Yesterday marked six years since my baby brother, Michael Fisher, passed away. Facebook reminded me first thing yesterday morning. Last year I was still on my social media hiatus, so I observed the anniversary quietly as we were just closing on our home here in Washington state. This year…I honestly didn’t know how to acknowledge it at all.
Grief is a strange companion on this journey. It never really leaves. Sometimes it shows up as joy when a memory catches the light just right. Sometimes it hits like a lightning bolt and suddenly you’re crying during Cheerio commercials for reasons you can’t even name. Most days, it’s just a small gnawing under the surface...always there, always digging.
And the older we get, the more grief becomes part of who we are. We keep losing people we love. We keep saying goodbye. My middle brother, Craig, and I are the only two left in our immediate family, and he’s dealing with some tough health issues right now. So when I felt myself starting to sink yesterday morning, realizing what day it was, I tried to shift my focus toward the joy Michael and I had shared over the years.
My baby brother and I had a strained relationship in the last few years of his life. But a few months before he died, we reconnected. We talked. We were honest with each other and I saw more of the Michael I grew up with than I had seen in years as he was battling liver cancer. That conversation is still fresh in my mind, and I’m grateful for it every single day.
The lesson grief keeps teaching me is simple: it’s proof that we have loved. My super-smart trophy husband always says that the more we love someone, the bigger the hole left behind when they're gone. And he’s right.
Grief is hard, but imagine what a sh*thole world this would be without love at all.
So if you’re struggling to carry your own losses, I just want you to know that I see you. You’re not alone in this strange, tender, complicated thing we call grief.
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