Paulina Isabel Almarosa: BIPOC folks deserve focus, rest and joy

Image by Diana Luz Morales/ArteEsMedicina

This post is part of a Grief Care series, featuring BIPOC healers across multiple traditions and modalities. The occasional series will spotlight a different healer, sharing their work, how they’re meeting these deeply challenging times, the grief they’re carrying and how they’re tending to it, and what it means to hold space for their communities. Today, I talk with Paulina Isabel Almarosa, a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, based in California, and the founder of Latinx Grief.

Your official job description is as a licensed clinical social worker in California but you also self-identify as a grief keeper and grief facilitator: Tell me what those roles mean to you and how the latter two dovetail with, or maybe diverge, from a more traditional psychotherapy practice?

 I think these three roles complement each other in their purpose of supporting others to navigate their loss. When I speak of being a “grief keeper,” I think about the role of keeping in confidence the stories of all my clients. In my career, I have had the honor of holding space and bearing witnessing to hundreds of stories of grief, loss and trauma. Although I will never share these stories with anyone, I hold them close in my heart and they continue to guide my current practice, which is infused with creativity and art (music, poetry and visual mediums). As I continue to do this grief work, my roles will evolve and change, both in practice and in definition.  

As a “grief facilitator,” I help guide my clients through the process of moving through grief in a way that is culturally relevant to them. Processing grief looks different for everyone. Therefore, being a grief keeper and grief facilitator at times supplements my more traditional psychotherapist approach taking into account the threads of grief I have found common across all the people I have had the honor to work with. 

In some ways, being a person of color in this country means being born into grief: when did you first have this awareness, and what would you say was your first tangible initiation into the experience of grief? 

From a young age I witnessed my family experience tremendous loss that resulted from a crashing of complex factors, including poverty, racism, incarceration and immigration. 

One of my earliest memories is a grief memory. On one of the days prior to immigrating to this country, I was sitting on a concrete bench outside of my grandmother’s home in Mexico. The sun was setting into a majestic orange. Off in the distance, Popocatepetl volcano was spewing a gentle smoke. It was a peaceful moment — until the calm was interrupted by a little voice inside of my head that asked my 4-year-old self, “Will we ever come home again after we leave?” I felt a wave of grief engulf my tiny body. I cried and released a wave of long wails. In that moment, my little self realized that I was losing my home and my extended family, maybe momentarily, or maybe forever. Both the volcano and I grieved that day. 

You live with so many losses breathing inside you, including the death of your dad, the absence of your mother: were you always this open talking about grief and loss, or is there something that compelled you to want to share more about your own experience while creating the space for others to do the same?

I have at various times in my life attempted to be open about discussing my grief and loss. But as a teen and a young adult, I had very little guidance on how to share my personal story in ways that felt safe and healing for me. As a result, I often shared my story in settings that were not safe (e.g. classrooms, panel discussion, etc.). Today, I am privileged to have intimate and safe relationships that allow me to share my grief in ways that honor my boundaries and my safety. I share parts of my story publicly with the intention of building connections with others who might be feeling isolated in their own grief. 

Why do you believe sharing our stories is such a vital part of processing and caring for our grief?

Not too long ago, I shared a post on my IG page (@latinxgrief) about the healing power of sharing our stories in safe spaces. In that post I shared the following:

“When we share our stories, we allow for others to bear witness to our existence. When we share our stories, we give our legacies an opportunity to live on long after we ourselves become an ancestor.”

When we share our stories not only are we allowing ourselves to be validated and witnessed, we also activate connection with others. Our stories are what keep us connected to each other, even after we die. 

Sharing our stories also gives us the gift of making sense of the experiences that we’ve survived. Sometimes, sharing our stories leads to shifts in the ways in which we respond to our grief. Ultimately, sharing our stories in a safe space can allow us to take the first step in integrating our grief into our present lives. 

What else have you found most healing and helpful in your own grief journey?

The things that I have found helpful in my grief journey have changed over the years as my grief often changes in texture, feeling and intensity. At one point in my life, my grief manifested as intense physical back and hip pain that left me bed-ridden for weeks at a time. I had been an athlete my entire life and movement was how I had coped with grief for many years. Suddenly, I could barely walk let alone run or lift weights. I felt angry with my body but I kept pushing it to move in ways that were painful.

