PROVIDENCE — Violence has been on my mind lately.  

For me, 2025 was a year of grief. My best friend Court died suddenly in January. I haven’t publicly shared how that unfolded.

Her girlfriend Ashley was unable to get into contact with her, and there were several frantic days of worry —moments of unanswered calls, hours of unread messages, days of desperate attempts to confirm that she was OK (perhaps her phone wasn’t working, or she got into an accident and was in a hospital, or maybe...)

It became more and more difficult for me to ignore my own worries: What if the unthinkable had happened?

A crescendo of hopeful denial, followed by diminishing faith and a panicked dread that brought us to the reality of her lifeless body found in her bedroom.

I tried very hard not to think about how long she lay there, undiscovered. I wondered if she knew what was happening. I hoped that she wasn’t afraid. I struggled to believe in a God who would allow Court to die so young. And my heart stays broken.

Violence, grief, and love.    
Violence and grief are inextricably linked, as are grief and love.

Sudden death — no matter the cause — is a violent experience for those left behind. It rips apart the illusion of safety. It destroys the belief that there are guarantees. Yes, death can be just a moment away.

The concept of what’s fair is something I’ve wrestled with, given the personal losses I’ve sustained. But also as a result of the current catastrophically violent federal administration. I stay disgusted by callousness and moral bankruptcy, the insane hypocrisy, and mental gymnastics used to try to excuse the behavior of White nationalists.

The heat has been turned up on Trumpian violence, as it expands from ideology to action -- from snatching people to bloody executions in the street. But it’s all violence. Dead bodies aren’t the only indicator here.

The killing of Renee Good offered a moment of recognition that state-sanctioned violence was something that Black and Brown communities have suffered since the country’s beginning. It’s repellent that folks might care more about ICE now that a blonde, white woman’s blood has been shed, but that doesn’t mean any of it is just. Blood is blood, violence is violence, and I just don’t get it.  

The personal hits keep coming.    
In early September, my elderly uncle called me. He has never called me. I knew what had happened before I heard his ragged breath. My beloved aunt was dead.

Two people who meant most to me were now gone.

In the weeks that followed, I needed to help my uncle through the thousand after-death tasks that morbidly litter the path of the bereaved. In this case, it was coordination with the hospital and funeral home, endless calls with people concerning her pension and Social Security, a frantic apartment search, relocation and all associated logistics, cleaning their old apartment after years of neglect. And then maybe I could grieve?

I felt abandoned by some family, who allowed me to shoulder much of this. I didn’t want to see my aunt’s body for identification prior to cremation, but I wasn’t going to let my uncle face that alone. As a single mother, I don’t have much money; but I spent thousands moving my uncle to RI and ensuring that he had what he needed.

The emotional effects of it all were violently heavy. Anger, sorrow, confusion. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Grief compounded.    
It’s ironic that what I remember most about compound grief is my inability to remember much at all. Words would escape my memory. I’d lose track of days of the week, and I struggled to focus my eyes on what was right in front of me. I preferred to stare where the wall meets the ceiling, blurring in and out. I was there, but not completely. My mind wasn’t always on loss, but the very architecture of my brain operated differently. Perhaps the best word to describe how it feels is dissociated.

I have no interest in comparing or wallowing. Observing it, though, has been illustrative.

Life unfolds as it does, and our only option for a measure of contentedness or joy is acceptance. The teachings of Buddhism feel the most relevant here, at least in terms of moving forward without judgment. There is no control beyond our own reaction. Time doesn’t heal, but it dulls the pain. Leaning into community is the only way hope is sustained, I believe.

I still have no way to understand how MAGA has been given a blank permission slip to unleash a regime for their violence.

For me, God stays pretty silent.

Katherine ‘Katy’ Linwood writes a monthly column on sobriety, “The Bright Side,” for ConvergenceRI. Connect with her on IG@katherine.linwood