My quest for postelection solace led me to a group of moms who know what real grief is

The Moms Bonded By Grief Botanical Garden of Healing is officially open.

The rectangular patch of donated space memorializing Philadelphians lost to gun violence stands at the corner of 51st Street and Woodland Avenue, an intersection of grief and hope.

I wrote about the garden’s groundbreaking last year. Last week, I went back — a few days before the group held its official grand opening on Saturday — to see the yearslong dream finally realized.

And I made a second visit for another — perhaps slightly selfish — reason.

Mr. Rogers famously said, “Look for the helpers.” But if he’d been around to witness Election Day this year, he might have said, “Look for the grievers.”

Since the Cheeto-in-Chief somehow stormed back into the White House, I’ve been drawn to people who know what it means to withstand waves of overwhelming emotions — sadness, anger, confusion, fear — and to still search for tiny rays of hope. Can’t we all use guidance on how to find our way through a world that feels like it is lurching toward something terrible?

And no one in our wounded city has been forced to simultaneously hold those two emotions — anguish about our present and faith in our future — more than families of gun violence victims.

When I stopped by the garden last week, I couldn’t help but be moved by what these mothers have built. Visitors to this special oasis in Southwest Philadelphia are greeted by a brick pathway lined with the names of some of those killed.

A plaque with a photo of the mothers of victims — a support group turned sisterhood — reads: “We remember them.” Thousands of river rocks with names of homicide victims handwritten in permanent marker surround a handful of trees. Wooden benches complete a space that offers comfort and contemplation.

While planning the garden, Terrez McCleary, the cofounder of Moms Bonded By Grief, often told me that “more than anything, we want this to be a place of peace, and healing.” And as the sun set over the garden on a seasonably crisp Wednesday, it seemed like they had succeeded.

It would be foolish to draw a direct parallel between the grief felt by mourning families and the election disappointment many of us are feeling after Nov. 5. There is no comparison.

But when I mentioned how victims’ families had long been forced to navigate a range of emotions that seem to be playing out after the presidential election, McCleary said the topic actually came up during one of the group’s weekly Zoom calls.

There was a lot of anger, she said, and just as much fear about the spread of hate and division that a second Trump presidency would unleash on cities he’s often made a target during his campaign.

Remember “Bad things happen in Philadelphia”?

“Bad things” may very well happen in Philly, and countless other places — not because of some kind of imaginary election interference, but because Donald Trump has absolutely no plans for implementing the kind of commonsense gun safety laws that might stem the bloodshed in a nation already awash in far too many bullets.

McCleary said that she copes in the same way she has since she lost her daughter, 21-year-old Tamara Johnson, who was shot and killed on Easter 2009: By leaning into love and building community.

McCleary’s group, which started in 2017 as a neighborhood support group for mothers mourning the loss of their children, has turned into citywide efforts that include advocacy and activism, foundations, and scholarships.

Together, they raise money to help families with funerals, they hold annual Christmas parties for loved ones struggling through the holidays, and since 2021, they’ve organized a yearly summer retreat for children impacted by gun violence.

Every year, there are new sets of projects — and always, a new collection of grief-stricken mothers.

Deemika Brown found her way to the group after her 26-year-old son Terrell Arnold Jr. was shot and killed on Sept. 29, 2020. While standing in the garden, Brown held a photo of her son and shared stories about the father of three and aspiring entrepreneur who was killed not far from his West Philadelphia home.

Brown recalled the ebbs and flows of her own grief, and how the strongest waves of anguish might have kept her under had she not found a lifeline by reaching out to other mothers.

And then, she paused to take in the garden and smiled.

“Wow … our own little sanctuary,” Brown said. “We really took something dark and put a light on it.”

This time, it was my turn to smile.

Grief is permanent. But if carefully and purposely tended to, so, too, is hope.