Living in the Shadows: The Struggles of Finding Community While Battling Grief and Mental Health

By Josette Ciceron

unapologeticallyanxiousme@gmail.com

What does it mean to truly live in a community —or should I say, among community? It’s a question I have been wrestling with since I moved to Fargo-Moorhead in February 2022. On the surface, I might seem like a newcomer still settling in, but I have been here nearly two years. I’m not exactly “living” here, though — more like hiding behind the shadows of my curtains, sheltered by the walls of the small apartment my family calls home.

I did not arrive as a recluse. When I first moved here, I was wide-eyed and optimistic, ready to carve out a space for my family in this new town. After seven exhausting years in Alexandria, enduring some of the worst racism, discrimination, and trauma, I needed to believe in fresh starts. Alexandria was the place where racial profiling of my husband led to his mistaken arrest by the police. After years of fighting for our family and advocating for others who looked like us, I was just desperate for peace.

But trauma leaves deep scars, and I had not realized just how deeply those years had carved into me. Nor did I expect life to throw more curveballs. Soon after settling into Fargo, my mother was diagnosed with adenocarcinoma cancer, and everything in my world came to a screeching halt. We had a rocky, estranged relationship for years, but the diagnosis forced us to drop all that. I spent the next year and a half rushing to her side until she passed away in the summer of 2023.

Grief is like that. It creeps up on you, settling deep in your bones when you least expect it. My mother’s death was not just the loss of a parent; it was the loss of a part of me. Something inside me died with her, but I’m still not sure how to explain what exactly that something was. It’s been over a year now, and I’m still sorting through the mess of feelings: guilt, anger, sadness, longing, all swirling together in ways that leave me raw and confused.

The loneliness that comes with grief is hard to describe. It is not just about missing someone; it’s about carrying the weight of everything — grief, anxiety, depression, PTSD, ADHD, and bipolar disorder — all at once. And the easiest response? Retreat. Hide. Become a hermit in your own life. I’m a 30-something Black mom, just trying to make it through, and if you’ve ever felt that way too, I see you. You are not alone.

Despite the love of my two beautiful children and the unwavering support of my husband — who happens to be my best friend — life can still feel isolating. And as someone balancing motherhood, marriage, and mental health struggles, finding real community hasn’t been easy. I host a podcast called “Unapologetically Anxious Me: Confessions of a Haitian Girl,” where I share my personal stories and interview others about mental health. But even as I pour my heart out on the mic, I often feel like I’m shouting into the void.

I have tried to find my place here. I have hosted a few local events in an attempt to connect with people, but there is still a part of me that feels like I’m fading into the background, unseen and unheard.

How do we feel seen in our communities? How do we reach out when the weight of everything makes just getting out of bed seem impossible?

In a world that’s always on the move, it’s easy to overlook the people right next to us who are hurting. We get caught up in the hustle — work, errands, the day-to-day grind. We pass by our neighbors, barely noticing the person who has not left their house in days or the colleague who has been a little quieter than usual. We miss the signs.

I did not come to Fargo-Moorhead to disappear, but somewhere in my grief and mental health battles, I’ve felt myself slip into the shadows. I know I’m not the only one. Many of us — especially people of color — are carrying burdens too heavy to bear alone, yet we move through life unnoticed, lost in a society that is too busy to slow down.

But here’s the thing: community is everything. Sometimes all it takes is a simple check-in, a knock on the door, a genuine “How are you?” to remind someone that they matter. It is so easy to feel invisible when you are struggling, but we do not have to stay hidden. By sharing our stories, showing up, and building connections, we create spaces where we can be seen and heard.

To anyone out there who feels like they are fading into the background; I see you. I’ve been there. And I believe we can build communities that lift each other up instead of letting people slip through the cracks. It starts with kindness, with being more present, with choosing to slow down and pay attention to the people around us.

So, how do you feel seen in your community? And how can we ensure that no one feels like they are walking this journey alone?

In a world that’s constantly rushing forward, let’s make time to really see each other. Because when we do, we create the kind of community that sustains us all.

Josette Ciceron is the host of the podcast “Unapologetically Anxious Me: Confessions of a Haitian Girl,” Jo uses her platform to amplify the voices of marginalized communities and openly share her personal journey with mental health, grief and identity as a Haitian American. A published author and speaker, she advocates for mental wellness and social justice, drawing from her own lived experiences to inspire and connect with others. Follow her on Instagram @unapologeticallyanxiouspod.