There's a grief that doesn't have language. Not because the loss isn't real but because nobody's talking about it. And when nobody's talking, you start to wonder if you're allowed to feel it.

I know this grief. I've lived it twice.

In 2021, I lost my mother to COVID-19. A couple years later, I learned my child was trans. And, somewhere in the middle of those two losses, I grieved a version of my child I would never meet in the way I imagined. The dreams held, the identity I thought we shared, is gone...or rather changed. I grieved, and I did it quietly, because there was no space for a Black mother to speak these feelings out loud.

This is a story about that grief. And, about what happens when you let yourself feel it, move through it, and come out the other side...

Maybe, not to the life you imagined, but to the one that's actually yours.

SIGNALS: The Moment
I didn't know what I was grieving yet. I just knew something had shifted.

My child had always been gay, I knew that since 8th or 9th grade. I'd made peace with that. But trans was different. It wasn't just about who they loved; it was about who they were. And somehow, that felt like a loss of something I didn't even know I'd been holding onto: the image of the child I'd birthed, the dreams I'd carried for them, the version of them I thought I knew.

So I started to grieve.

It wasn't one moment of acceptance followed by peace. It was a year, a full year of waves. With a cup of confusion. A sprinkle of fear. And, a dash of anger. I was grieving it all. The thought: What kind of mother am I? Then: I'm a mother. My child is becoming who they need to be. Why am I making this about me? Then back to: But I'm also allowed to feel this.

That cycle. Over and over. For a year.

And here's what made it worse: I had nowhere to put it. No one to tell. No space that felt safe.

I was grieving my mother (2021) while my child was coming out (2024), and the two griefs were running parallel, where one was public (my mother's death) and the other invisible (my child's transition). Society knew how to hold the first one. Nobody knew what to do with the second, especially not in Black spaces, especially not with a Black mother trying to navigate it.

I went to a grief group for trans-parents. When I told my story as a Black mother, grieving parallel losses, trying to figure out how to love my child and myself at the same time, the room went silent. Nobody spoke. Nobody comforted me. I felt the weight of being unseen on top of everything else. I just melted in my seat and slowly crawled into my car and burst into tears.

That's when I realized: Black parents are invisible in these conversations. We grieve alone. We carry it alone. And there's a particular kind of loneliness in a room full of people who should understand you and don't.

Let's face it, in matters such as these, we become our own therapist, giving ourselves the pep talk needed to keep going.

SOURCES: What I know now
When I was in that first year, I didn't know:

That grief isn't betrayal. I thought if I felt sad about losing the child I'd imagined, I was rejecting the child in front of me. But, I know now, "That's not true". Grief and love aren't opposites. You can grieve a version of the future and be fully present for the version that's actually unfolding. One doesn't cancel the other out.

That my child's decision to be their authentic self was actually a gift. I was so focused on what I thought we were losing that I didn't see what we were gaining: a child brave enough to decide who they want to be and actually be that person. Not performing. Not hiding. Not living a life that looks good from the outside while dying on the inside. They chose authenticity, and that took courage I didn't know I needed to witness.

That there are no Black spaces to grieve this. I needed community. I needed other Black mothers/parents/community who understood. I needed a church to say "come in and tell us your pain." Instead, I got "you need an appointment to see the pastor". I got silence in grief groups and silence in other LGBTQ-parent groups. I got invisibility.

That my spirituality could hold both losses at once. When I was drowning, the Novena prayers found me. Not because I was looking for them but because I was desperate. I found myself driving around, then suddenly pulling into a Catholic church in a daze, and something shifted. I learned about the nine novena prayers, words I could hold when I had no words of my own. That wasn't about converting. It was about finding a language for my pain when nobody else had one.

That my child wasn't the only one changing. The year of acceptance wasn't just about me understanding my child's transition. It was about me understanding myself differently, "I'm too. As a mother. As a woman who'd been taught that motherhood was about a certain kind of role, a certain kind of dream. My child's authenticity forced me to ask: Who am I if not the woman who imagined that future?

What Black parents need to hear:

Your child is making a decision about who they want to be in life, and they're actually being that person. Not hiding. Not performing. Not dying inside so you can feel comfortable. That's not a loss. That's freedom. And watching someone you love choose freedom, even when it's different from what you imagined? That's actually healing.

Your grief is real. It's also temporary. It doesn't define your love. It doesn't make you a bad parent. It makes you human.

What Black trans youth need to hear:

Your parents' grief isn't about you. It's about the story they had to let go of. And if they love you, truly love you, they'll do the work to let it go faster than I did. They'll choose you. They'll choose your authenticity over their comfort. And even if it takes them a year to get there, you're worth the wait.

