Reclaiming My Identity Through Grief and the Last Spoon of Self-Care

In March, I sat myself down for a meeting I never expected to have. It was quiet, just me and the weight of everything I had been carrying. I looked myself in the mirror and said, “I’m not okay.” That moment was raw and honest, a turning point between merely surviving the loss of my parents and choosing to rebuild my life with intention. It was the first step toward reclaiming my identity in the life after losing parents.

Grief had reshaped everything I thought I knew about myself, home, and what mattered most. But admitting I wasn’t okay opened the door to the healing journey after losing parents, not by rushing through pain, but by learning to carry it with me.

🎙 Prefer to listen?

This article is a written reflection based on my conversation with Brenda on the Healing Hearts Podcast. If you'd rather listen first, or hear the story in my own words, you can watch the full conversation below before continuing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yD3Af_3GK0w

The Grief I Never Had Time to Feel

My grief didn't begin when I lost my mum. It began 5 years earlier when my dad, Simon Makite, passed away on 29th October 2020, during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Like many families at the time, we experienced loss under circumstances that made saying goodbye almost impossible. One day, my dad was admitted to the hospital. Within hours, he was gone. I wasn't home when he became unwell, so I never got to be with him in his final moments. Because of the restrictions, I never saw him again. My goodbye came through a closed casket and the quiet disbelief that my dad was really inside it.

How do you accept a goodbye you never witnessed?

People often talk about the stages of grief, but for me, denial wasn't a stage. It became a place I lived in.

Before I had the chance to process what had happened, life demanded that I keep moving. There was university to finish, and a family trying to find its footing. A mother who had just lost her husband. A younger sister who needed reassurance. An older sister carrying her own pain. A family that had to deal with the wrath from toxic relatives on my father's side. It was a lot to handle. Somewhere along the way, I became what people called "the strong one."

Looking back, I don't think I was strong.

I was surviving.

As the years passed, my grief quietly changed shape. Losing my dad introduced me to another kind of grief I had never known existed: Anticipatory grief. Every phone call from my mum carried an unspoken fear, and every delayed response made my mind imagine the worst. I rarely spoke about those thoughts because they felt irrational.

But grief isn't always rational.

Once you've experienced the unimaginable, your mind begins preparing for it to happen again.

Then, on 19th September 2025, my greatest fear became reality. My mum, Joyce Keli Makite, wasn't feeling well one Thursday evening at around 10:30 PM, and after we spoke, I sent her a message. She never replied. A few hours later, at around 3:00 a.m., she complained of severe chest pain and was rushed to the hospital. She suffered a cardiac arrest and never came back home.

Reading my mother's tribute at her funeral

In the space of 5 years, I had lost both of my parents.

It wasn't until much later that I realised the grief I had postponed after losing my dad had never disappeared. It had simply been waiting for the moment life became quiet enough for me to hear it.

Losing my mum didn't begin my grief. It reopened a wound I had never truly had the chance to heal.

Planning My Mother's Burial While Grieving Her

One of the hardest parts of losing my mum wasn't only saying goodbye. It was having to make decisions while my heart was still trying to process the reality that she was gone.

There wasn't time to simply grieve. There were meetings to attend, relatives to update, finances to organise, service providers to coordinate, and countless decisions that needed to be made. Every conversation reminded me why we were gathered in the first place.

As one of her daughters, I wanted to be involved. I wanted to help ensure that the woman who had given so much of herself throughout her life was honoured with dignity. Planning her burial became one of the most painful acts of love I have ever experienced, despite being the hardest thing to do.

But grief wasn't the only thing I had to carry.

Ours is a blended family. My mum was my dad's second wife, and together they had 3 daughters. I also have 3 older stepbrothers. Like many blended families, ours was shaped by different relationships, histories, and expectations. After losing both of my parents, some of those complexities became more apparent, adding another layer to an already difficult season.

At one point during the planning process, one of our male cousins openly said during one of the meetings, "Etu meeneenaa kwoo," a Kikamba phrase used to suggest that women should not have a voice in family decisions.

Those words have stayed with me. Not because I wanted to argue.

