We Don’t Come Into This World Alone

This weekend reminded me: we don’t come into this world alone, and when we leave it, the journey may be singular—but we are never truly alone. The spirit, the love, and the legacy remain. They live with us. They live through us.

As our newly anointed ancestors begin their reunion with those who transitioned before them, those of us still here are gifted a moment to celebrate an extraordinary life. We send them off with reverence while the ancestors receive them with joy.

Rejoice. Recount. Renew.

Rejoice—to feel and show great joy. Black joy.

I don’t know when the shift happened—from funerals to home goings, to memorials, to celebrations of life—but I do know I was once deathly afraid of funerals. Literally. I was four years old when my grandfather William passed. I remember the sound of my mother’s wail when she got the call. That moment etched itself into me—the deep, soul-wracking cry. It shaped my relationship with grief. To this day, hearing a woman cry renders me helpless.

I didn’t attend another funeral until I was nineteen.

But this weekend, we celebrated the life of my Aunt Birdie. We rejoiced in the life she lived.

Recount—to share stories, memories, laughter.

We told Aunt Birdie stories. Family stories. The kind passed down from generation to generation, in living rooms, around kitchen tables, on front porches. It’s a ritual as old as time. The oral history of us.

Listening to those stories was like time travel. Even if you hadn’t been there, the storytelling made it feel like you had. The words painted the scene so vividly, so fully, you could see it.

Renew— to extend a further period of validity, of family.

Family has no expiration date but must be renewed periodically as a testament to the bond. It’s the look of genuine love on your cousin’s faces, the hugs that are never superficial, the knowing. The knowing. The ways of knowing in the governance structure of Black people, who we are to each other Every culture has some form of it, but we—Black folks—we’ve perfected it. It was on full display.

Two moments stood out to me.
Cynthia’s cooking—passed down from her mother—seasoned with two things you can’t buy: love and love of family.
Her daughter, who the spirit of her late Uncle Chris, flows through her with the natural ability to keep you laughing (Chris used to say rollin’) effortlessly with the exact same syncopation and cadence, and the mannerisms to match.

Grief looks different for everyone.

When you can’t reach out and touch someone you love anymore, you grieve. You must. But somehow—somehow—the joy of family wrapped itself around our mourning this weekend and said, not yet. Just for now, joy had the final word.

Our parents, nearly all ancestors now, instilled in us the sacredness of family. They showed us by example what it means to show up. To stay connected. To love through distance and time. My generation gets it. Even if we don’t gather often, the bond isn’t broken. It’s just waiting.

We know when the call goes out—whether it’s a wedding or a homegoing—we answer. Because community is the thing that holds us all together.

And one last thing—
I gained more cousins this weekend. Aunt Birdie’s side. And in that room, there were no boundaries. No separation. Just love flowing as freely as a great river. Like we were all Day Ones.

I love my family.