I ever have in my life.

If Chris could tell you anything, what do you think he would say to you?

I actually received messages from him through a very close friend who is a medium. I trust in what she told me because she has known things before and knew things I hadn’t yet told her. He communicated that he was sorry--not for what he did, but for ‘the mess he left me to clean up’. He communicated that I did nothing wrong and I couldn’t have changed anything.

I think he would also say: You tried. You kept me alive for longer than you know. I miss you. I miss her. You’re an amazing mother. You’re doing great. She’s getting so big. She’s so beautiful. She’s so smart. But--what is that horrid American accent?! (He was English, we were living in England, and our daughter has since lost her adorable English accent!)

If you could choose one picture that best visualizes/represents your life now post-loss, what would it be? 

If you knew he could drop by and visit tomorrow, what would your ideal day with Chris look like? 

Talking--a lot. On a beach in Italy, Ruby busily slurping up pasta pomodoro and us eating fritto misto, washed down by prosecco. We’d be more honest with each other than we had been. We’d be forgiving. We’d be accepting. We’d share in healing.

What do you wish you had said to your husband before he left this earth?

You are so deeply loved. You will be so desperately missed. By hundreds of people across the world. You are not a burden. We need you. Ruby needs you. You need you. Let’s talk. I’m here and I will continue to be here for you. I want to help you and I will help you, but you have to let me. Please, let me help you. Please, don’t go.

Is there anything else you want to say on this topic?

First: At the start of Chris’ end, I thought that I only had to cope with the loss of his life. As I journey through this, though, I’ve found that there is still more loss. I’ve had to let go of expectations--of myself, of other people, and of grief. I had to let go of the life I cultivated in England. I had to let go of Ruby’s English accent (a devastation)! I had to let go of people whom I thought cared about me. I had to let go of control--the universe gon’ do what it’s gon’ do. In becoming a single parent, I had to let go of more freedoms. I have to let go of being concerned with others’ opinions or assumptions about me--that’s a work in progress.

Just minutes after I finished writing that, I saw this statement from Morgan Richard Oliver: “They don’t need to know your side of the story, and you don’t need the last word. Seek healing and you’ll find peace in not proving your point.” There is a lot of complexity surrounding Chris’ death and the months leading up to it; much of it is unknown to many people, including those who considered themselves close to him. Some people on his side are treating me as though I am to blame. That is a fucking heavy burden to carry. I’m trying my best not to, but that’s another work in progress. It’s especially hard to just sit here and swallow the idea that people hold you responsible (however irrational) for someone’s death. I’ve had moments where I’ve wanted to sputter out every last detail for them, in an attempt to absolve myself of their incorrect assumptions. There are moments when I have done it and I always regret it. I shouldn’t have to explain myself or relive traumas in order to qualify for respect.

Second: Engaging with these interview questions made me realize that this grief is a living, breathing creature inside of me. It’s one thing one day and then an entirely different thing the next. Sometimes, when it’s awake, it takes up all the space in my chest and in my gut. Sometimes, it naps. Sometimes it’s a light sleeper. Other times, it sleeps soundly. When I feed it bad things (negative self-talk, blame, guilt), it doesn’t feel good. When I feed it good things (family, friends, good experiences), it feels better. It needs love, it needs compassion, it needs reassurance, it needs exercise, it needs fresh air, it needs to talk, it needs quiet time, it needs a vacation, it needs therapy.

Publish date: July 5, 2021