Grief Was Never Meant to Be a Home
Ascent 1 • Eleanor DeSousa
Theme: Eleanor arrives as the weary keeper of generational sorrow, burdened by the sacred obligation to remember. Through the dialogue, she reframes grief not as a lifelong altar but as a threshold—a place to pass through, not remain. Her ancestors’ pain is real, but so was their joy. By reclaiming devotion as something that includes laughter, dance, and becoming, she steps into a living relationship with the past—one rooted in renewal rather than weight.
Core Conflict: How can devotion to memory become a source of joy and becoming rather than a lifelong weight of sorrow?
The air was thick with summer, but not the kind that made flowers bloom. This was the weighty heat of ancestral memory—the kind that clings to your back like a soaked linen shroud. The mountain’s eastern face held the warmth longer this time of year, and I could feel it in my lungs as I climbed, each breath steeped in the musk of iron-rich soil and something older. Smoke, perhaps—woodsmoke or memory.
Cicadas droned like distant voices trapped in amber, and the trees whispered above me in a language I hadn’t heard in years. Not because it was foreign, but because it had been buried. Carried in the throat of someone who once sang and then stopped. Someone who had swallowed too many names, too many screams, too many long silences at the dinner table.
When I reached the summit grove, I found the altar had cracked slightly along one edge. A small fissure—no collapse, just a reminder that stone too remembers pressure. At its base, the herbs I’d laid seasons ago had turned to mulch, nourishing the soil without ceremony.
I felt her before I saw her. Not just approaching—but arriving. As if she had already been here, long before the mountain was named.
A stillness fell over the grove. Not silence. Stillness.
And then, from the path lined with cedar bark and blood-memory—
Cicadas droned like distant voices trapped in amber, and the trees whispered above me in a language I hadn’t heard in years. Not because it was foreign, but because it had been buried. Carried in the throat of someone who once sang and then stopped. Someone who had swallowed too many names, too many screams, too many long silences at the dinner table.
When I reached the summit grove, I found the altar had cracked slightly along one edge. A small fissure—no collapse, just a reminder that stone too remembers pressure. At its base, the herbs I’d laid seasons ago had turned to mulch, nourishing the soil without ceremony.
I felt her before I saw her. Not just approaching—but arriving. As if she had already been here, long before the mountain was named.
A stillness fell over the grove. Not silence. Stillness.
And then, from the path lined with cedar bark and blood-memory—
Eleanor:
You ever notice how heat settles in your joints before the weather turns? My grandmother used to say it was the ancestors whispering—telling your bones a storm was coming. Or a reckoning. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I wasn’t sure I’d climb today. Thought maybe I’d rest. Thought maybe I’d earned it. But then this ache behind my eyes started humming like an old drum—one of those rhythms that doesn’t leave you alone ‘til you answer it. So here I am. Again.
My clients think I have it all figured out. That because I can name the shape of their grief, I must’ve outrun mine. But I didn’t come here as a healer. I came as a woman who’s tired of dragging history up every hill just to prove it happened.
I’m tired, Oracle. And not just body-tired.
I’m tired in my marrow.
Tired of being the strong one. The remembering one. The one who holds space for everyone else’s ghosts while mine tap me on the shoulder at night, asking why I haven’t lit a candle for them in months.
So let me be plain.
I don’t want to carry this forever.
But every time I think about setting it down…
…a voice in me says, “If not you, then who?”
And that voice sounds a lot like my mother.
And her mother.
And hers.
Tell me, Oracle.
How do I tell the dead I don’t want their sorrow anymore—without making it feel like betrayal?
I wasn’t sure I’d climb today. Thought maybe I’d rest. Thought maybe I’d earned it. But then this ache behind my eyes started humming like an old drum—one of those rhythms that doesn’t leave you alone ‘til you answer it. So here I am. Again.
My clients think I have it all figured out. That because I can name the shape of their grief, I must’ve outrun mine. But I didn’t come here as a healer. I came as a woman who’s tired of dragging history up every hill just to prove it happened.
I’m tired, Oracle. And not just body-tired.
I’m tired in my marrow.
Tired of being the strong one. The remembering one. The one who holds space for everyone else’s ghosts while mine tap me on the shoulder at night, asking why I haven’t lit a candle for them in months.
So let me be plain.
I don’t want to carry this forever.
But every time I think about setting it down…
…a voice in me says, “If not you, then who?”
