Recently, while reflecting on what helped me most on my grief journey, I came to a sudden realization: that I was thinking in the past tense, while living very much in the present one. This journey is ongoing and will never truly end, and therefore what helped me most at one time may not help me now, or I may discover something else supportive in the future. I find that sentiment extremely hopeful. 

I am filled with gratitude as I realize that I have innumerable little stories of people stepping up in ways that surprised me, honored me, and lightened my grief load for a moment. Support was found in actions and people like the local business giving me a nice pair of shoes to wear to my brother’s memorial service when I was there looking for an outfit or my family’s hairdresser who cut my hair that same week knowing what it meant to me to look good for Stu (he was a barber). A few months in and in a dark time I can hardly remember, it was my friends who really understood what made me tick sitting me on a dirtbike and saying, “you’re coming to Baja and riding this with us in a week, you better learn how to shift fast, this is your front brake don’t touch it, here ride up this mountain”. It was even strangers who just took the extra moment to smile at me, choose kindness and let me in on the onramp. I’m serious- the actions of people who had no idea who I was, choosing to be good people just because, gave me more staying power than I thought possible. In a world where it’s so easy to choose anger and judgement and frustration, and at a time when having those things levied towards me was utterly devastating, those anonymous souls who chose kindness made a difference in a way they’ll never know. 

As the years have passed, I still think of and value these moments and especially value and try to help proliferate those random acts of understanding towards strangers. Now, though, things have evolved, as I approach the beginning of year five without my person. 

Even more than in the beginning, the value of the gift of the persistent presence of others who truly knew my person, my little brother, and me/my family is utterly unquantifiable. These were people who remembered to send me a little blue heart in a text with no words, the ones who called or messaged to say they thought of my brother that day or saw something that reminded them of him. Those who took the time to send thoughts, memories, cards and pictures not just the first week, but in the first year, the first two, the last four and counting. The people who remember, who ask, who listen to our stories. The people who stayed, even as I struggled with a truly fearsome rage that would explode out of me, as I could offer nothing but negativity and darkness, as I dragged myself through life wondering if I’d ever see or feel a beautiful thing again. These are the people who you know without question who you could ask for a ride or help with a task, who would be so truly happy to help. But they are also the ones who understand that we don’t know what we need, trust us to ask for specifics, and provide unwavering thereness in between. 

In keeping with the above, I am fortunate to work in a profession which allows me a natural outlet for all of this love with nowhere to go, these endless stories I want to share and keep telling so I never forget them. I am a lower elementary Montessori teacher. In my classroom, the children ask me about my bracelet (Stu’s name is on it), about my family, about Stu and how he died. They ask if I’m still sad. They ask what he was like. They want to hear stories, they laugh and ask for more details. These children know that my brother died of a mental illness that changed the structure of his brain and made his nightmares seem like they never ended, even when he was awake, and that he stayed with the world as long as he could. And what’s absolutely bonkers is… they understand. Better than any adult I’ve ever spoken to. When I explain mental illness in the rawest and simplest, child-appropriate language, they say things like “that is so scary and so sad. You still love him a lot don’t you”.  I guess what I’m saying is, finding my place where I can share my person in a way that feels authentic, meaningful and helpful to the audience. These children helped me process my grief, celebrate my love, and share a core message of pride, love and gratitude for my brother and a recognition of the struggles of mental illness.

In closing, the version of myself that I am today, the one who can once again stand and see and hear and feel beauty and hope in the world, has been shaped by the support of humans who both knew and had no idea that they were rebuilding me, jagged piece by sharp, angry piece. Tip your barber well, and be kind. It does make a difference. Thank you all.