The darkness sifted through my bedroom window, looking for the light. Another day. Another endless stretch of hours to fill with...nothing. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, as I had done almost every day over the past six months. Six months since Chris died. Six months since my world shattered. I didn't move. I didn't want to. Moving meant facing a world without my brother, and I wasn't ready for that. Not today. Not ever.
The phone rang, its tone cutting through the silence. With an anxious mind and audible sigh, I reached for it, seeing Mom's name on the screen. "Hello?" My voice somber from disuse. "Sweetie, how are you doing today?" Mom's voice was gentle, underlined with worry. "Same as yesterday, same as every day," I mumbled. There was a pause, a moment of hesitation, and an audible shift from worry to frustration in my mom's voice. Then, Mom spoke words that would change everything: "You used to love everything."
I sat silent, caught off guard by the obvious frustration riddled in her voice. “Remember how you used to throw yourself into life?” she continued. “Your volleyball games, your schoolwork, your friends....you approached it all with such passion and zest.” I remained silent, memories flashing through my mind like an old film reel. A life I could remember but couldn’t reach anymore. A life that felt like memories that belonged to someone else. “Get out there and start living your life again,” Mom said. “Chris wanted more for you than this.”
Something stirred within me at her words. A spark of...something. Recognition? Longing? Desire? “Chris wanted more for you than this.” The words echoed in my head, growing louder the longer I thought.
Chris wanted more. Chris wanted more. Chris wanted more.
Suddenly, I was crying. Not the numb, hollow tears I’d shed for months, but deep sobs that shook my entire body. I cried for Chris, for the life he’d lost, for the future he’d never see. For our adventure plans to Thailand that would never come to fruition. For the future I would never experience with him. And I cried for myself, for the person I used to be, the one who loved life and people fiercely without hesitation. As the tears began to dry, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in what felt like a lifetime: a flicker of determination.
“You’re right, Mom,” I whispered. “Chris told me to live a healthy, balanced life. He’d want me to live.”
That day marked a turning point. It wasn’t an instant transformation- grief doesn’t work that way. But it was the day I chose to live again. At first, it was small steps. Getting out of bed. Taking a shower. Going for a walk along the lake I’d always loved. Each day, I challenged myself to move even the slightest bit forward.
I signed up for classes, determined to finish my degree. I joined a sorority. I got a new job, finding self-sufficiency in work. I started coaching volleyball, finding purpose in being more than a coach for my players. Finding meaning in letting them know they always had an ear to listen whenever they needed it. Slowly but surely, I started to recognize the girl I saw in the mirror again. The girl who loved everything and everyone began to resurface, stronger and more resilient than before.
But the journey wasn’t always smooth. There were days when the pernicious grief resurfaced, unannounced and unrelenting. “Promiscuous” by Nelly playing on the radio or an old photograph in a long untouched box could unravel my progress, sending me spiraling back into the depths of sorrow once more. But with every setback came a new resolution: to honor his memory, not with sorrow, but with life.
I still have those days where missing Chris hurts a little more, where I miss him more than usual. But now, I’ve learned to carry that pain differently, allowing it to exist without letting it take over. Instead of letting the grief consume me, I try to embrace those moments, allowing myself to remember him with love rather than despair. It’s in those moments, on those days where I remind myself of the words of Cicero: “The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” Chris’s life, his laughter, his dreams- they live on. And because of that, he is never truly gone. His heart lives on within all the people he touched so deeply in his life. His heart lives on within me.
Now, as I near my college graduation, I look back on that phone conversation with Mom. It was her words that catapulted me onto a new path- one of healing, growth, and rediscovery. I’ve explored the world with new eyes. I’ve found love, opening my heart to a healthy, nurturing relationship. It wasn’t easy at first- letting someone in, allowing myself to be vulnerable again- but love, I’ve learned, casts out the darkness, bringing light into spaces I once thought would remain shadowed forever. But most importantly, I’ve learned to love my life again, embracing each day as the gift it truly is.
Chris wanted more for me than a ghost-like existence. He wanted me to live, to love, and to thrive. And so, I do- carrying his heart and memory with me always. It all started with that phone conversation, with Mom’s reminder of who I used to be. Now, I honor Chris not by withdrawing from life but by living it to the fullest, one day at a time- just as he would have wanted.
Comments