grieve and lost

There are moments in life that redefine who you are, even when you least expect it. For me, it happened on an ordinary Tuesday morning. The sky was a dull, indifferent gray, like the universe knew what was coming before I did. It was the day I lost her the person who had been there my entire life, my sister, my confidante. I knew death was inevitable, but nothing could prepare me for how it would break me apart.

It wasn’t sudden, but somehow it still felt like it. She had been sick for months, a diagnosis that came without warning, robbing her of her vitality day by day. I remember watching helplessly, feeling the weight of every unspoken word, of every unfulfilled moment between us. But it wasn’t until that Tuesday morning, when the call came in, that it felt real. “She’s gone,” the voice on the other end said, and just like that, a piece of me went with her.

Grief is strange. It doesn’t hit all at once. It comes in waves, unexpected and relentless, knocking the breath from your lungs when you think you’ve finally caught it again. In the days that followed, I moved through life in a haze. People offered their condolences, some with words that felt empty, others with silence that said more than anything could. But nothing they said or didn’t say could touch the hollow ache inside me.

I was grieving, but it was more than that. It was as if I had lost a map and was wandering through a dark, unfamiliar landscape. The world around me continued, oblivious to my pain. I watched people laugh, go to work, take their children to school, as if nothing had changed. But for me, everything had. It was like a veil had been pulled over my eyes, dimming the light of every beautiful thing. How could they carry on so easily when my world had just shattered?

There were nights when I cried until my chest ached, until there were no more tears left. Other nights, I lay in bed, numb, staring at the ceiling, wondering how life could feel so empty when just weeks ago it had been full of promise. Memories of her would flood my mind—her laugh, her smile, the way she always knew just what to say to pull me out of a bad mood. But now, those memories felt like a double-edged sword. They were all I had left, but they were also a cruel reminder that she was gone.

I didn’t just lose her; I lost a part of myself. There was an emptiness in her absence, a silence so profound it became deafening. The conversations we used to have, the shared jokes, even the arguments they were all gone, leaving a void that felt impossible to fill. I found myself wanting to call her just to hear her voice, to ask her how her day was, to tell her I loved her. But the realization that I could never do those things again hit like a punch to the gut every single time.

But grief, as unbearable as it can be, is also a testament to love. The deeper the love, the deeper the pain. I realized, over time, that I grieved so hard because she had meant so much. She had shaped who I was, and now I had to figure out who I was without her. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and some days, I still feel like I’m failing at it.

Still, there’s a strange kind of strength that comes from loss. It forces you to confront the fragility of life, to understand that nothing is guaranteed, that every moment matters. Losing her shattered me, but it also taught me to cherish the people who are still here, to say the things that need to be said, to hold on tightly to the ones I love while I still have the chance.

The pain will never fully go away, I know that now. But I’ve come to accept it as part of who I am. In some ways, it’s a reminder of her of the love we shared, the bond that will never be broken, even by death. Grief is heavy, but it’s also a sign that something beautiful existed. And for that, I am grateful.

So, I carry on. I smile again, I laugh, and I live. Not because the pain has lessened, but because I know she would want me to. Grief, as cruel as it is, has also taught me that the only way to truly honor those we’ve lost is to keep living for them, to make sure their light never fades, even if they’re no longer here to shine it themselves.