25 Years of Grief, Love, and Light
It has been 25 years since we said goodbye. 25 years since we celebrated your birthday. 25 years since the ground disappeared from beneath me. It’s been 25 years of navigating this world without my older brother.
We often talk about different types of loss—losing a child, a parent, a spouse, or a partner. But the loss of a sibling, though deeply impactful, often takes a backseat to the emotions felt by others in the family. When a parent loses a child, the grief is unimaginable, and our instinct is to surround and support them. In these moments, the sibling left behind, who is also grappling with the permanence of loss, can sometimes be overlooked. They, too, are learning how to face the world without their best friend, the person they expected to go through life with—the one they assumed would be there for graduations, weddings, and all the major and minor moments in between. The sibling relationship is unique—rooted in shared experiences, even if each remembers those experiences differently. When you lose a sibling, particularly unexpectedly, you are left to navigate a world where your parents, who would normally be your source of support, are also struggling with their own profound grief.
After a death, there are rituals we participate in to feel connected to and honor the one we’ve lost. In some communities, friends and family surround you immediately, offering their presence and comfort. But after the funeral, when everyone has returned to their lives, the void left behind can be overwhelming. You might forget, for a moment, that you can no longer pick up the phone to call your loved one. Sometimes you talk to them, or dream about them—common experiences that reflect our ongoing connection to those we’ve lost. We’re learning to have a new relationship with them in their absence. I was fortunate to have a cousin stay with us a few months after my brother passed. She filled our home with love, gave us space to grieve, and made this scared young girl feel a little less alone in a now terrifying world. But I remember the day she left and how that moment forced me to face life again, this time truly alone.
Except I wasn’t entirely alone. Over the years, I’ve realized that people show up. Some are there for specific seasons of life, while others are constants. My childhood best friend became my rock. She reminded me I wasn’t alone, held me accountable when I made grief-driven decisions, and picked me up when I felt I couldn’t go on. Other friends became family, helping me grow into who I needed to be. People often say, “Everything happens for a reason” or “Time heals all wounds.” I would roll my eyes every time I heard those clichés. Over time, I came to realize that time doesn’t heal, but love does. It is the love that surrounds you in those dark moments that helps you learn how to move forward. Throughout my journey, I received what I called “little drops of heaven from my brother”—messages I was meant to hear, offering guidance and comfort. Slowly, my dark sky began to fill with stars. Whenever I felt hopeless or alone, I would ask my brother for help, and every time, he showed up—just like he did when he was alive. That’s when I began to say, “God doesn’t give you what you want when you want it, but rather what you need when you need it.” And I learned to live with that.
Over the years, grief ebbed and flowed. There were moments when it was intense, and others when I was simply living my life—laughing, enjoying, and missing my brother without feeling overwhelmed. I would think, “I wish you were here,” and I could handle that feeling. But today, 25 years later, on your birthday—which also happens to be Dad’s birthday—I miss you more deeply. I wish you were here to navigate our parents growing older, to be the uncle I know you would have been, and to help me be the best version of myself. But, true to form, you’ve sent people into my life to help me do just that. You’ve sent people to support me as a mom, as a daughter, and to be family to my own child.
For anyone who is grieving, I wish you love, community, and those little gifts from heaven to guide you through your darkest moments. Grief will change, and so will we. But I hope our loved ones continue to send us stars to light up the night sky.