How I Learned to Grieve Someone Still Alive

I never thought it was possible to mourn someone who's still alive - until my younger brother changed in ways I never imagined. Not through accident or disability, but through emotional disconnection, addiction and slow fading of the person I once knew.

I helped raise my brother alongside our late grandmother. After our mother passed, he was only 13 and had just finished primary school. While my grandmother took him in, I took our younger sister, who was just eight at the time. Life felt like survival - we all tried our best in the shadows of grief.

As he entered high school, small cracks began to show. He started drinking, just a little. Like many teenagers do at parties. But something was different. He never talked about the losses we experienced growing up - not even when our older brother passed. H buried it all inside.

Later, when my grandmother moved in with me, we noticed more warning signs. He was left alone in the old family house during the week. Neighbours began complaining about boys drinking and doing drugs there. We were forced to sell that house and move our grandmother closer to me.

By then, my brother had started college, but the drinking continued - sometimes strangers would call us to come pick him up from random places. Once, he passed out in the middle of nowhere. A kind stranger answered his phone, and we rushed to find him. He still doesn't remember what happened that day.

After that scare, he stopped. For four years he was sober. He got his first job, supported our grandmother, and even saved money. We were proud of him.

But 2022, when our grandmother passed away, something broke in all of us - especially in him. He couldn't sleep. He said he saw her spirit every day. I prayed, I asked for her soul to rest. Eventually, he stopped talking about her visits, but he didn't stop trying to numb the pain.

He quietly began drinking again. Then came the drugs.

He got a new job and, for a while, it looked like he was back on track. But the moment he was transferred to liquor section of the store, everything changed. He had early access to alcohol. Weekends turned into daily drinking. Slowly, I watched the soft, kind and responsible man I once knew become someone I didn't recognize - emotionally distant, angry, and defensive.

I had countless conversation with him. I begged. I cried. I warned him. Each time, he'd say I'll stop.'' Sometimes he did - for few days. Then the cycle returned. Until one day, I decided to let go.

I sat with myself and grieved the brother I once knew. I realized I was carrying pain that wasn't mine. I had to save myself.

I prayed and asked God to carry him, because I could no longer do it alone. I accepted that one day, I may get a call to bail him out. Or worse - identify his body. It's a harsh truth. But my healing began the moment I made peace with that fear.

My brother's name is Nhlanhla, meaning "Luck," and his second name is Blessings. And I still hold hope that God will reach him. But I've stopped waiting for the old version of him to return.

I'm learning now that letting go doesn't mean I don't love him. It means I love myself enough to stop bleeding emotionally over someone who hasn't asked for help. He's no longer 13. He's a 33-year-old man making his own choices. And while I'll always be his sister, I now choose my peace first.

I'm healing. And for that, I'm grateful.