Eighteen years. That’s how long it’s been since Flora passed. And yet, every October, the grief feels fresh, like an old scar that aches with the change of weather. I know grief is supposed to fade with time, but mine didn’t follow that script. It grew up with me, weaving itself into my life, changing shape but never leaving. In professional terms, this is called complicated grief—the kind that sticks around, lingering far beyond the timeline society expects.
The Day Everything Changed
It started with a strange feeling in my gut. Flora always called me on my birthday, but that year, the phone never rang. I called her every day that week, growing more anxious as time passed. People began checking on me in ways that felt odd, asking if I was okay, avoiding eye contact. No one wanted to be the person to tell me what had happened—until one brave soul told me to sit down. Flora was gone. Flora and her father tragically lost their lives in a car accident near their home in Houston, Texas. Her mother and brother, who were also in the car, survived but began a long journey of physical and emotional rehabilitation. They had been buried already, and I hadn’t even known.
The rest of that day is a blur. I remember hearing someone scream, only to realize the sound was coming from me. I banged my head against the wall, desperate to wake up from what felt like a nightmare. But it wasn’t a dream. I took whatever anxiolytics (a class of medications sometimes called anti-anxiety medications or minor tranquilizers used to prevent or treat anxiety symptoms or disorders) I could find, hoping to sleep, to escape, to forget. Flora’s death didn’t just take her life—it shattered mine.
Who Was Flora Golding?
Flora Golding was born in Kiev, Ukraine, on October 28, 1980. As a child, she moved with her family to Houston, Texas, quickly adapting to her new environment. Flora was bright and accomplished, but what truly defined her was her warmth, joy, and boundless energy. She was the kind of person everyone was drawn to—deeply social, adventurous, and always full of life.
Flora and I met during our gap year in Israel in 1998-1999. Her love for Israel and endless curiosity made her the perfect travel companion. We spent that year exploring every corner of the country, and later, we took on Europe together for a month—her adventurous spirit shining through not just in the places we visited, but in the way she lived.
We both moved to New York and shared a tiny basement apartment in Brooklyn that became a lively hub for our friends and anyone passing through. Flora had an extraordinary way of knowing exactly how I felt without me saying a word. Whether I was happy, sad, or angry, Flora always understood—and I felt the same about her.
Though her life was tragically cut short, Flora’s legacy endures. She left behind a lasting impression of love, resilience, and joy in the hearts of everyone who knew her.
What is Complicated Grief?
Complicated grief—also referred to as Prolonged Grief Disorder (PGD) in the latest ICD-11 and DSM-5-TR—is a persistent, debilitating form of mourning that continues long after the acute grief phase. This condition affects around 7-10% of bereaved people, particularly those who lose loved ones in sudden or traumatic ways (Bryant, 2012)
Symptoms include overwhelming sadness, a deep sense of emptiness, and persistent thoughts or preoccupation with the deceased. Individuals often experience a lack of energy, feel emotionally numb, or struggle to find joy in activities that once brought meaning. They may report that life has lost its “taste” or appeal, and they find it hard to imagine a future without their loved one. Physical symptoms, such as fatigue and difficulty sleeping, are also common.
Unlike depression, where hopelessness is pervasive, complicated grief revolves around the longing for the deceased, making it challenging to adjust to life without them.
Invisible Grief: Who Was I to Mourn?
The hardest part of grieving Flora was the isolation. My grief felt invisible to others—"Who was I to mourn so deeply?" Some people thought my sadness was too intense. Others said it lasted too long. A few even asked if Flora and I had been romantically involved, as if only a lover’s grief could justify the depth of my sorrow. We weren’t family, and we weren’t lovers—so whom was I to mourn this deeply? But Flora was a friend whose presence shaped my life in ways difficult to explain.
Invisible grief is the kind that society doesn’t always recognize. Relationships outside of family bonds can leave the bereaved feeling isolated, unsure if they have the “right” to grieve. Research shows that this experience is not uncommon; societal norms often dictate who is allowed to mourn and for how long, leaving many to carry their grief alone. (Neimeyer et al., 2014)
When Grief Feels Uncomfortable for Others
One of the hardest parts of complicated grief is how uncomfortable it can make others. Friends tried to comfort me, but their discomfort with my emotions was palpable. I learned the hard way that society often expects grief to follow a timeline—months, maybe a year, and then we’re supposed to move on.
But grief, especially complicated grief, doesn’t work that way. It’s not something to “solve” or “get over.” As the writer Megan Devine put it in It’s OK That You’re Not OK:
Grief is not a problem to be fixed; it is an experience to be carried.
The isolation I felt after Flora’s death was one of the most painful aspects of my experience. No one should ever have to feel that way—alone with their grief, wondering if their sorrow is too deep or lasting too long.
Community support is critical, especially for those experiencing complicated grief. Raising awareness about the different ways people experience grief is critical. Through research and practice, we know that community support is critical for healing from complicated grief. Therapy is more effective when combined with support networks that validate and normalize grief experiences.
This is part of the reason I feel so passionate about the work we do at ICAR Collective to normalize mental health. Our mission is to ensure that no one has to feel the kind of loneliness I felt after Flora’s passing.
Experiencing Growth Amid the Grief
Flora’s loss changed everything for me. It took time, the support of an amazing mental health professional, and a lot of internal work, but eventually, I found a way forward. When I became acutely aware that life was short, I decided to make big changes. I pursued an MBA and dove into the world of healthcare. Flora’s death fueled my passion for health and, ultimately, public health and mental health. That energy—born from grief—propelled me through every challenge along the way.
Even though my grief still feels raw at times, it no longer consumes me the way it once did. Growth doesn’t erase grief—it just makes room for other things, like joy, love, and resilience. My heart has grown around my sorrow, expanding to accommodate both the sadness of Flora’s absence and the happiness I’ve found in other parts of life. This is often described as the "dual process model" of grieving—finding ways to live with the loss while also engaging with life again.
It’s OK That You’re Not OK
The grief I carry for Flora is still with me, quieter but constant. It has shaped who I am and how I live my life. I carry her with me, in my choices, in my passions, in the work I do. And I’ve learned that it’s okay to not be okay—that grief isn’t a problem to be solved but an experience to be honored. Grief demands compassion—not just from others, but from ourselves.
This post isn’t just for Flora—it’s for anyone carrying invisible grief, anyone who feels isolated in their mourning. You are not alone.
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