By Shamecca Brown, Columnist, Granite State News Collaborative
New Hampshire is proud of its independence. “Live Free or Die” isn’t just a motto — it’s a mindset. We value hard work. Self-reliance. Community. We say we take care of our own.
But I’ve been asking myself lately: Who exactly counts as “our own”?
I’m a widow. When my husband died, grief was not abstract. It was physical. Sitting at the kitchen table explaining death to a child still learning algebra. Waking in the middle of the night reaching for someone who wasn’t there. And while I was trying to hold my family together, the bills didn’t pause. The car note didn’t pause. The bank didn’t pause.
I am currently facing repossession issues because when my husband died, his income died with him. And just like that, the next person in line – me – is expected to absorb the impact.
You would think widows might catch a break. You would think there would be some grace period, some humanity built into the system. But banks don’t grieve. Lenders don’t attend funerals. Algorithms don’t care who used to sit in the driver’s seat. Someone dies, and the next person pays. That’s the system.
New Hampshire prides itself on community. On small-town warmth. On neighbors helping neighbors. And I’ve seen that spirit exist. But systems are different from neighbors.
There’s something unsettling about how quickly compassion disappears once paperwork begins. Widowhood is emotional. Repossession is transactional. The two don’t speak the same language.
We talk a lot about taking care of our own. But what does that mean in practice?
Does it mean casseroles for a week and silence after that? Condolences,but no policy flexibility? Sympathy in public, but zero grace in contracts?
Independence is a beautiful value, until it becomes isolation. Self-reliance is powerful, until life knocks you to your knees. In a state that celebrates toughness, where is the room for vulnerability? Where is system-level compassion when someone’s entire financial structure collapses because their partner died?
Death is not a budgeting error. It’s not irresponsibility. It’s not mismanagement. It’s loss, and loss has consequences that outlive the funeral.
There’s another layer we don’t talk about. In a small state, reputations travel. Struggles feel visible. Falling behind feels public. There’s stigma in financial hardship, especially when you’re a parent, a professional – someone “supposed to have it together.”
But life does not care how put-together you appear. Grief doesn’t check your credit score. And the reality is this: Many families are one death, one illness, one job shift away from crisis.
I know I am not the only one. There are widows and widowers across this state quietly navigating probate court, car loans, mortgages, credit reports and children’s grief all at the same time. We don’t wear signs. We go to work. We show up to school meetings. We answer emails. And behind the scenes, we are restructuring entire lives.
“Live Free or Die” is a powerful phrase. But freedom without support can feel like abandonment.
And if we truly believe in taking care of our own, we have to ask harder questions: Should financial institutions have structured flexibility for surviving spouses? Should there be mandated grace periods tied to documented loss? Should compassion be optional or expected?
I love New Hampshire. I’ve built a life here. I’ve raised children here. I work here. I contribute here. I am not writing as an outsider. I am writing as someone inside the system who is learning how quickly it moves when you stumble.
We say we take care of our own. So here is the real question: When someone becomes a widow. When someone’s income disappears overnight. When someone is trying to parent through grief, do they still count as “our own”? Or do they simply become the next account due?
Because in this state that values strength and resilience, maybe the bravest thing we can do is admit this: Community isn’t measured by slogans. It’s measured by what happens when someone falls. And right now, too many are falling quietly.
But if we start telling the truth about how many of us are one loss away from falling, we might finally build a state that catches people.
Shamecca Brown is a New Hampshire-based columnist who is family-oriented and passionate about serving underserved communities. These articles are being shared by partners in the Granite State News Collaborative. For more information, visit collaborativenh.org.