When Superwoman's Cape Unraveled: A Story of Grief, Loss, and Breaking
- Tamika Knox
- 7 days ago
- 7 min read
Grief has a way of reshaping your soul quietly, insistently, and without warning.
The Years That Changed Everything
The years 2022 and 2023 cracked something wide open in me.
My grandmother-in-law passed first. Then my mother-in-law. Two matriarchs gone in the same summer. And as I tried to carry on, showing up for patients, students, family, I didn't realize I was slowly unraveling. Something inside me had started to break, even before I knew what was coming next.
The Pause I Couldn't Explain
I started writing this months ago. But somewhere in the middle, I stopped. Couldn't finish it. I didn't know why at the time. I told myself I was too busy. That I'd come back to it when I had more clarity, more peace.
But the truth?
I couldn't finish this because finishing it meant reliving my biggest heartbreak yet.
When I picked it back up in August, right before my annual trip to Martha's Vineyard it hit me. This was where my father dies in the story.
And I wasn't ready.
Our Last Laugh: The Florida Trip
It was March 2023, and we went to our home in Sarasota. Just me, my mom, and my dad.
By then, his health had declined significantly. He'd had a stroke in 2019, and the dementia had slowly crept in since. But that trip? That trip was a gift.
One night, I made myself a Cosmopolitan. My dad asked for a Coke, which was odd because he didn't drink Coke. I asked, "What do you want with your Coke?" and brought out the brown liquor bottles. He picked Crown.
Crown and Coke. So him.
We sat outside on the back patio, pool behind us, palm trees rustling, and he sipped his drink while I sipped mine. We didn't need words. Just the breeze, the stars, and the sound of our laughter. I held his hand.
And I knew.
I knew that would be our last drink together. Our last time sitting side by side.
He passed four months later. On the very last day of July.
The Signs Before the Storm
By the end of May, I knew the end was near.
There was a shift. He wouldn't listen to my mom or the nurses. Even when I, the daughter turned doctor, showed up with my "stern voice," he pushed back. That had never happened before.
I went to a medical school reception after trying to calm him down in the hospital, but something heavy stayed in my chest. That day marked a turning point.
By late June, he stopped walking. I had to be the one to talk to my mother, to explain gently, and then firmly, that it was time. Her best friend was dying. We needed hospice.
She agreed. And thank God for Terry, his kind and patient aide. Hospice brought in more help, doctors, nurses, aides, and gave my mom the ability to rest. Just a little.
The Final Week
Two weeks before he passed, I went on a trip I had previously planned. I debated going. Prayed on it. God said, "Go. You'll need the strength."
When I returned, I moved into my parents' house.
I stayed in my childhood bedroom. Ran in the mornings like I used to. Worked remotely. Ate dinner with them. Slept under the same roof.
And waited.
Every night, I feared I'd hear my mother scream. That the moment would come while I was asleep.
By Thursday, I knew. My ancestors whispered it to me. The gift they gave me, the knowing was strong. He had about 24 to 36 hours.
And 30 hours later, he was gone.
I was downstairs working when Terry called me. "Tamika, he's breathing different." I ran upstairs. My mother was out walking the dog.
When she returned, we brought her to his bedside. She sobbed. Laid her head on his chest. Begged him not to go.
But he did.
Saying Goodbye
The hospice nurse was 45 minutes away. So I was the one who pronounced his death.
My mother looked at me, desperate. "He's not breathing."
And I had to say the words: "He's gone."
He had been gone for a while, but I couldn't say it until she was ready to hear it.
That moment shattered something deep in me.
But I didn't fall apart. I couldn't. I went into superwoman mode, planning every detail of his final send-off. The funeral. The obituary. The church. The music. The slideshow. The flowers. The program.
Because no one else could. Because I always had.
But when they closed his casket… when I whispered my final goodbye… something inside me cracked wide open.
And I haven't been able to put it back together since.
When Superman Died
If I had to name the exact moment the Superwoman in me began to die, it was the moment Superman took his last breath.
My father.
My protector.
My compass.