But because they wanted to reduce us to spectators at one of the most significant moments of our lives.

We weren't outsiders offering opinions. We were her daughters.

The same daughters who had lost their mother.

The same daughters whose world had changed overnight.

The same daughters who would continue living with the absence of our mother long after everyone had returned to their normal lives.

In that moment, grief became intertwined with something else: the painful realisation that even in mourning, some people believed our voices mattered less simply because we were women.

I didn't want control. I didn't want recognition.

I simply wanted to honour my mother and contribute to the decisions surrounding her final farewell.

That experience taught me that grief doesn't happen in isolation. Alongside the pain of losing someone you love, there can also be cultural expectations, family dynamics, and words that leave wounds of their own.

Looking back, I realise how much emotional energy those moments consumed. They became invisible burdens, quietly taking spoons I didn't know I was spending. Perhaps that's why protecting my energy later became so important. I had already learned what it felt like to give so much of myself while trying to hold together a life that had fallen apart.

Discovering the Last Spoon

Months later after Mum's burial, I stumbled upon the idea of Spoon Theory. It wasn’t something I sought out; it found me when I needed it most. The Spoon Theory, originally created to explain chronic illness by Christine Miserandino, a writer and lupus advocate, suddenly made sense for grief too. It helped me understand that I had a limited number of “spoons” or units of energy each day.

Protecting my last spoon became an act of self-preservation, not selfishness. I learned to say no to things that drained me, even if it meant disappointing others. I realized that not every expectation deserved my remaining energy. Setting boundaries was painful but necessary.

A single spoon on a plate symbolizing self-care and boundaries

This was a new way of living in my grief journey. Instead of trying to fix or overcome grief, I began to see it as part of who I am now. Healing after losing parents wasn’t about erasing the pain but learning to carry love and loss together.

How Losing Both Parents Changed Me

Losing both of my parents, five years apart, changed me in ways I never expected. My sense of home, once tied to their presence, became something I had to redefine. I realized that grief and identity are deeply intertwined. Losing them wasn’t just about absence; it was about losing parts of myself I hadn’t fully understood.

The first months were a blur of arrangements, tears, moments of disbelief, and exhaustion. I survived on adrenaline and necessity. But after that initial storm, a different kind of fatigue settled in; a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that no amount of rest could fix. It was the exhaustion of living in a body and mind that had been stretched beyond their limits.

I had to make a choice: keep pushing through or step back and allow space for healing. Choosing the latter felt like surrender, but it was actually an act of courage.

What Grief Taught Me About Identity

Grief reshaped my identity in ways I didn’t expect. It taught me that becoming isn’t about returning to who I was before loss. Instead, it’s about embracing who I am becoming because of it. My priorities shifted from external achievements to internal peace. My understanding of home expanded beyond physical places to include memories, feelings, and connections.

This process is ongoing. Some days I feel strong, others fragile. But each day I protect my last spoon; I choose to honor my journey. I choose to live with grief, not in spite of it.

Rebuilding Life After Loss with Intention

Rebuilding life after loss meant redefining what mattered. I stopped chasing old goals that no longer fit and started listening to what my heart and body needed. This meant slowing down, embracing quiet moments, and allowing myself to feel without judgment.

Writing became a lifeline. Putting words to my experience helped me make sense of the chaos inside. Storytelling turned into a form of grief advocacy, a way to connect with others walking similar paths. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone, even when grief felt isolating.

What Are You Protecting Your Last Spoon For Today?

If you are reading this, maybe you are somewhere in your own grief journey. Maybe you are rebuilding life after loss or trying to understand how grief and identity fit together. I invite you to reflect on what you are protecting your last spoon for today.

Is it for moments of quiet? For saying no to what drains you? For holding space for your own healing? Whatever it is, know that protecting your energy is a powerful act of self-care and respect.

Grief is not a problem to solve. It is a part of life that shapes us, teaches us, and invites us to become new versions of ourselves. Reclaiming your identity through grief means embracing this transformation with honesty and hope.

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Disclaimer: This article shares personal experiences and reflections on grief. It is intended for informational and supportive purposes and does not replace professional advice.