Holding Both: Grief, Joy, and the Work of Community

A Solstice Reflection

Community Is More Than Celebration

Community is not just a celebration.
It is not only laughter, ease, or the moments we post when life feels light.

Community is the willingness to sit together when joy and grief share the same breath.

Last night, Zawn Villines returned to a solstice tradition she has held for years — this time after the loss of Ember and Cheri. When she invited me, I knew without question that I needed to be there.

There is a particular kind of honor in being invited into someone’s sacred balance —where sorrow is present, but not alone. Where remembrance and laughter are allowed to coexist. That invitation is trust. It is love. It is community in its truest form.

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The Longest Night, and the Work of Trust

There are layers to last night that I’m still unpacking, because community (real community) always has layers.

I want to begin by thanking Zawn, not only for holding such a tender solstice gathering, but for being someone I trusted enough to say yes to bringing my children into a space shaped by grief. That trust matters more than people often realize.

When I told the kids about the gathering, I needed time (at least a 20-hour window) to prepare them. To answer questions. To let things settle. To support transitions. That’s part of honoring their nervous systems, their truth, and their lived experience.

Kieran’s first question was immediate and honest:
“Are the white…?”

That question didn’t come from nowhere.

Erin has been to Zawn’s before. And I’ve been open about Kieran’s very real, very righteous mistrust of white people (article below) — whether that comes from epigenetic trauma, the harm he experienced in school, or both. Either way, it is real, and I respond to it as such.

“I Don’t Trust White People”:

This is the difference between interpersonal relationships and systemic reality.
This is what it means to trust your child’s truth without gaslighting it away.

I told Kieran that I trust Zawn. And in our family agreements, we have something called Ways to Love Me. One of my core ways is trusting me. I asked him if he trusted me. He said yes.

So I reminded him: I wouldn’t bring you anywhere I believed you would be harmed.

And, I was honest. I told him this would be a mixed space, and I could not guarantee there wouldn’t be unconscious anti-Blackness or bias. That honesty matters.

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Holding Reality Without Rupture

There was a moment. A side-eye moment.

When someone implied I must spell Erin’s name “differently” than the standard spelling. No. We are Irish. Erin is a sacred name. I didn’t bastardize it.

But also, one thing I expect is that white people will be white, the way I expect men to be men. There was no harm in that moment that I was willing to confront. I carried on with a conversation I actually enjoyed… and walked away with a truly dope Brussels sprouts recipe.

Balance.

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The Kids, the Fire, the Night

And here’s the part that matters most.

Kieran carried on. He played with the kids. He laughed. He rescued Athena’s rubber band ball—Jeff was his accomplice—saving him from climbing over someone’s fence in the darkness.

Yes, that led to the conversation:
you are Black, it is dark, and anyone climbing a fence is at risk of a weapon being drawn (by a homeowner or police) who will hesitate less with you.

That is reality. We don’t hide from it.

Erin arrived in their furry suit and—this still moves me—was not met with jeers or awkwardness. No “ewww.” No mocking. Instead, they were celebrated. Asked thoughtful, genuinely curious questions about their fursona. Given space to be seen and left alone when they wanted.

That balance is rare.

Morrigan, as always, never met a stranger. She works a room. I’m usually more worried about everyone else keeping up with her energy.

There were roasted marshmallows. Fire. Drums. Food. Laughter. Movement.

And as the night softened and quieted, something shifted.

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When Love Moves the Room

The grief became more visible. More tender. Held with care instead of avoidance.

Zawn’s altar was gentle and powerful. While people mingled, I sat for a moment and really took it in… the photos, the love, what has been shared and what has been lost in this lifetime.

It landed heavy.
And sacred.

The stories they told of Cheri lingered in the air… gentle, reverent, alive. And when they played her song, Morrigan danced.

I swear I felt both of their energies moving through that moment. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unmistakable knowing. The kind that lands in the body before the mind can explain it.

I saw Jeff’s gentleness with Zawn.
I saw care move without words.
I saw old friends making room for new ones.
I saw siblings playing freely with friends, my kids included, held by a circle that didn’t need explanation to be inclusive.

And still, the grief was there. Not hidden. Not rushed. Held alongside laughter, rhythm, story, and shared warmth.

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Leaving Changed

When it was time to leave, Kieran hugged Zawn. More than once.

He was also fully in her pantry grabbing Gatorade, which (let’s be honest) is the real sign of comfort.

He felt at home.
He felt safe enough to do that.

In that moment, Zawn became family.
The only group of white folks he trusts.

And I loved that for him. He told me he wants to come back.

The Truth About Community

I’m writing this from my bed, tears still coming in waves, cuddling my youngest the way you do when reality suddenly sharpens.

I cried during the solstice gathering. I cried again after, not because I knew Cheri or Ember personally, but because I could feel them. I could feel the love that filled that room. Love with weight. Love with fire.