I was only able to be Superwoman because I knew he was always behind me. Ready to catch me. To cover me. To love me without condition.
And when he left, I was exposed.
No cape. No shield. Just a woman, exhausted and unraveling.
The Lesson He Left Behind
Someone once asked my dad, "Why do you spoil your daughters so much?"
His answer?
"Because I never want my daughters to be dependent on a man."
And he meant it. That was his gift. He gave us strength so we could stand, never so we had to.
And when he was gone, I had to stand alone. And I realized… I didn't know how.
That was the beginning of the unraveling.
And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of the healing.
"The most important days in your life are the day you are born, the day you get married, and the day you die."— The Invisible Life of Eurídice Gusmão
Martha's Vineyard & the Cracking Dam
Two weeks after we buried my father, I boarded a plane to Martha's Vineyard.
My mom lovingly told me to go, told me I'd need the strength of my friends. My Spelman sisters. My Morehouse brothers. My chosen family.
So I went. Brandan flew in for the funeral and held me like the sister she's always been. Tracy was ever-present. Trina couldn't be there, but she called me daily from Texas, her voice a lifeline. They covered me in love when I couldn't stand on my own.
Martha's Vineyard was supposed to be healing.
And in many ways, it was.
But it was also the moment I realized I had bitten off more than I could chew.
The grief had cracked the dam.
And the flood was coming.
October: Two Realities
By October, the light cracked through. I was offered a new role in the medical school as Director of a master's program essentially a pipeline for students dreaming of getting into IU School of Medicine. It was exactly the kind of work I loved: mentoring, guiding, helping people step into their purpose.
I couldn't wait to start. It felt like hope.
But at the same time, another reality was pressing in.
That month, I sat in a meeting with a physician leader who told me, flatly, that I was falling behind.
I tried to explain, calmly, that I was still grieving my father's death. That I was doing my best. That I had only taken a week and a half off work, funeral included, and had been showing up every day since.
Her response?
"Yeah, but you still need to work and be the same productive physician you were before."
It was like a punch to the chest.
Grief didn't matter. Loss didn't matter. The expectation was that I would pick up my cape, strap it back on, and keep flying.
And I was pissed. Because I was still working. I was still getting it done. I was just bleeding out emotionally while I did it.
So, I pushed through. I got caught up. I smiled when I had to. I did what I always do. But I could feel the edges of myself starting to fray.
February: The Five-Job Life
By February 2024, I officially started my new role.
The problem? When you work in higher education, especially in a massive institution, no one gets replaced quickly. Transition plans stretch for months. Sometimes years.
So while I was excited to step into my new director role for the master's program, I was still doing my old course director job for the largest medical school in the country—342 students across nine campuses. And because life likes to pile it on, I was also still a director for a second-year course.
Then, just to make things interesting, I added another new title: course director for a third-year medical school course. Thankfully, that role was far less time-consuming, but it still counted.
By my math, I was now juggling five jobs:
Two I was trying to phase out of
One brand-new director role
My ongoing clinical work (50% of my time on paper, though "paper" and "reality" are two different things)
And another new course director role
All while grieving.All while suppressing that grief just enough to keep functioning.
The Burn Accelerates
It didn't take long for the cracks to widen. I was crying more days than not. Snapping at home over little things. Feeling waves of anxiety just from opening my inbox. The weight was constant, pressing on my chest, in my bones, in my sleep.
Nothing ever felt "caught up." Home was behind. Work was behind. My own life was behind.
I told myself I just had to make it to July. That's when the two old jobs would finally drop off my plate.
And they did.
By July 2024, I was down to three jobs all of which I loved, all of which lit me up in ways my old role no longer could. But even with the joy of that transition, the truth was undeniable: I was still carrying the exhaustion of the year before.
Because burnout doesn't leave just because your calendar changes.It lingers, deep in your nervous system.
And I was still running on fumes.
A Question for You
When did your "Superwoman" cape begin to unravel—and what would it look like to lay it down gently, with grace, instead of waiting for it to be torn off?
Here are some journals to help you
to be continued.....
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