“What’s something someone said to you during your grief that stuck with you?”
For me, it wasn’t something that helped—it was something that broke me.
In 2013, my big brother passed away. He was a Wildland firefighter—fearless, passionate, and deeply loved in the small town where we grew up. While many of us moved away, he stayed. He built a life there, rooted in community and purpose. He was the kind of person who made people feel seen, who laughed loud, loved deeply, and lived fully. And he was so proud to be a father to his three beautiful kids.
When he died, the entire town showed up for us. I remember standing there, shaking hands and hugging person after person who had come to pay their respects. It was comforting… but also exhausting. Eventually, the words people said started to blur. So many of them felt scripted—“I’m sorry for your loss,” “He’s in a better place,” “Stay strong.” I understood that most people just didn’t know what to say. Still, the presence of everyone meant more than their words ever could.
But the hardest part wasn’t the funeral. It was going back to Nevada—back to a place where no one knew him. Where his name meant nothing, and the weight I was carrying felt invisible to everyone around me. My grief had no witness there.
One afternoon, just a couple weeks after returning, my grief hit me like a wave while riding in the car. I sat silently, looking out the window, tears rolling down my face. No words. Just pain. My (now ex-)husband pulled the car over, looked at me, and shouted:
“Yeah, your brother died. Get over it already! And if you can’t quit with this emotional B.S., get out of the car!”
I was stunned. I remember getting out and walking home, not even feeling the ground under my feet. By the time I got there, I realized what that moment truly revealed: the man I married didn’t see me, didn’t care about my pain, and certainly wasn’t capable of walking through grief with me.
Less than a year later, we were divorced. And the day the papers were signed, I felt the strangest thing—relief.
Not just from the marriage, but from pretending. From holding it all in.
Shortly after, one quiet night, I found myself all alone. No distractions, no noise. And in that stillness, I finally let myself feel. I cried until I couldn’t anymore. And only then… did I begin to heal.
This is my big brother ❤️
He wasn’t just my sibling—he was one of my heroes. This photo was taken right after his baby girl was born. They shared the same birthday, and I’ll never forget the look on his face—pride, joy, awe. That little girl is growing up into one of the most incredible humans I know. She has his fire, his heart, and even his smile. Sometimes it hurts just to look at her. But mostly… I feel lucky. Because a part of him lives on through her.
Grief doesn’t have a timeline. It doesn’t come in neat, tidy stages. It’s messy. It’s brutal. And it’s sacred.
If you’ve ever lost someone you love—truly love—just know this:
You’re not alone. And no matter how long it’s been, it’s okay to still miss them. It means they mattered.
And my brother?
He mattered.
