Barbara Speranza

If you haven’t yet read Walk Through Walls, the powerful autobiography of Marina Abramović, published in 2016 (Crown Archetype; Italian edition by Bompiani), you are missing a profound dive into the life of one of the most fearless artists of our time. Born in Belgrade in 1946, daughter of decorated Partisans in Tito’s Yugoslavia, Marina was raised in a world marked by militarism, discipline, and emotional distance.

When grief entered my life, it didn’t knock. It flooded everything – with a force that reshaped the landscape of my days. In the silence that followed, I began listening – to the wind, the trees, and especially, to water. Water, in all its forms, became more than comfort. It became a language. It helped carry the unbearable, and over time, it became the ground beneath me.

Grief is not a buzzword. It’s not a fleeting emotion or a poetic metaphor for a bad day. It’s not something you “get over” or “heal from” neatly like a paper cut. For bereaved parents especially, grief is a lifelong companion, an aching absence that sits at the dinner table, echoes in family photos, and lurks in ordinary moments. And yet, in a culture increasingly quick to label discomfort as “trauma” and disagreements as “triggers,” something vital is being lost: respect for real suffering.