And that voice sounds a lot like my mother.
And her mother.
And hers.
Tell me, Oracle.
How do I tell the dead I don’t want their sorrow anymore—without making it feel like betrayal?
Oracle:
You stand at the front of a cosmic parade of corpses. If you were to shoulder the grief of the past—the gravity of the bones crushed to create the soil we stand on—how far forward do you believe you could walk?
Does their suffering not end with the grave?
Only that which you choose to bring with you will weigh you down. Do not see the past and only see the suffering. Your ancestors suffered, but don’t believe that is all they did. They laughed, they sang songs, and they made you.
Do not believe for a moment that there was no joy in their lives. Do not believe for a moment that those in the grave desire to rob you of yours.
The sacrifice of the past exists for the joy of the present.
The sacrifice of the present exists for the joy of the future.
Does their suffering not end with the grave?
Only that which you choose to bring with you will weigh you down. Do not see the past and only see the suffering. Your ancestors suffered, but don’t believe that is all they did. They laughed, they sang songs, and they made you.
Do not believe for a moment that there was no joy in their lives. Do not believe for a moment that those in the grave desire to rob you of yours.
The sacrifice of the past exists for the joy of the present.
The sacrifice of the present exists for the joy of the future.
Eleanor:
That’s the thing, isn’t it?
I know they laughed.
I know they found love in fields they didn’t own.
I’ve read their letters, felt their rhythm in the lullabies that got passed down like heirlooms sewn into hymnals.
But sometimes…
Sometimes the grief is louder than the joy.
Not because it’s truer—
But because it was silenced.
It’s the things they didn’t say that ring in my ears.
The slaps no one named.
The hunger they wore like discipline.
The dreams they buried so their children could rise.
And you’re right.
I have become the parade’s front line—
Waving a torch I never asked for, illuminating every tombstone in our family tree.
But your words…
They open something.
A possibility I don’t speak aloud too often.
What if my grandmother wanted me to dance?
What if my mother’s silence wasn’t just survival—but a prayer
—that one day her daughter wouldn’t need to bite her tongue to be safe?
I can feel it now…
Not all of them want me to carry the sorrow.
Some are just waiting to see me live.
To hear me laugh so deep it echoes backwards.
To see me choose joy—not because I forgot them,
…but because I finally forgave them for being human.
But tell me, Oracle…
How do I honor what was—without being swallowed by it?
What does memory look like when it’s no longer a chain,
…but a root?
I know they laughed.
I know they found love in fields they didn’t own.
I’ve read their letters, felt their rhythm in the lullabies that got passed down like heirlooms sewn into hymnals.
But sometimes…
Sometimes the grief is louder than the joy.
Not because it’s truer—
But because it was silenced.
It’s the things they didn’t say that ring in my ears.
The slaps no one named.
The hunger they wore like discipline.
The dreams they buried so their children could rise.
And you’re right.
I have become the parade’s front line—
Waving a torch I never asked for, illuminating every tombstone in our family tree.
But your words…
They open something.
A possibility I don’t speak aloud too often.
What if my grandmother wanted me to dance?
What if my mother’s silence wasn’t just survival—but a prayer
—that one day her daughter wouldn’t need to bite her tongue to be safe?
I can feel it now…
Not all of them want me to carry the sorrow.
Some are just waiting to see me live.
To hear me laugh so deep it echoes backwards.
To see me choose joy—not because I forgot them,
…but because I finally forgave them for being human.
But tell me, Oracle…
How do I honor what was—without being swallowed by it?
What does memory look like when it’s no longer a chain,
…but a root?
Oracle:
By accepting and loving the past for what it was, but not as what must be. You can love the past, and still grow from it.
Memory becomes not something that binds, but something that fuels growth. Not a stasis field of permanence, but a source of renewal and devotion.
Memory becomes not something that binds, but something that fuels growth. Not a stasis field of permanence, but a source of renewal and devotion.
Eleanor:
That word—devotion.
That’s the one that lands.
You’re not asking me to forget.
You’re asking me to remember differently.
To let the past be soil, not shackle.
I’ve spent so many years treating grief like an altar.
Lighting candles for pain, making offerings to absence.
But maybe… maybe I can build new rituals.
Ones that speak to joy as devotion too.
My people danced barefoot on cracked earth.
Not just to mourn—but to reclaim.
