It has been a bit over two years since my 27-year-old brother unexpectedly passed away—exactly two weeks before my 64-year-old father, quickly and expectedly, died from cancer. What followed was a series of “secondary losses.” For my family, secondary losses included the shifting dynamics of caregiving and the emotional labor required to rebuild a daily life after multiple losses, while permanently uprooting to a different country.
Yet this article is not about my grief; it’s about how the experience of loss can illuminate the fractures and possibilities within our systems of care.
We are living through a moment in history where death and grief have become the undertones of our collective experience—most notably via a pandemic that forced us to witness deaths in great numbers every day, grieve in isolation, and accompany each other at a distance. Wars, political drivers, climate devastation, and genocide deepen historical wounds, forcing millions to flee, grieve, and rebuild without adequate support—in some cases for generations. Rising inequalities further restrict access to the health and care systems needed to sustain long, healthy lives.
Our personal experiences of grief can offer a small window into these events, allowing us to connect with a shared sense of humanity globally. Here are a few of these small windows my grief opened to me:
Lesson 1: We must place political and cultural relevance on nontraditional family structures.
My best friend, as everyone close to us knows, has always been like another sister and daughter in our family. My brothers and I always considered her part of our inner sibling circle—a way of honoring the deep, mutual care that defined her role in our lives since she and I were 13.
Yet, when the two deaths occurred, she justifiably struggled to navigate her place in a system that assumes family structures are solely biological or legal. At times, it was challenging to convey to others that my brother and dad’s deaths deeply belonged to her, too. It was never an act of generosity on my part, it simply was our shared chosen family life story.
For vulnerable communities, the stakes are even higher. Policies that narrowly define family disproportionately harm individuals in marginalized groups, such as LGBTQ+ communities, migrants, and those from racialized backgrounds, where chosen families and the wider community often play a critical role in survival and emotional support.
Traditional definitions of family—whether in the workplace, healthcare and school policies, legal frameworks, or psychological research and practices—fail to account for the richness of nontraditional relationships. These rigid structures overlook the immense care and labor provided by friends, our chosen family, and non-biological relatives, leaving them disenfranchised in moments of profound loss. This exclusion not only denies them the recognition they deserve but actively depletes their ability to grieve, isolating them further in their pain.
It’s time to reimagine what family means in our policies and practices and expand our definitions to reflect the diverse ways we form and value relationships. Acknowledging these bonds is not only an act of fairness but also essential for fostering inclusive systems that allow everyone to feel seen, valued, and supported in their grief.
Lesson 2: People should be allowed to both live and die with dignity.
Dignity in life: My brother had diabetes, but his care was never consistent. Managing a chronic illness is tricky—something I learned during his life and death—and it requires coordinated care from policies, institutions, communities, and even the sensitivity of family, not just an individuals behavior. All these elements must come together, protected by a strong social safety net. My younger brother was a chef in the United States for many years, without the necessary coverage and support to manage costly insulin prices or hospitalization.
Dignity in death. As healthcare systems become increasingly privatized, the very concept of “care” often gets lost. My father spent his life working passionately, only to be abandoned when he most needed support. It seemed to me that profit was prioritized over compassion, a recurring pattern in countries with neoliberal tendencies that favor commercial interests instead of healthcare.
After my younger brother’s unexpected death, I was forced to use his loss as currency—pleading with my father’s previous employer to secure the insurance coverage my father needed for a dignified death. It was a humiliating reminder of how deeply our systems commodify care, even in moments of profound fragility.
A dignified life and death should not depend on the ability to pay. No one should have to navigate chronic illness, disability, or end-of-life care without consistent support, nor should grieving families be pushed further into economic despair.
Lesson 3: Grief requires a home.
My mother and I moved and boxed things up four times in two years, with several small in-between moves. During a period of loss, there is a chronic sense of exhaustion—one that lingers even years later, resurfacing in unexpected ways. There is a physical need to rest, to cry, to surround yourself with the artifacts of a life lived—objects that bring comfort and connection to your history. A calm, stable home provides the consistency and foundation needed to imagine life, build ideas, rest, and think about what comes next.
Recent research shows that grief causes neural changes in the brain and can have long-term physical effects, including an increased risk of chronic disease across the life course. These impacts are compounded by housing instability, which has been linked to elevated psychological distress and adverse health outcomes, particularly among low-income communities facing evictions, homelessness, or substandard living conditions.
As Europe and other parts of the world face increasing housing crises, evictions, and gentrification, we are simultaneously receiving refugees who are grieving multiple losses, while pushing others out of their homes to prioritize tourism or private banking endeavors. Roma communities in Europe are persistently evicted by international banks, while migrants face immense barriers to finding housing. Meanwhile, gentrification displaces long-standing residents, erasing community ties and histories.
The housing crisis is part of the mental health crisis. Displacement—whether due to eviction, war, or gentrification—denies individuals the safety and stability they need to process grief and rebuild their lives. Addressing housing stability as part of mental health care is essential. Without it, we risk perpetuating cycles of displacement and emotional distress for millions worldwide.
Grief should not remain an isolated personal experience; it has the capacity to reveal and humanize the inequities in our care systems, connecting us to issues that may feel distant from our own realities. While loss is inevitable, how we choose to respond to it—as communities and as a society—can and should be profoundly transformative.