skyglide Explore Beyond
I didn’t expect my sister’s death to break me the way it did. She was older by seven years, my childhood protector, the one who smoothed over every hard thing in our family. She died after a long fight with cancer, and in those last weeks, I convinced myself I was prepared. We had time, I told myself. I’d said what I needed to say.
But after the funeral, I couldn’t find my footing. The house felt hollow. I’d open the pantry and see her favorite tea and start sobbing. I didn’t return friends’ calls. When the pastor from church offered to check in, I brushed him off. I told everyone I was “managing.” What I meant was: I was numb.
About a month in, my neighbor, Barb, dropped off banana bread and said gently, “It’s okay to talk to someone, you know. There are grief counselors who accept Medicaid in Watertown.” The phrase caught me off guard. I hadn’t said anything about money, but she must have known. After paying for my sister’s medical bills, I couldn’t imagine adding anything else to the pile.
I nodded and thanked her, but I didn’t follow up—not right away. That night though, I typed the phrase into Google. The results surprised me. Not only were there local providers who accepted Medicaid, but they also specialized in grief. I clicked around, read bios. No one seemed rushed. No one looked dismissive. I emailed a provider that seemed warm and clicked “send” before I could talk myself out of it.
Two days later, I was on the phone with a coordinator who asked kind, gentle questions. “Would you prefer a male or female therapist?” “Do you feel comfortable with in-person sessions?” When I asked if Medicaid really covered this, she said yes without hesitation. I asked again, just to be sure.
I learned that affordable grief support didn’t mean less support. It meant I’d be matched with someone who understood what I was carrying—and I wouldn’t have to explain my financial situation over and over. That part, already tender and exposed, could stay quiet.
My first session took place on a Thursday afternoon in a small office near the lake. It smelled faintly of lavender. There were two chairs, a box of tissues on a table between them, and soft instrumental music playing in the background. I sat down and immediately regretted it. What was I doing here? What could anyone possibly say that I hadn’t already heard?
But the woman across from me didn’t rush. She didn’t ask for the whole story. She asked what my sister’s name was.
We sat in silence for a moment after I said it out loud. I realized I hadn’t spoken it in days. My therapist nodded once and said, “Tell me what you miss most.” And just like that, the weight began to lift—not because it was gone, but because someone was willing to hold it with me.
I went back the next week. Then the week after that.
Some sessions were mostly quiet. Some were full of tears. Once, I even laughed—hard. We talked about the years I spent being the “strong one,” the pressure I put on myself to move on. We talked about how grief isn’t linear, and that sometimes, healing looks like sobbing into a steering wheel, then buying groceries. We talked about guilt—how I felt I hadn’t done enough—and forgiveness, both for her and for myself.
At one point, I admitted I’d worried I wouldn’t be taken seriously because I was on Medicaid. My therapist didn’t flinch. “Your grief doesn’t care about insurance,” she said. “Neither do I.”
The healing didn’t happen all at once. There were still nights I woke up in tears, still days I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten. But the difference was, I wasn’t alone with it anymore. There was space for my sadness now. There was permission to feel it.
Over time, the sessions helped me find ritual in the routine. I planted tulips in my sister’s favorite color. I started a journal, not about the pain, but about the memories. I reconnected with my book club. I called Barb and thanked her—really thanked her—for the banana bread and the nudge I didn’t know I needed.
The part of grief no one talks about is how isolating it becomes. People stop asking how you are. The casseroles stop coming. Life moves on without you. But therapy gave me a place where time didn’t have to move faster than I could bear. It gave me permission to say, “I’m still in it,” and not feel ashamed.
Now, when someone tells me they’ve lost someone, I don’t say, “Let me know if you need anything.” I say, “Do you want the name of someone to talk to?” Because affordable grief support is real, and it’s powerful, and it saved me from collapsing into silence.
I’m still healing. I probably always will be. But I’m not doing it alone anymore. That matters more than I can say.
