Letting the Light In: Grief, Growth, and Remembering the Good

There are parts of my story that still feel too heavy to hold, even after all these years. Losing people you love never gets easier—it just gets... different.

I lost my dad at a young age. A loss like that changes you before you even understand what grief is. It shifts your whole world in ways you can’t explain. I didn’t just lose a parent—I lost years of memories we never got to make. I lost hugs I’ll never feel, advice I’ll never get to hear, and moments that should’ve been ours.

Then during my senior year of high school, when everything was supposed to be full of celebration and future plans, I lost my brother. A different kind of heartbreak. One that hit me when I was old enough to understand it but still too young to know how to carry it.

And not long after, I lost two more people who meant the world to me—my aunt and uncle, who were more like grandparents than anything else. They were a steady, comforting part of my life. The kind of people who showed up, loved deeply, and made you feel safe just by being near them.

Losing My Dad Just Before I Turned Seven

Losing my dad just a month before I turned seven is something that’s stayed with me my entire life.

At the time, I didn’t really understand what was happening. All I remember is standing in our kitchen, saying goodbye as my aunt and uncle took him to the hospital. That was the last time I saw him. I don’t even really remember what we were talking about or what our last words were. I just knew he was going to the hospital.

What I didn’t know was that he wouldn’t be coming home.

I didn’t know he was in pain. I didn’t know he was sick. We didn’t really talk about it.

As a kid, I didn’t fully grasp what was going on. And part of what hurt most was that my sister got to spend more time with him. That created this quiet anger in me—one I couldn’t fully explain at the time. I was mad that I didn’t get more of him. Mad that she got memories I’d never have. It was hard to understand, hard to comprehend, and even harder to accept that my dad was gone... and wasn’t coming back.

I remember he spent his birthday in the hospital. I made him a card.

I remember going to visit the night he passed, but I didn’t get to see him. I think my older sister did, but I’m not even sure anymore. It’s all kind of blurry.

What I do remember is waking up the next morning in my parents’ room. My sister and I went into the living room where my mom and aunt were sitting. And just like that, everything felt different.

I don’t remember the conversation. I don’t remember what was said. I don’t remember if I cried or not—I’m sure I did. I just don’t remember it very well.

But I do remember that something in the air shifted. The world didn’t feel the same anymore. That’s when the missing began.

Even now, so many years later, I still feel it. Grief looks different when you’re a child. It doesn’t always come out in tears—it comes out in confusion, in silence, in growing up with a space no one else can fill.

It’s a pain you grow around. And even if you don’t always remember the moments, you never stop missing the person.

My Brother, Mark

When I was a senior in high school, I lost my brother, Mark. This loss felt different—more surreal, more real, and way more painful. It was the first time I remember truly feeling grief creep in.

We weren’t super close in the traditional sense—he was more than seven years older than me, and for most of my life, he was either in high school or college. But he was still my brother. And we shared a lot of memories. I still looked up to him in so many ways.

Mark was the kind of person everyone looked up to. He was smart, kind, charming, funny, caring—just uniquely him. You could sit down and have a genuine conversation with him, and he made you feel like you mattered. And somehow, you always left having learned at least five new “big words” from his vocabulary (and yes, I’m still trying to use them in the right context).

He lived in the wow, not the now. He was always moving forward, chasing something bigger, living each day like it was a gift. He was brilliant. He went to Duke, and when he passed, he was in his final semester at Harvard Med, doing rural healthcare work in New Zealand.

I remember the exact moment everything changed.

I was working at the gym one night when I got a text from my mom. She messaged me and my older sister saying something had happened, but to please not speed home. Spoiler alert: I sped home. I knew something was wrong.

I walked into the living room where my mom and sister were sitting, and the silence in that room said everything. No one said anything for a few minutes until I finally blurted out, “Well… who died?”

Yeah. That’s me—blunt and straight to the point.

My mom asked my sister to take me to my room, and that’s when she told me Mark was missing. He’d been gone for a day or so after a rock climbing accident in New Zealand.

I was confused but didn’t think the worst. Not yet.

The next morning was a Friday. I had a math quiz first period, an English quiz second, and a physical science quiz third. I remember walking into my mom’s room to let her know I was leaving for school. She just sat there, kind of out of it, and said quietly, “They found Mark. He’s being sent to be cremated.”

And that was… it.

I got in my car, went to the loaded tea shop, grabbed a tea, and headed to school like I hadn’t just been told my brother had died. I got to homeroom and didn’t say much to anyone. When I got to first period, I pulled both my teachers aside and told them there had been a lot going on at home. They told me just to try my best.