But there came a point where I could barely move. It was then that I began to meet with an acupuncturist who became instrumental in my healing. Acupuncture not only helped to alleviate the physical pain I was experiencing but it connected me to a provider who validated my pain and gave me permission to rest. 

During our first meeting, he said something to me that I had not heard, probably ever, from a provider. He said, “It is okay to stop physical therapy. You need to listen to your body. Take time off and rest.” I remember leaving his office in tears! We are often encouraged to push ourselves through grief until our bodies collapse; it can be hard to rest but resting is what can be most healing when we are grieving. 

What have you learned from grief that has been most surprising, and what have you learned or are still learning that’s the most challenging to embrace?

One of the most surprising things that I have learned about grief is how little people, myself included, are taught about grief. I went through graduate school being taught a very basic definition for what constitutes a loss, this usually being death. In graduate school, my grief education was basically “The 5 Stages of Grief.” 

It was not until I graduated that I really started to learn and understand that grief is dynamic and complex. Along with that, I quickly learned that grief and loss are not exclusive to death. In fact grief can also surface from non-death-related losses including but not limited to end of relationships, immigration, incarceration and loss of opportunities. In my work, people are often shocked to learn that their loss (e.g. immigration, divorce, etc.) can absolutely activate a grief response. As grief education continues to develop and evolve, I think that I, too, will continue to redefine and challenge my understanding and definition of grief. 

Can you share some of what it’s like to carry the grief of having been an undocumented Xicana in this country, which is something I don’t think we hear enough about? 

It has been close to 10 years since I became documented and yet, I will never forget what it felt like to live in extreme uncertainty, trauma and depression. I remember feeling terrified, angry, stuck and helpless. I missed a lot of important milestones and opportunities because I did not have documentation. I went decades without meeting my extended family. I lived in isolation and in secrecy. My family and I made every effort to disappear and not be seen. I felt completely invisible and at the same time, exposed. I went through the motions but I lived terrified of being deported.  For many years, I lived with a packed suitcase next to my bed and I had an emergency plan with my family about what do if one of us were to be deported.

Going to college was my job and everyone in my family depended on my success. I knew that if I failed, we all failed. I pushed myself extremely hard throughout college, sometimes to the point of collapse, and yet, I often felt hopeless and lost. There was little hope that I would ever become documented. Though I eventually did gain documentation, my body, mind and spirit continue to carry the memories of being traumatized, persecuted, violated, dismissed, oppressed, silenced and neglected. The grief and the trauma did not end with legalization. Like with all grief, some days are easier than others but I have come to accept that I will always carry this grief and trauma in my body. 

Is part of your work to help normalize and foster more discussions about this particular grief?

Yes, absolutely. A big part of my work is to center undocumented voices that bring attention to the loss and grief that comes with immigration, specifically the grief of living in this country (U.S) undocumented. A big part of the Latinx Grief mission is to hold space for grief that is considered “disenfranchised” or grief that is unacknowledged or invalidated by social norms. 

How has that unique trauma shaped your walk in the world and your commitment to the healing of BIPOC?

Going through an experience that is traumatic is life altering. Sometimes, I dream about the kind of person that I could have been had I not been subjected to the trauma and loss of my earlier years. Sometimes, I grieve that version of myself, the one that never came to be. 

But the person that did emerge is one that is family-oriented, confident, imperfect, loyal, creative, introspective, curious, open, compassionate and grounded. I walk through the world with an invisible scar that only others who have suffered can truly see. This is why I have a commitment to helping BIPOC heal.

I embrace my role in this effort, however small my contribution may be. I also know and understand that the commitment(s) that I make to others are only as strong as my commitment to my own well-being/healing. In the past, I have neglected myself to the point of burnout and I realized that in order for me to show up for others as a therapist, friend or partner, I had to first show up for myself. I know this might sound cliché but if anything “positive” came out of my trauma and grief, it’s been the realization that BIPOC folks deserve focus, rest and joy. 

You are currently more interested in creating spaces for BIPOC to grieve than in offering individual therapy sessions: what do those spaces look like for you?

I have a number of visions for what these spaces could potentially look like. One of theses visions includes creating grieving spaces that are rooted in creativity (art, music, poetry) and that allow for people to connect with themselves, and others, in ways that are aligned with their cultural values/practices including processing grief in groups. Historically, most BIPOC folks grieve in the context of their communities as opposed to isolated and individually. My main focus with Latinx Grief is to create a space for groups of people to reconnect with practices that have been lost due to colonization. 

