MY DUNCAN

PERSONAL ESSAY

A reflection on trust, safety, grief, and the promises we carry

By Malikka D. Karteron

Trust and safety are powerful words. They can hold comfort, fear, responsibility, and love—all at once. For me, they will always be connected to Duncan.

The Meaning of Safe

What does it truly mean to feel safe? What does it mean to trust another person with your heart, your fears, or your life? These are not abstract questions for me. They live inside a memory—one that returns with tenderness, sorrow, and an ache that time has never completely erased.

I remember feeling that my Duncan was not safe. I remember dreaming that I would literally cover him, shielding him from anything that might cause him harm. I remember telling him that I would keep him safe. I believed those words when I said them. I wanted them to be stronger than every danger around us.

But I could not keep that promise.

“I wanted my promise to be stronger than every danger around us.”

The Promise I Could Not Keep

Years later, during child-abuse prevention training, I was reminded that adults should never make promises to children that they may not be able to keep. The lesson rang in my head. It brought me back to Duncan and to the promise I had made with so much love and certainty.

Yet, as I reflected, I also understood something deeper: Duncan had been protecting me, too. He knew about the danger. In many instances, his behavior reflected an awareness that I did not fully understand at the time. In his own way, he kept me safe.

That realization carries its own heartbreak. It also carries gratitude. Trust was not simply something I offered Duncan; it was something he offered me. Safety was not only what I wanted to give him; it was also part of the love he gave back.

A Beautiful Weekend

The weekend before he went home, we shared a beautiful trip to Boston. I imagined that we were exploring the region where my MomMom was born. We visited several water features throughout the city before beginning the drive back to New York.

On the way home, we stopped for delicious snacks for the car. We listened to music and watched the fall foliage unfold across the mountains. The colors, the road, the music, and our time together made the weekend feel almost suspended—simple, joyful, and whole.

We were supposed to travel to Philadelphia the following week. I never imagined that the morning I left for the airport would be the last time I saw my Duncan alive.

“The colors, the road, the music, and our time together made the weekend feel almost suspended—simple, joyful, and whole.”

When Personal Pain Becomes Purpose

Many years later, my Soror asked me to help develop a program partnership between her company - Verizon, Global25, and NYC Health + Hospitals/Queens. When it was time to share the initiative on social media, I chose the song “Mental Health Matters.” The partnership became a meaningful success, but for me, the work was never only professional.

Mental health advocacy touched a deeply personal place. The fear I had once felt for Duncan—the knowledge that someone you love may be carrying a threat you cannot fully see or stop—remained close. I could not protect Duncan in the way I had promised, but I could help create spaces where people feel seen, supported, and safer. I could use my voice to remind others that mental health matters, that behavior often communicates what words cannot, and that listening may be an act of protection.

What Duncan Left With Me

Grief does not move in a straight line. It circles back through songs, seasons, highways, familiar places, and the promises we wish we had been able to keep. Some memories hurt because they are beautiful. Others endure because they still have something to teach us.

Duncan taught me that trust is sacred. He taught me to look beneath behavior and ask what a person may be trying to communicate. He taught me that safety is not merely the absence of danger—it is the presence of care, attention, truth, and support.

I still wish I could have covered him and kept every promise I made. I cannot change what happened. But I can carry his memory into the work I do, the people I serve, and the conversations I help create. I can transform grief into compassion and remembrance into purpose.

“I can transform grief into compassion and remembrance into purpose.”

For Duncan—with love, remembrance, and a promise to keep listening.