Published
If I've learned one thing about grief, it’s that you can find immense comfort in hearing someone else’s story, their experience, and what they do after the dust settles. That's why I decided to write this.
In August of 2019, my brother died. I’ve spent the majority of my early twenties grappling with grief. It's been anything but linear, but I can trace most things back to this loss. Jackson’s life was a tumultuous and difficult existence. As the younger sister, I had a front row seat to the pure magic that Jackson exuded when he was well, and the contrasting grim realities of mental illness and addiction. It was only natural for me to play the role of a neutral and unproblematic member of my nuclear family. My parents would often exclaim, “We don’t have to worry about you,” and while that may have been correct, it convinced me that my origin story was that of being the perfect child, someone who always did the right thing and would often make their problems or worries undetectable.
My brother often teased, “Third time’s the charm!” about my existence. The perfectionism and people pleasing followed me into my young adulthood and my first serious relationship. It only inflated when Jackson passed. I was so hellbent on being okay and moving forward that I didn’t even bat an eyelash, because god forbid I take up any space. Two days after Jackson’s funeral, I was back on a plane to New York City and went to work the next day. “We don’t have to worry about her,” was the constant phrase in my subconscious. My objective at this time was to be the poster child for stoicism. I contorted and convinced myself and others that I was completely regulated. Tears? She doesn’t have any. Feelings? Out the window. Grief? Never met her.
As someone who is typically risk averse, I often default to what feels safe, reliable, and okay. It’s taken nearly five years of Jackson’s absence to realize this. I’ve turned the pressure cooker off, and I'm learning to embrace grey areas, uncertainty, and ambivalence. Feeling both the emptiness of not having Jackson here and relief that it’s no longer so heavy has been a stark reminder that life is often a contradiction.
It’s not until now, at the ripe age of 29, that I finally treat myself with tenderness. Gone is the girl who thought she needed the job, the apartment, the dog, and the perfect relationship to remain steady. Gone is the girl who thought she needed to remain steady at all. Who has arrived? We aren’t sure yet, but she was willing to leave it all behind to find out.
It’s been 8 months of delayed grief, transience, lots of mistakes, tears, searching, and finding, all while experiencing small peaks of light that are so sweet it makes me think I've done all of this for the right reasons.
It turns out that giving myself time to process means it’s all about me now. I say this half-heartedly and with a nervous laugh (stop looking at me, please!!!). But it’s how I feel. I have space now to make mistakes, feel embarrassed, not know the answer, and center myself. I have space to pay attention to what I’m feeling and what my needs are. For so long, I gave Jackson the permission to get better, to heal, to start over, but it never occurred to me that I should give myself the same opportunity. It wasn’t until last year that I finally gave myself that space—I quit my job, left New York for four months, and ended a long-term relationship. I’ve since returned to the city with the fierce objective of feeling better and becoming an unapologetic version of myself.
Although Jackson couldn’t stay, he allowed me to take this step in my adult life. His absence, his weight no longer lingering on my shoulders, is the catalyst that gave me permission to ask questions and break some figurative bones along the way. As painful as his loss has been, I have him to thank for this transient and terrifying chapter that I am currently undertaking. Some days, I am so deeply uncomfortable with my new reality that it’s a challenge to leave the apartment. But in contrast, there have been moments where I laugh so hard, I cry. I’ve become closer with old friends, made new ones, and allowed myself to experience the highs and the lows—all with the understanding that although it could only last a moment, it's worth it.