But when I sat down to take that quiz? I couldn’t read a single word on the page. I just started crying, right there in the middle of class.

And then? Two guys next to me—who I will forever consider real ones—scooted their quizzes over for me to cheat off of. No hesitation. That’s love.

After that, I went to pick up my tea, and the entire lid came off, spilling the whole thing all over the floor… and on a couple of people's MacBooks. Yep. That was fun. I had to go track down a janitor, and bless their heart, they were so kind and said not to worry—they’d take care of it.

Later that day, my second period teacher pulled me aside into another room, and I told her everything. I said, “We found out my brother went missing last night. ”She asked, “Did they find him? ”And I replied, “Yeah… his body.”

Just like that.

After that, I was sent home. And honestly, that entire semester became one big blur. We waited for his remains. We went to his wake. We tried to piece life together again.

From January to the end of February… it was just rough. I had never experienced anything like it.

Losing Mark taught me that even the best people die young. That life can come to a screeching halt at any minute. That tomorrow isn’t promised.

And that’s why I try to live wildly, freely, and with purpose—because he did.

My Aunt Lou: My Heart Person

Losing my Aunt Lou during my junior year of college was the hardest loss I’ve had to go through.

She was my everything. She was like the grandmother I never had on my dad’s side. She lived just two houses down from us when I was growing up, and I truly don’t think there’s a childhood memory I have that doesn’t include her. She did it all—babysitter, driver, chef, best friend. She was one of my very best friends.

I looked up to her like she could do no wrong. To me, she was the end-all, be-all of women. One of the strongest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

When I was maybe 11 or 12, she was diagnosed with cancer and broke her arm—and still kicked cancer’s butt. Years later, when I was 17 or 18, my uncle was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and Aunt Lou stood by his side and cared for him with the kind of love and strength you only see in movies. She was a true boss queen—graceful, tough, giving, and full of love. She poured her heart into others, always.

I remember her best in the kitchen, always cooking something warm, or outside in her garden beds, working with her hands and smiling.

Before I left for college, I remember going to see her. I didn’t know then that would be the last time I’d see her out of the hospital.

Freshman year came and went. Then, sophomore year—she ended up in the hospital on New Year’s Eve. I was out partying, and I remember thinking, If something happens and I don’t get to say goodbye, I’ll never forgive myself. But thankfully, she pulled through.

Things felt normal again for a while… until junior year.

On November 15, my mom texted me and my sister in our group chat that Aunt Lou had been hospitalized again. I was a little intoxicated—end of gameday energy—but the next morning, it hit me: this wasn’t just another hospital visit.

Later that week, my mom texted me and said I needed to come home and see her. This might be the last chance. I packed all my stuff for Thanksgiving break, made the two-hour drive to my parents’ house, dropped everything off—and then immediately drove another 3–4 hours to the hospital.

When I got there, she was really out of it, barely responsive. She mostly talked to my sister and my aunts. And then came the hardest moment—the doctors asking us about a DNR. That was one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had to be a part of.

Afterward, we went to her retirement apartment to prepare it for her return. She had my old bedding on the bed—the one she used when I stayed with her—and pictures of me and Allie up on the walls. It was decorated for Christmas. I didn’t sleep much that night.

The next day, I spent almost the entire day holding her hand in the hospital. Family members and doctors kept saying, “You must be her girls,” and it made my heart ache in the sweetest way—because that’s what we were. Her girls.

Eventually, I had to take a break and step out. When I came back, my mom was there—and I truly don’t know what I would’ve done without her through all of this. She helped me hold it together.

The plan was to get Aunt Lou back to her apartment to spend her last days in hospice, not in a cold, sterile hospital room. I was supposed to head home that night, grab my school stuff, and come back to stay with her.

I remember leaving, knowing it might be the last time I saw her with her eyes open. She was in so much pain, and it still hurts me to this day to remember her like that.

She closed her eyes. I kissed her goodbye. And I drove home by myself

The next morning, I was getting ready to go back to be with her. My parents walked into my room and told me that she never opened her eyes again. She had passed earlier that morning.

Everything after that is kind of a blur. I just remember being mad.

Mad at myself for not spending more time with her. Mad at the world. Mad at God for taking one of the best people on this earth. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know how to live in a world that didn’t have her in it.

I started listening to her old voicemails. I’d go to call her—and then remember she wasn’t going to answer.

The funeral was the roughest I’ve ever been to. I cried through the entire thing—loudly. It was the first open casket I’d been to since my dad’s. At the same funeral home.