One of your initiatives is to create a workshop series for women of color who are grieving: what do you wish those working from a Eurocentric therapy lens knew or understood about the grief/mourning experience of BIPOC?

One of the most important things to know is that BIPOC folks cannot be lumped into one homogenous group. You can have two people who are the exact same age, with very similar losses, who come from the same country and share similar cultural values but whose grief expression looks completely different. It is important for all of us as mental health clinicians and grief providers to engage in a continuous self-reflection. It is up to us to examine how our individual values and beliefs impact the treatment of the people we serve. 

 While I do not think that it is essential that we share the same culture or the same ethnic background as the people we serve, I do believe that it is of upmost importance that we enter into a therapeutic relationship with curiosity, respect and humility.  Part of this curiosity involves working with a person to identify which systems and which social mechanisms have impacted their individual grief trajectory. Many times subtle clues about people’s grief/loss can be overlooked or misinterpreted by the Eurocentric therapy lens, which only focuses on the individual loss and not so much the context in which it occurred. It is a disservice to a person’s grief to assess only for individual loss while ignoring the context in which the grief has occurred. 

Why is the group/community experience of healing so important to you?

In my personal experience, being in a safe and chosen community played a significant role in my healing and my survival. There are tasks and experiences that are hard to go through without a support system/community. Being part of a group helps to alleviate the stress of going through hard things and can help bring insight and perspective to our own individual views. Also, groups can help keep us accountable to others, and ourselves, while also fostering connections that can aide in survival. 

How did your years working primarily with BIPOC in community mental health reinforce this for you?

Most BIPOC folks that I have worked with were part of networks and communities that played an important role in their lives. In fact, most of the people that I served leaned in to their communities for guidance and support. For example, in my Mexican Community, there were always groups of people who would organize “tandas.” A tanda is basically a way for people to distribute money amongst themselves depending on who needs it most. I always found tandas to be representative of how our survival is often attributed to the relationships and connections that we have in our communities.

 In this year, when our communities are grappling with so much, what do you think is most vital in tending the griefs we are carrying — especially when some are also coming to terms for the first time with intergenerational trauma and the other traumas of living under systemic oppression in a capitalist society?

Processing our grief can start with showing ourselves compassion and patience one day at a time.  Moving through our grief is not a linear process and often times expresses itself like waves — that is to say, it has ebbs and flows. As such, some days will be harder than others and we should give ourselves permission to have bad days; we should give ourselves permission to rest; and we should give ourselves permission to savor joy.  We should give ourselves permission to ask for help because the work of tending to our grief can often feel exhausting if done alone.

What are some of the griefs you’re holding that are unique to 2020? 

There are so many things that I am grieving. Sometimes I catch myself feeling sad about not being able to travel. For context, I spent the majority of my life being unable to travel because I was undocumented. Then I held back on traveling because of graduate school; then it was work, then life in general and now the pandemic. It is very ironic grief. 

Some days it feels like I am stuck in an old Twilight Zone episode. There is one episode specifically about a man who loves to read but never seems to have enough time to read. But one day this man finds himself as the lone survivor of an atomic blast. He is ecstatic. He rejoices in finally being free to read all of the books he’s always dreamed of reading. Excited to finally dig into his books, he rushes to sit down on a pile of books. As he settles in, he accidentally drops his eyeglasses. The glasses shatter beyond repair, ending his ability to read anything. If I remember correctly, the scene ends with the man screaming into the abyss. Some days in 2020 have most certainly felt exactly like screaming into an abyss of grief and loss.

Does being with and caring for your grief look different this year than it has in other years?

Absolutely! I have been noticing that this year my grief feels extra foggy, lethargic and fatigued. I think I am not alone in this feeling, as most of us are starting to exhibit fatigue from being in a constant state of anxiety and isolation. To mitigate this unrelenting fatigue, I have made it a priority to practice daily bursts of self-care. Everyday, I schedule a few minutes to care for myself by resting (closing my eyes, staring off into space, watching a few minutes of a show) or grounding myself through music and exercise. This intentional practice of self-care has played a significant role in my ability to set better boundaries with others. 

