Intermittent Grieving

Today would have been my father, Eugene E. Burrell, Sr.’s, 73rd birthday.

As I reflect on his legacy and his impact on my life, I am filled with so many emotions. My father passed away 30 days after I struck out on my own as a full-time entrepreneur. In the midst of the nerves, excitement, fear, triumph, confirmation, jubilation and motivation inherent in a decision like that one, I found myself staring at my phone on Monday, September 6, 2021 after first hearing about the tragic passing of Michael K. Williams. I was about to make a post about him--a tribute of sorts--but something in my spirit gave me pause as if to say I would need to save my strength and emotion. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it; I just stared at my phone unable to type a word as I waited in the car with my kids as my wife ran into the grocery store to grab some food and drink (we were on our way to a close friends’ house for a small Labor Day gathering).

It was while I was holding my phone that my mother called. “Your dad is no longer with us,” she said. “He transitioned about an hour ago.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you for letting me know, mom.”

 “Of course,” she replied.

She then went down the line to contact the balance of my seven siblings, as I knew she would.

My father had been battling two forms of cancer--Myelodysplastic syndrome and Leukemia--for more than five years. Shortly after Father's Day he was hospitalized and we were told by doctors then that he was transitioning. But forewarning doesn't mean the forfeiting of feelings.

 I shuddered under the weight of tears and my two children, Samara and Solomon—who were the ripe young ages of 8 and 4 at the time, sensed something was wrong and unbuckled their seatbelts and asking me what was wrong.

“Pop-pop passed away,” I managed to utter between sobs.

They threw their arms around me and told me it was going to be okay. Samara wiped my tears with her sleeves and looked at me in my face and told me,

 “It’s going to be okay, daddy. You’ll see pop-pop again. He was so proud of you, do you know that?”

I couldn’t even type that statement without tears, so you can imagine how much more the waterworks flowed when she said that in real time.

 I went through a fog over the weeks to follow, as I reached out to those entities who I do incredible work with to let them know that I would need to take some time away so I could attend to all the concrete and nebulous things that surround the ambiguous loss of a loved one.

I found myself uttering messages I didn’t author one my head as I made my way through—

“You’re a full-time entrepreneur now—you can’t afford to take off too much time or you won’t be able to provide for your family.”

 “It’s risky to let your clients know that you’re grieving right now—what if they thing you’re too fragile to work and opt to go with someone else?”

 I met those thoughts with the resolve implanted in me by my father and the reminder shared with me in the weeks following his passing. For in the first few days after that day, three people who don’t know each other but all know me told me the exact same statement.

 They stated, “Olu—do you know what one of your superpowers is? Your ability to be vulnerable.”

 I never really thought about that before and didn’t quite know how to receive it at the time, but I resolved to stay open to what it meant to be vulnerable.

In the months that have followed since his passing, I have sought to honor my father’s legacy by committing to holding space as he did, under the umbrella of what he called “a community of grace.”

 Some days it’s hard, as grief visits itself upon me at largely inopportune times (is there even such a thing as an opportune time for grief?) I call this process “intermittent grieving.” So when I’m sitting across from an individual or a group client, my compass is attuned to their humanity—attuned to seeing them in the tradition of sonder—attuned to simply Sawubona.

 So today, I remember my father for all he was (and is) to me. And I sit and reflect on how to honor the father who became ancestor in every breath and with every intention.

 I’ve written about my dad several times before, including here, and here. I’m grateful that he was able to read my words as tribute and that he was able to see me strike out on my own—though I’m never alone—because his spirit is with me, always. I love you, dad. Happy Birthday; I hope I’m making you proud.