SHIFT: The Turning Point in Acceptance
I can't pinpoint the exact moment acceptance arrived. It wasn't a eureka. It was gradual, like the sun rising, you don't see it happen, but one day you realize it's light.

But I can tell you what shifted it:

As a therapist, I started working with my clients, people coming to me, carrying the same grief I was carrying. Black parents. Black families. All of us invisible. And when they told me their stories, I heard myself. And I realized: I'm not alone in this. And if I'm not alone, then my child isn't alone either.

That's when I understood what my child's courage actually meant. They weren't rejecting me. They weren't leaving the family. They were saying: This is who I am. I'm brave enough to be it. And I hope you're brave enough to love me anyway.

So I did the work. The internal work. The spiritual work. The work of grieving what I thought would be, and celebrating what actually is.

And here's what I want you to know if you're in that year of resistance:

The shift doesn't require you to stop grieving.

It requires you to keep going while grieving.

To feel the sadness and the pride at the same time. To miss the imagined future and be amazed by the actual present. To be a parent who says, "I didn't understand this at first, and I'm learning, and I love my child anyway."

That's transPARENTcy !!

The turning point for me was this: I stopped asking my child to heal my grief and started asking myself to do the work.

SHARP: Practical Things That Helped
If you're in that first year, here's what moved me through:

Find your Novena, whatever that is for you. For me, it was prayers. For you, it might be therapy, journaling, a trusted friend, a spiritual practice, music, movement, or community. Find the thing that lets you feel without judgment. Then use it.

Stop looking for validation in rooms that can't see you. I sat in a grief group full of people who should have understood, and I felt more alone than ever. I stopped going back. I found a therapist. I found the spaces where Black mothers were allowed to grieve and love all at once. You don't need everyone to understand. You need someone to see you.

Tell your story. This is the work I'm doing now. I can't hold this alone anymore. The invisibility is killing us...Black parents, Black trans youth, all of us pretending everything's fine when it's not. I'm talking about it. And I'm inviting you to talk about it too.

Reframe what your child's authenticity means. Stop seeing it as a loss. See it as a mirror. Your child decided who they want to be and they're actually being that person. Not hiding. Not performing. Not dying inside. That's not rebellion—that's courage. And if you can witness that, really witness it, you might realize: My child is teaching me how to be brave too.

Give yourself a year. Not because you'll be "fixed" by then, but because grief is a timeline. You don't get to rush it. You don't get to skip it. You get to move through it at your own pace, with your own faith, in your own way. A year later, I'm not "over it." I'm integrated. My child's transition is part of my story now; not the ending, but a turning point that made me braver and more honest about what it means to be a mother.

Know that acceptance isn't about you. It's about your child. It's about choosing love over comfort. It's about saying: I didn't understand this at first. I grieved. I cried. I was afraid. And then I realized my child is the bravest person I know, and I get to be their mother. That's the gift.

You Are Not Invisible
I'm a therapist, and people come to me with this type of grief all the time. All of us are carrying something we can't talk about in our communities, to our families. All of us may feel invisible.

Sometimes it feels like there are no safe spaces for us to divulge our pain. Where no one's writing about Black Parents grieving while loving. Where no one's talking about what it means to lose a version of your child while celebrating the one in front of you. Where no one's centering Black trans youth as the brave, authentic human beings they are.

So I'm starting.

I'm opening the dialogue.

I'm saying: Your grief is real. Your love is real. Your child's authenticity is real. And you're not alone.

Black parents: You are seen. Your pain matters. Your journey to acceptance matters. And your child is worth every wave of emotion you move through to get there.

Black trans youth: You are brave. Your authenticity is not a burden. Your parents' grief isn't about you, it's about the story they have to let go of. And when they do, they're going to love you in a way that's even more real because they chose it. They chose you.

The Invitation
I can't hold this alone anymore. And neither should you.

If you're a Black parent navigating this grief. If you're a Black trans young person trying to find your place. If you're a Black family member struggling with what it means to love someone through their transition.

DM me. Let's talk about it. Let's build the space that didn't exist for me. Let's be visible together.

I'm still building the container to hold these conversations formally (my youth-based coaching business is coming), but right now, I'm here. I'm listening. I'm a therapist, a mother, and someone who's lived this. And I know what it feels like to grieve and love at the same time.

You're not alone, even when it feels that way.

Somewhere under the rainbow, there's a space for you. For your grief. For your love. For your child's authenticity. For your courage.

I'm building it. And I'm inviting you in.

DM me if you want to talk about this. Your story matters. Black parents matter. Black trans youth matter. Let's make sure we stop being invisible.

We’re just getting started.

— Beyond Social Work with Sherrita Cee

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BEYOND SOCIAL WORK | By Sherrita Cee (Formerly Be Wellthy Newsletter)