I Couldn’t Cry After Losing My Brother—Until I Celebrated My Grief With Strangers

I learned that my brother passed away on August 22, 2025. Over the next heartbreaking months, I couldn’t bring myself to let out one of those heart-wrenching cries that take your breath away. The kind of thing that leaves you completely gutted.

Who else could I cry to? My mother or father lost their baby boy at just 30 years old? Are my brothers thousands of miles away? My youngest sister, who I didn’t call until hours after I learned our brother had died? So I didn’t cry or feel sad. Instead, I organized. I created a spreadsheet and a budget. I bring others together in the only way I know how. I assumed the “strong one” role—a role I knew all too well as the eldest daughter of an immigrant family.

By the time November rolled around, I still wasn’t crying in a relieved way. There are days when my sadness doesn’t get better, and there are many days when my sadness feels worse. Not sure how to move forward, I decided to join a program called Prieto: A one-man show by Santa Clara County Poet Laureate Yosimar Reyes about grief, humor, and growing up queer and undocumented. Not sure what the benefits are and I’m curious to try it. I must have known in my heart that I needed to put myself in a room built for deliverance – with people who didn’t know me or know my brother; let alone grieve him. Otherwise I might never be able to let go.

a poster Prieto Standing in front of the theater. In the center is a silver shopping cart with red trim, representing the years Reyes and his late grandmother collected cans for cash. It was a small detail, but it told me everything I needed to know: resilience, tenderness, and a sense of humor that comes from difficulties rather than in spite of them.

The hall was packed with people who understood the emotional state we were about to enter. Oddly enough, it was the calm before a collective storm, and I was ready for it. As we walked into the rows of seats, dim lights rippled the walls in soft reds, purples and golds. A familiar bass line sounded quietly above the din. As if to show that the universe is playfully sticking out its tongue at us, the boy’s Rejuvenate Play through the speakers. (It was a hilarious moment if ever there was one.)

When Reyes walked out, the room was silent—out of respect, not politeness. His presence has some impact on the space. He’s funny, but not frivolous. Tender, but not precious. He is a storyteller who knows how to take his audience through grief without letting them get too bogged down in it. Early on in the show, he joked that he knew he was gay because family affairs and moeshathe whole room erupted in laughter. After a few minutes, the mood in the room grew tense as he recounted being sexually abused as a child. We hold our breath. But then he gently reminds us to exhale, turning his vulnerability into humor. Near the end of the show, Reyes spoke directly to his late grandmother, listing everything he missed about her. Although it lasted a few minutes, it didn’t seem long enough. “I miss you [belly]. i miss you [braids]He said, “I miss your laughter.” “I felt a pang of heartache at the sound of my brother’s laughter. His dark humor and mischief.