On mourning legends, respecting boundaries, and holding space for grief that doesn’t always make sense.
Content Warnings: Grief and loss, death of a public figure, chronic illness (Parkinson’s), medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, media harassment/paparazzi.
This morning, I opened Facebook and was hit with something I didn’t want to believe:
Ozzy Osbourne- the Prince of Darkness, the metal icon, the voice that bled through generations of rebellion and resilience- has passed away at the age of 76.
“I’m going through changes…”
-“Changes,” Ozzy Osbourne
No official cause of death has been shared, and honestly? We don’t need one. He had been fighting Parkinson’s for years. And today, he was surrounded by his family and loved ones when he took his final bow. That’s all that matters.
He was allowed peace. He was allowed presence.
He was allowed love.
And I hope the world respects that- especially the paparazzi.
Yes, millions are mourning. But more than a legend, Ozzy was a person. A husband. A father. A brother. A son. The Prince of Darkness was always a man first. He deserved to leave this world with dignity- and those who loved him most deserve their privacy now.
“Times have changed and times are strange / Here I come, but I ain’t the same…”
-“Mama, I’m Coming Home”
If I’m honest, at first, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to see it, or even believe it. But once the shock wore off I got up, walked across the basement to my girlfriend, and hugged her, and that’s when the tears hit.
There’s something tender and raw about losing someone who shaped your world from a distance.
When you’re disabled or chronically ill, especially, grief like this hits differently.
We know what it means to be reduced to your diagnosis.
To be labeled “inspirational” while you suffer.
To exist publicly in pain.
Watching Ozzy carry Parkinson’s so publicly, enduring all the interviews and cruel tabloid speculation… it hurt. Because many of us live those smaller versions of that same pain.
And then, somehow, through all that, he still gave us the music.
He still gave us himself.
“I’m just a dreamer / I dream my life away…”
-“Dreamer”
It’s okay if you don’t know why you’re crying today.
It’s okay if this grief is tangled up in things that have nothing to do with Ozzy directly.
Maybe you’re mourning your dad’s old vinyls. Maybe you’re thinking about a hospital stay where his voice was the only thing loud enough to cut through the fog.
Or maybe, like me, you feel a little less tethered to the world now.
“I’m going off the rails on a crazy train…”
-“Crazy Train”
The grief is real. And it’s valid.
There’s a unique kind of mourning that happens when a figure you never met -yet who shaped your life- passes. It’s grief wrapped in nostalgia, set to guitar riffs and lyrics that carried us through the worst.
Maybe it’s “See You on the Other Side” that does it.
Maybe it’s “Under the Graveyard.”
Maybe it’s just the quiet realization that the world is now without Ozzy Osbourne.
“Maybe it’s not too late / To learn how to love and forget how to hate…”
-“Crazy Train”
So, we grieve. We choke back tears. We write. We hold space.
We light a candle. We press play.
We whisper “thank you.”
And maybe that’s enough.
To Ozzy Osbourne- thank you for the madness and the music. For the honesty. For being loud and raw and real, even when the world didn’t know what to do with you.
And to his family, if by some strange twist of fate this finds you: We’re so sorry for your loss.
We are holding space for your grief. Quietly. Respectfully. With love.
“Mama, I’m coming home…”
Rest well, Prince of Darkness.
We’ll carry the echoes.
-Sky, The Crippled Cryptid
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