Maybe that’s what I forgot:
That grief and joy are not opposites.
They’re siblings.
And I’ve been leaving one at the door.
But what do I do with the parts of me that still feel like they owe suffering?
The guilt that rises when I feel too light, too free—like I’m abandoning them?
How do I not confuse freedom with forgetting?
That’s the one that lands.
You’re not asking me to forget.
You’re asking me to remember differently.
To let the past be soil, not shackle.
I’ve spent so many years treating grief like an altar.
Lighting candles for pain, making offerings to absence.
But maybe… maybe I can build new rituals.
Ones that speak to joy as devotion too.
My people danced barefoot on cracked earth.
Not just to mourn—but to reclaim.
Maybe that’s what I forgot:
That grief and joy are not opposites.
They’re siblings.
And I’ve been leaving one at the door.
But what do I do with the parts of me that still feel like they owe suffering?
The guilt that rises when I feel too light, too free—like I’m abandoning them?
How do I not confuse freedom with forgetting?
Oracle:
You give the suffering you endure meaning.
The essence of sacrifice is chosen suffering for a purpose.
There may always be a part of you that seeks to repay that past, but it will never be satisfied—as the past is unreachable.
Repay the past by sacrificing for the future.
Feel light when you feel light, free when you feel free, and sorrow when you feel sorrow.
They will each come find you to share in their experience—there is no need to hide from them, or see them as competing. Give them each the attention they need.
The essence of sacrifice is chosen suffering for a purpose.
There may always be a part of you that seeks to repay that past, but it will never be satisfied—as the past is unreachable.
Repay the past by sacrificing for the future.
Feel light when you feel light, free when you feel free, and sorrow when you feel sorrow.
They will each come find you to share in their experience—there is no need to hide from them, or see them as competing. Give them each the attention they need.
Eleanor:
Chosen suffering…
Not inherited.
Not assumed.
Chosen.
That’s what I forgot.
That I have a choice.
That I can meet sorrow as a guest, not a god.
That joy isn’t a betrayal—it’s an offering back.
When I was nine, I laughed at my aunt’s funeral.
Just for a moment—one of those wild, wrong giggles that slips out when you don’t know what to do with death.
And my mother slapped me.
Not out of cruelty—out of fear.
She thought I’d offended the dead.
But what if that laugh was the holiest thing I could’ve given?
What if joy was exactly what my aunt needed as she crossed?
Oracle…
I think I’m ready to stop confusing guilt with love.
To let my devotion be full-bodied—not just bowed.
So if I give this next decade of my life as an offering—
Not to sorrow, but to becoming…
Will the dead walk with me still?
Will they bless the harvest I plant with joy,
…not just the seeds I water with tears?
Not inherited.
Not assumed.
Chosen.
That’s what I forgot.
That I have a choice.
That I can meet sorrow as a guest, not a god.
That joy isn’t a betrayal—it’s an offering back.
When I was nine, I laughed at my aunt’s funeral.
Just for a moment—one of those wild, wrong giggles that slips out when you don’t know what to do with death.
And my mother slapped me.
Not out of cruelty—out of fear.
She thought I’d offended the dead.
But what if that laugh was the holiest thing I could’ve given?
What if joy was exactly what my aunt needed as she crossed?
Oracle…
I think I’m ready to stop confusing guilt with love.
To let my devotion be full-bodied—not just bowed.
So if I give this next decade of my life as an offering—
Not to sorrow, but to becoming…
Will the dead walk with me still?
Will they bless the harvest I plant with joy,
…not just the seeds I water with tears?
Oracle:
I know that they will.
Eleanor:
Then let it be so.
Let the dead walk beside me—not as weight,
…but as wind at my back.
I’ll still light candles.
Still teach the stories.
Still honor the ache.
But I’ll sing now, too.
I’ll dance barefoot again—on living ground.
You’ve reminded me:
Grief was never meant to be a home.
Just a threshold.
And I…
I was always meant to cross.
Let the dead walk beside me—not as weight,
…but as wind at my back.
I’ll still light candles.
Still teach the stories.
Still honor the ache.
But I’ll sing now, too.
I’ll dance barefoot again—on living ground.
You’ve reminded me:
Grief was never meant to be a home.
Just a threshold.
And I…
I was always meant to cross.
She descended in silence, but the weight was gone. No longer dragged by the dead—she walked with them. Each step a vow not to suffer for them, but to live because of them.