It’s been just over two years since my 27-year-old brother passed away suddenly, and just two weeks before my 64-year-old father unexpectedly passed away from cancer. What followed was a series of “secondary losses.” For my family, secondary loss includes changes in caregiving dynamics and the emotional labor required to rebuild daily life while permanently relocating to another country after multiple losses. I was there. This article is not about my grief, but about how the experience of loss reveals the cracks and possibilities in our care systems.
We are living in a moment in history where death and grief are fundamental to our collective experience. The pandemic has forced us to witness mass deaths every day, grieve in isolation, and huddle apart. Wars, political factors, climate change and genocide have deepened historical wounds, forcing millions of people to flee, grieve and rebuild without adequate support, sometimes for generations. . Rising inequalities are further limiting access to the health and care systems needed to maintain long, healthy lives.
This week’s news spotlights two events that bring the politics of life and death into sharp relief. The murder of US healthcare CEO Brian Thompson has highlighted the human cost of a privatized, profit-driven healthcare system. The words “denial,” “defense,” and “disposition” on the bullets were reportedly based on the language used by insurance companies and in J. M. Feynman’s book, “Defending Late Denials: It reflects the reasons why insurance claims are not paid and what can be done. Do about it. ” The chilling message became a hot topic in the United States. Meanwhile, the UK’s assisted dying bill has sparked a debate over who has the right to choose how they die, and under what circumstances true dignity can be maintained in both life and death. I rekindled it. These stories are not isolated, but reflect broader systemic failures that force us to navigate the complexities of care without adequate support throughout life and death.
None of us go through life unscathed by death in our personal lives. Our personal experiences of grief provide a small window into these events and allow us to connect with a sense of shared humanity around the world. Here are some of the small windows that my grief has opened for me.
Lesson 1: People should be allowed to live and die with dignity.
Dignity in life: My brother had diabetes, but his care was inconsistent. Managing chronic diseases is difficult and, as I learned during his life and death, requires coordinated care, not just through individual action, but also through policy, institutional, community, and even family considerations. is. All these factors must work together and be protected by strong social safety nets. My brother worked as a chef in the United States for many years, but he didn’t have the insurance or support he needed to manage high insulin prices and hospitalizations.
dignity of death. As health systems become increasingly privatized, the very concept of “care” is often lost. My father spent his life working with passion, but was abandoned when he needed help the most. It seemed to me that profit took precedence over compassion. This is a pattern that is repeated in countries with neoliberal tendencies that prioritize commercial interests over health care.
After my brother’s unexpected death, I was forced to use his loss as currency and begged my father’s previous employer to secure the insurance necessary for my father’s dignified death. It was a humbling reminder of how deeply our system commodifies care, even in moments of profound vulnerability.
Living and dying with dignity should not depend on one’s ability to pay. No one should have to overcome chronic illness, disability, or end-of-life care without consistent support, and no one should push grieving families further into financial despair.
Lesson 2: Grief needs a home.
My mom and I moved and packed four times in two years, with a few small moves in between. While there is a sense of loss, there is a chronic feeling of fatigue that lingers years later and reappears in unexpected ways. There is a physical need to rest, to cry, to be surrounded by the artifacts of a life lived, things that bring comfort and connection to one’s history. A calm, stable home provides the consistency and foundation you need to imagine your life, develop ideas, rest, and consider what comes next.
Recent studies have shown that sadness causes neural changes in the brain that can have long-term physical effects, including an increased risk of chronic diseases throughout the life course. These effects are further exacerbated by housing instability, which is associated with increased psychological distress and negative health outcomes, especially in low-income communities facing eviction, homelessness, or substandard living conditions. .
As Europe and other parts of the world face a growing housing crisis, evictions, and gentrification, we prioritize tourism and private banking efforts while simultaneously hosting refugees grieving multiple losses. evicting other people from their homes. Europe’s Roma communities are being persistently evicted by international banks, while migrants face significant barriers to finding housing. Gentrification, on the other hand, displaces long-time residents and erases community ties and history.
The housing crisis is part of the mental health crisis. Displacement due to eviction, war, gentrification, etc. does not provide individuals with the security and stability they need to overcome their grief and rebuild their lives. Addressing housing stability as part of mental health care is essential. Without it, millions of people around the world risk perpetuating a cycle of displacement and mental suffering.
Lesson 1: We need to make non-traditional family structures politically and culturally relevant.
My best friend, as anyone close to us knows, has always been like another sister or daughter in our family. My brothers and I always considered her part of our inner circle of brothers. It was a way to honor the deep mutual care that had defined her role in our lives since she and I were 13 years old.
But when the two deaths occurred, it’s no wonder she struggled to navigate her position within a system that assumes family structure is simply biological or legal. Sometimes it was difficult to tell others that the death of her brother and father was deep for her too. It was never an act of generosity on my part, it was simply a family life story that we chose to share.
For vulnerable communities, the risks are even higher. Policies that narrowly define family disproportionately harm individuals from marginalized groups, including the LGBTQ+ community, immigrants, and people of racial backgrounds. There, chosen family members and the wider community often play an important role in survival and emotional support.
Traditional definitions of family fail to account for the richness of non-traditional relationships, whether in the workplace, health care and school policies, legal frameworks, or psychological research and practice. These rigid structures ignore the tremendous care and effort that friends, our chosen families, and non-biological kin provide, leaving us disenfranchised in moments of profound loss. This exclusion not only denies them the recognition they deserve, but actively depletes their capacity to grieve, further isolating them in their pain.
It is time to rethink the meaning of family in our policies and practices and expand the definition to reflect the diverse ways we form and value relationships. Recognizing these bonds is not only an act of fairness, but also to foster an inclusive system where everyone can feel seen, valued, and supported in their grief. It’s essential.
Grief should not remain an isolated, personal experience. It has the ability to expose inequalities in our care system, humanize it, and connect us with issues that may feel distant from our own reality. Loss is inevitable, but how we choose to respond to it as a community and as a society can and should be profoundly transformative.
