It’s taken me a while to come to terms with this simple truth: I am comforted when other people share with me that they, too, are still struggling with my sister’s death.
I used to think it was selfish of me to want other people to be hurting. I realize now that I wasn’t looking at things fairly to myself. I don’t want others to hurt, just as I don’t want my sister to be dead. But both are true. And as I walk through this often isolating experience, the bond of grief, no matter how tragic, is an important reminder that I am not always alone.
Her partner, despite having a new girlfriend only a few months later, still cries at home alone and holds her ashes.
Her work bestie sometimes stays in the car a few more minutes when a song comes on that reminds her of my sister, and sometimes she cries.
Her childhood best friend still struggles with finding meaning in the aftermath of her untimely death.
Many of her coworkers still talk about her regularly, and sometimes they send me a photo of special things, like the t-shirts they made in her honor.
Her cat still looks for her in the house and sleeps on the spot where she died.
These are only the examples I know of, because people have told me their stories, shared their pain. And every time, I have been so, so thankful to know. Because it is easy to convince myself that I alone am carrying the torch of her memory while everyone else is okay. But that’s not true.
My sister was loved by many people. And I may walk closer to the most intense part of the pain, but I am not alone. She did not disappear from this earth without notice. She has not been forgotten. Her name still spills from friends’ mouths and memories of her laughter and face linger.
I would be far less okay if people did not decide to tell me when they think of her, when they hurt, when they privately or publicly continue to mourn. I don’t know if every grieving sibling wants this outreach, but I know it’s been key to my ability to carry myself forward.
Unmoored Sister 