Superstitions, Grief, and the Fear of What Comes Next

During Hans’ wake, something small happened that stayed with me. One of my cousins started sweeping the floor—quietly, maybe out of habit, maybe to tidy up after the visitors. But I stopped them. Gently, but firmly.

“Don’t sweep,” I said. “Not during the wake.”

if you sweep the floor during a wake, you may be sweeping away the soul of the departed—or worse, inviting more death into the family

It’s a belief I grew up hearing from elders. One of many Filipino superstitions tied to death: if you sweep the floor during a wake, you may be sweeping away the soul of the departed—or worse, inviting more death into the family. Some might say it’s just an old wives’ tale, a leftover from the past. But at that moment, in the soft ache of mourning, it didn’t feel like superstition. It felt like protection.

I didn’t say it to be superstitious. I said it because grief makes you grasp at anything that might guard you from more pain. When your heart is already heavy, you hold onto rituals like lifelines. As if by obeying the old rules, you can somehow keep death from coming any closer.

And then, just weeks after Hans’ passing, two more deaths happened—one from the side of my cousin’s father, and another, the father of my other cousin’s husband. Not close family, but still near. Still within reach of our circles. Still felt. Still mourned.

Of course, I know that these things might have happened regardless. Life and death don’t always follow logic. But my mind still drifted back to that moment with the broom. That quick sweep. That quiet warning.

Filipino death beliefs run deep. Some say not to go home directly after a wake, or to avoid tears falling onto the coffin. Others say not to take food home from the vigil, or to wear red. These aren’t just rules—they’re echoes of care passed down through generations. They come from a time when the unseen was just as real as the seen. A time when spirits were part of the family. A time when grief was held communally—with prayer, practice, and quiet superstition.

I think what’s often misunderstood is that these rituals aren’t just about fear. They’re about reverence. They’re how we show respect, how we try to stay connected to the world beyond, how we protect what still remains.

In the end, I don’t know if it was the sweeping. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was just life being what it is—fragile, unpredictable, full of mysteries we’ll never fully understand. But part of me will always whisper: just in case… don’t sweep the floor.

Sometimes, belief is the only way we know how to hold the things we’re afraid to lose again.