You are a big believer in the power and beauty of music, poetry and art to heal: What are some of the poets and songs you have been turning to help you hold your grief?

Right now, I am listening to a lot of Michael Kiwanuka, specifically his album titled “Love & Hate.” There is a song on this album called “Father’s Child” that speaks intimately to my spirit. I have also been going heavy on the classics from artists like Joe Bataan, Hector Lavoe, Tupac, Led Zeppelin and Nina Simone. I also find energy in music by Oddisee, The Roots, Mos Def, Logic and Kendrick Lamar. For me, it’s all about the oldies, funk, hip-hop and soulful music.

As far as poetry, I have found comfort, beauty and power in Rudy Francisco and Tonya Ingram’s work, as well as in ancient poetry written by Indigenous poets like Nezahualcoyotl. 

Are there any pieces of art in particular that have truly captured the experience of grief for you?

I find grief hidden in all art pieces. Even pieces that exude joy hold grief for me. I am specifically drawn to art that falls under the genres of Surrealism, Abstract Art and Modern Art. I have always been a fan of Jean-Michael Basquiat, Salvador Dali, Jackson Pollock and of course, Frida Khalo. More recently, I have been following some incredible artists on Instagram including Jose Delgado Zuniga (@studio.zuniga), Mer Young (@youngmer), EAZEL&ISIS (@el_eaz), Denis Faneites (@denisfaneites), FAMA (@ig_fama). There are of course so may other incredible artists who are using their mediums to capture the human experience.

Are there any grief rituals or traditions unique to your culture that you practice?

When my family immigrated to the U.S. we lost connection to so many of our traditional rituals and cultural practices. One of the only things that remained was the stories and the history of our homeland as shared by my father. His favorite legend was the Mayan and Aztec Legend of the Hummingbird. My father had a sacred and personal connection to hummingbirds. Hummingbirds have come to represent my father’s spirit, which I honor by saying a prayer whenever a hummingbird manifests out in the wild. Before COVID, I would periodically get limpias from Curanderas who also shared their wisdom on traditional remedies that were native to my birthplace Cuernavaca, Morelos. 

What are some of the contexts and constructs that affect the way grief is expressed in Latinx culture?

This question is a complex question because Latinx people are not a monolith. We all come from different communities, each with their own culture and history. There are specific cultural values (e.g. machismo, marianismo) that play a role in how some groups or individuals express their grief. Additionally, there are other factors such as systemic racism, immigration and acculturation that also a play a role in how a person expresses and moves through grief. 

The goal of this work is not to lump all Latinx Grief. The purpose of this work is to share common themes that may manifest in our communities as a step toward helping people move through their individual grief in ways that feel safe.

What does it mean for you to be a future ancestor doing grief work?

As a future ancestor, I carry the sacred responsibility to live my life in ways that honor the people who came before me by ending cycles of trauma, addiction and violence in my family. This means that in this life, my role is to live a life that contributes to the healing and liberation of our descendants. 

How does your own relationship with your ancestors support you in your work?

My work is intimately connected to the legacy and the work of my ancestors. All of the wisdom that I carry is rooted in the stories and the history of those who came before me. The wisdom that I carry is not mine to claim as exclusive. I believe that I am contributing to a pool of knowledge that will hopefully serve to guide and inspire future generations. 

BIO

Paulina Isabel Almarosa is a bilingual, Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) in the state of California and the founder of Latinx Grief. She was born in Morelos, Mexico, and immigrated to the U.S. at a young age and lived a significant period of her life in the U.S. undocumented.

Paulina holds a B.A. in Psychology & Social Behavior from UCI and a Master’s degree in Social Welfare from UCLA. She has over 10 years of experience in the mental health field. She has worked in schools, hospitals, jails and community mental health clinics, serving a wide range of populations including children and families; residents of the community of Skid Row; incarcerated men and women; and end-of-life patients in hospice.

 Paulina is currently in the process of developing a private practice that will continue to develop Latinx Grief as a space focused on providing grief support services that are culturally competent and rooted in honoring a person’s history.

 Paulina’s work is guided by her ancestors, chief among them her father Mateo who died of lung cancer in 2015. She is grateful for the community of friends, family and colleagues who continue to provide their support as she continues to develop her grief work. Paulina is an avid writer, mother and creative who enjoys connecting with others through the use of humor, compassion and authenticity.