When Fear Centers Us: Navigating Grief Without Erasure

On grief, solidarity, and staying in the messy conversation...

A friend sent me a message this week that made me pause.

She was frustrated - deeply frustrated - with what she called "finger-wagging purity politics" in progressive spaces. She'd shared her fear and grief about an ICE agent killing Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis on January 7, and felt scolded for it. For not including enough disclaimers. For not centering the "right" people. For expressing her own terror at watching a government agent shoot a woman in the face.

"It's okay for people who aren't immigrants to be scared for their safety after the government murdered a woman in cold blood," she wrote. "Nobody needs this reminder because it's common sense." She was responding to a video I'd shared in which she felt like the message was telling people they couldn't express fear without first acknowledging that others have it worse.

I sat with that. Because she's right - and she's also missing something. And that both/and is exactly where the messy, necessary work lives.

The Fear is Real

State violence is terrifying. And if you're a woman reading this, you likely felt that terror in your body. That fear doesn't need disclaimers to be valid.

And... There's Something Else Happening

In the days since Renee's murder, I've watched something curious unfold. White progressives - myself included in past moments - have been using the phrase "Say Her Name" to demand recognition of her death.

I find myself wondering: why that phrase? Where does it come from? What work was it designed to do?

"Say Her Name" was created by the African American Policy Forum in 2014, specifically to address the erasure of Black women killed by police. Sandra Bland. Breonna Taylor. Atatiana Jefferson. The movement emerged because Black women's deaths at the hands of law enforcement were systematically ignored - even within broader conversations about police violence that centered Black men.

The phrase was never meant to be universal. It was meant to be specific. Targeted. A direct counter to a particular kind of invisibility. So when I see it applied to Renee Good - a white woman - I get curious. Not judgmental. Curious.

What are we doing when we take language created to address Black women's specific erasure and use it for a white victim? Even when that white victim absolutely deserves to be named, grieved, and remembered?

Are we building solidarity? Or are we, perhaps unintentionally, re-centering whiteness even in our grief?

The Scolding Problem

Here's where my friend's frustration comes back in. Because if your first reaction to those questions was defensiveness - "I was just trying to honor her!" or "This isn't the time for semantics!" - I get it. That's human.

And it's also exactly what my friend was naming: progressive spaces can feel like minefields where every word is scrutinized, where grief requires footnotes, where expressing fear means you're not "doing the work" correctly.

That's not calling in. That's performing moral superiority. And it pushes people away from the very solidarity we claim to be building.

So how do we navigate this? How do we hold space for genuine fear (Renee's murder IS terrifying) while not perpetuating erasure (co-opting "Say Her Name" does erase its original purpose)?

The Both/And

When I responded to my friend, I didn't try to correct her or tell her she was wrong. I said: "Multiple truths co-exist."

Her fear is real. Renee Good deserves to be named and grieved. AND ICE's violence falls disproportionately on Black and Brown bodies regardless of citizenship status, while undocumented immigrants - especially immigrants of color - live under the sustained threat of raids, detention, family separation, and deportation. White citizens can express grief and fear without wondering if they're next.

All of this is true. At the same time.

The question isn't whether white people can express fear or grief - of course we can. The question is: how do we do it in ways that don't inadvertently erase others? How do we show up in solidarity without appropriating the language and movements born from others' specific suffering?

I don't have perfect answers. But I think it starts with staying curious instead of defensive. With asking "why this phrase?" instead of assuming our intentions matter more than our impact. With recognizing that staying in relationship through discomfort is harder - and more important - than being right.

What white people (myself included) might practice:

• Grieve Renee Good's murder AND direct energy toward protecting those most vulnerable to ICE violence

• Feel scared for ourselves AND recognize our relative safety compared to our Black, Brown, and undocumented neighbors

• Speak up about state violence AND amplify movements led by those most impacted

• Make mistakes (we will) AND stay in the conversation instead of retreating into defensiveness or silence

My friend softened after her initial message. "Maybe sometime we could talk about the whys I'm so curious about," she wrote.

That's the work. The messy conversation. The both/and. The staying in relationship even when it's uncomfortable.

Because we need each other. And we need to figure out how to be together - across difference, through discomfort - if we're going to build the kind of solidarity that actually protects people.

This week, I invite you to sit with these questions. Not to produce the "right" answer, but to notice what comes up for you:

1. Notice your initial reaction: When you first read about using "Say Her Name" for Renee Good, what was your gut response? Defensiveness? Agreement? Confusion? Curiosity? Don't judge the reaction - just notice it.

2. Explore your comfort zone: Think about a time when you felt scolded or shamed in a progressive space for saying or doing something "wrong." What happened in your body? How did it affect your willingness to stay engaged? Now think about a time when someone called you in with genuine curiosity and care. What was different?

3. Examine appropriation vs. solidarity: Identify another example (in your own experience or that you've witnessed) where well-intentioned people borrowed language or frameworks from marginalized communities. What was the impact? What might have been a more solidarity-centered approach?

4. Practice the both/and: Choose a current issue where you have strong feelings. Can you identify at least two truths that exist simultaneously, even if they feel contradictory? Practice holding them both without collapsing into "but" or "however."

5. Consider your sphere of influence: As a white person navigating these spaces, what's one small shift you could make in how you express fear, grief, or solidarity that might avoid centering yourself while still being authentic?

Take your time with these. The point isn't to arrive at certainty - it's to build your capacity to sit with complexity, notice your patterns, and stay engaged even when it's hard.

 As always, I'd love to hear what comes up for you.

In solidarity and curiosity, Sara