There is something sobering about witnessing child loss up close; not as a spectacle, but as lived reality. You grieve for your friend. You grieve with your friend.

And underneath it all is that quiet, trembling gratitude that you haven’t had to walk that path yourself.

Grief and love and fear intertwined.
Empathy. Care. Solace. Fire.
All of it present at once.

So if there’s a “moral” here, it’s this:

Community is messy. It is layered. It is grief and joy and celebration and sorrow and missteps and repair happening all at once. Community building is not the absence of harm or imperfection; it is the willingness to sit with all of the truths, to name them, to navigate them bravely, and to stay present anyway.

On the longest night of the year, we did not bypass the darkness to get to the light.

We stayed.
Together.

That is how the light returns.

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Practice Your Praxis: Holding the Whole of Community

Community is not proven by who shows up when it’s easy. It is revealed by who can stay when things are tender, awkward, unfinished. The practice is not attendance.
The practice is capacity. Life taught the lesson last night. Here’s how it lives in praxis.

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SELF: Can You Sit Without Fixing?

The first site of praxis is your own body.

Can you notice when discomfort rises, and not rush to soothe it?
Can you stay present when grief is near without making it about you?
Can you let silence exist without filling it with platitudes, explanations, or urgency?

This work asks you to track your impulses:

• the need to make things better

• the urge to smooth tension

• the instinct to exit when emotions get heavy

Praxis at the self level is nervous system literacy.
It is recognizing when you want to leave, and choosing to breathe instead.

Last night required that. Sitting with sorrow that wasn’t mine. Witnessing loss without resolving it. Letting love and grief occupy the same space in my body.

That is the practice.

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HOME: Can You Tell the Truth and Still Offer Safety?

At home, praxis looks like preparation, honesty, and trust.

It meant giving my children time to process before entering a space shaped by grief.
It meant answering hard questions without lying to make things feel easier.
It meant naming both trust and risk at the same time.

This is what it looks like to honor children’s lived reality:

• believing their instincts

• naming systemic truth without fear

• offering safety without false guarantees

Home praxis is not protection through denial.
It is protection through relationship.

It is saying: I trust you. I trust myself. And I will stay with you through complexity.

That kind of home builds humans who know how to navigate the world as it is, not as we wish it were.

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WORK / COMMUNITY: Can You Hold the In-Between Together?

In community, praxis is discernment.

It’s knowing when to address harm, and when to note it and keep moving.
It’s allowing awkwardness without escalation.
It’s letting imperfection exist without abandoning the container.

Last night was not flawless. And that is the point.

There were moments of tenderness and moments of friction.
Moments of deep care and moments where bias brushed the edges of trust.
Moments that asked for presence, not performance.

Community work is not about purity.
It is about staying engaged long enough for repair to be possible.

The real question isn’t “Did everyone get it right?”
The question is:

Did the container hold?
Did people feel safe enough to stay human?
Did love have room to breathe alongside grief?

That is the work.

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Conclusion: Can You Hold the In-Between?

Community is not proven by who shows up for the good times.

It is revealed by who can stay when things are tender.
When grief is present.
When it’s awkward.
When no one knows the right thing to say.

Can you hold a container where sorrow doesn’t need to be fixed?
Where joy isn’t performative?
Where silence is allowed to breathe?

Because this is where most people disappear.

Not out of cruelty, but discomfort. Supremacy culture teaches us to rush past grief, smooth over tension, prioritize ease, and avoid the in-between. It teaches us that if we can’t solve something, we should step away from it.

But community asks something else.

Can you sit with grief without centering yourself?
Can you witness loss without demanding resolution?
Can you allow awkwardness to exist without rushing to soothe your own nerves?

It’s choosing to stay when it would be easier to leave.
It’s telling the truth to your children and trusting your people.
It’s holding joy and vigilance at the same time.
It’s knowing when to address harm, and when to note it and keep moving.

Community is not the absence of mess.
It is the willingness to tend to it together.

The Invitation

Praxis is not theoretical.
It is not something you read and nod along to.

Praxis is lived in rooms like this.
In nights like this.
In choices you make when there is no perfect response.

So the invitation is simple… and not easy:

It’s not, “Did you show up?”
it is…

Can you hold all of this?
The grief.
The love.
The fear.
The celebration.
The missteps.
The fire.

And still stay human?

That is the practice.
That is the work.
That is community.

Thank you, Zawn and Jeff, for holding all the spaces, for sharing this tender space with my family and me. I am holding it all and loving on you. Like my Card pull this morning as I lit the candle for all those that have left us in honor of the light returning YOU are an inspiration, and I love you friend!

In solidarity and liberation,
Desireé B. Stephens
Educator | Counselor | Community Builder
Founder, Make Shi(f)t Happen
Writer of Liberation Education
Steward of Selenite & Sage Healing Homestead Co.
Where Reflection Meets Transformation