I was not okay .I fell into a deep depression for the rest of junior year. I didn’t see how the world could keep spinning without her. I didn’t see how everyone else could just go back to normal when I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I sat in that pain for a long time. And honestly? It took everything in me to crawl out of it.

My Uncle Cal: My Forever Hype Man

Finally, there’s my uncle. My Uncle Cal. Or, as younger me used to call him—Uncle Cow—because that’s what I thought his name was.

If there was ever a real-life Superman, it was him.

He was my everything. My biggest cheerleader. My partner in crime. My snack connoisseur. The man who let me give him makeovers, who always said yes, and who never missed a chance to make me smile.

If I wanted to play beauty salon? He was down. If I wanted to go get soft serve from McDonald’s even though we had perfectly fine ice cream in the freezer? Still down. He was always up for it—no matter how ridiculous it was—because it made me happy. And that’s just who he was.

Growing up, I was constantly curled up next to him, watching movies, laughing, feeling safe. He wasn’t afraid to be himself, and all he ever wanted was to make other people happy. I don’t think I ever saw him without a smile on his face.

He is what I’d describe as a genuinely joyful person. Someone who truly loved his life, his people, and every simple, beautiful moment.

Until the day he started to forget things, he always called me his little princess. And y’all—if we’re talking about spoiled… let me tell you.

I remember walking by the library one day with Aunt Lou and seeing puppies outside. I asked her if we could have one, and she told me I had to ask Uncle Cal. So we went home, and I asked him.

No hesitation. We got in the car and went back to get that puppy. She stayed with them until she passed in 2019.

That’s the kind of man he was—always saying yes to love.

He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was a junior or senior in high school. That was hard. Watching someone so full of life start to slip away is something I’ll never forget.

But he didn’t really start forgetting me until I was in college. And even then, he still had his spark.

The last time I saw him was at his 94th birthday party. He was still cracking jokes, still full of life, still Uncle Cal. Even with Alzheimer’s, he never lost the light inside of him. He was the same joyful, loving man I’d always known—and I was so grateful for that moment.

At the beginning of this school year, I started to hear that he wasn’t doing well. It worried me—but I hoped he had more time.

Then one day, my mom showed up at my door. I thought she was just dropping off food, but she stayed longer than usual. That’s when I knew.

She told me he had passed—and that she wanted to tell me in person before I saw it anywhere else.

We went and looked for a funeral dress, had lunch together, and then she went home. I went to work.

And honestly? I felt peace.

I knew he was happy again. I knew he was finally with Aunt Lou—she had been waiting on him up there. I found comfort knowing he wasn’t in pain anymore. That he could remember me again. That he wasn’t confused or scared or stuck.

I cried. Of course, I cried .But I also rejoiced.

Because I know, without a doubt, he’s with me. Always.

Grief Changes You, But It Doesn’t Have to Break You

The truth is—losing people is hard. It doesn’t matter how old you are or how much you try to prepare yourself. It rips something away from you. It leaves a space that no one else can ever really fill.

For a long time, I carried that pain like it was part of my identity. Like I had to hold onto it tightly in order to honor them. I didn’t know how to let go without feeling like I was somehow forgetting them.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

You don’t have to forget to move forward.

You can miss them and still laugh. You can remember them and still grow. You can love them and still let the light in.

Each of them—my dad, my brother, my aunt, and my uncle—left pieces of themselves in me. And I carry those pieces forward every single day.

Their love didn’t leave when they did. And that love is what keeps me going.

Because grief will change you—yes. But it doesn’t have to break you.

Choosing the Light

Grief doesn’t leave, but it does shift. And somewhere along the way, I stopped clinging so hard to the pain… and started choosing the good.

The memories. The laughs. The love.

Now, I try to focus on what they gave me, not just what I lost. I carry the joy of who they were, the way they made me feel, the lessons they left behind. And I let that be the light that keeps them close.

I’ve learned to stop asking “Why them?” and start asking “How can I live in a way that honors them?”

This Is for Anyone Carrying Loss

If you’ve lost someone you love, I want you to know this: It’s okay to feel it all.

The sadness, the anger, the confusion, the numbness—it's part of the process. But please don’t forget to leave room for the light. For the people still here. For the moments you still get to have. For the love that didn’t leave when they did.

Grief is the price we pay for deep love. And while that price is high, it means we were lucky enough to love someone that deeply at all.

So here’s to my dad, my brother, my aunt, and my uncle. I miss you every day. But I see you in everything.

And I’m still here—still growing, still smiling, still choosing the light. For you. Always.

—B 💛