Like clockwork, twice every year, my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces.
On September 30th, the day she was born, and then on May 25th, the day she died, fifteen years ago. And this heartbreak doesn’t happen at the fall of midnight; instead, it begins a few weeks prior, it’s a slow creep, a slow buildup to a full explosion on the day itself.
In the early years after her death, baffled by that slow descent into despair, I would throw myself into work or drink myself silly at Stables, our favourite pub, sometimes both, trying to blur the edges of my grief. But after I quit alcohol completely in 2017, I felt the full depth of my pain, and boy, was I ever unprepared.
For the very first time, I had to sit with the raw, unfiltered reality of losing my sister, my best friend, the human I had spent almost every day of the first twenty-seve years of my life with. The sadness I had been numbing for years came rushing in like a tidal wave. Suddenly, I was overcome by memories I had tucked away: her laughter, the way she could understand the most complicated movie plots and explain them to me like I were a 5-year-old (looking at you, Minority Report, still lost), the joy she infused into my serious and introverted spirit, the arguments and the love that only siblings share. Facing all of it sober was terrifying, exhausting, and heartbreaking, but it also marked the beginning of a more honest relationship with my grief.
But that was the “good” part of processing the pain; the “not-so-good” side was pure rage.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I became that the rest of the world had moved on so quickly from her passing, and nobody seemed willing to just sit and feel the weight of it all with me.
Seriously, what the fuck even was this emotionally stunted behaviour?
“That’s exactly what it is… emotionally stunted, or… or… let’s dig a little deeper,” offered my beloved therapist, the first person who truly helped me deep dive into my grief. “Maybe… It’s their way of processing their grief. Maybe it’s not what you needed then as the surviving child, but you know that you can’t control how others process their emotions, right? So, let’s just focus on you?”
I nodded. “I talk to her… all the time… sometimes out loud, sometimes in my head… is that crazy?”
My therapist promised me it wasn’t crazy. But she guided me toward healthier ways of remaining connected with my sister: meditation, rebuilding my inner circle, and finding grounding rituals. Honestly? I found all of it a little weak sauce, and I just couldn’t see how any of it could ever replace the unique, irreplaceable presence she brought to my life. What I needed was her presence in my life every single day and for everyone else who mattered to acknowledge it, too. I wanted to continue talking to her and about her, and if that meant being a little sad, maybe even a little broken, every day for the rest of my life, then that was just how it was going to be.
My therapist wasn’t thrilled about it, but thankfully, she moved on to other messes in my life, like my broken marriage, which I’ve come to realise was a direct result of my unprocessed grief. But then that’s a story for another day.
Perhaps grief isn’t something to be meditated or medicated out of your system.
Over the past five years, whenever I feel crippled by the pain of missing her, I have my rituals. I watch movies she loved, Donnie Darko, Shrek, and, yes, romcoms for the millionth time, and I listen to her favourite songs or bands: Kailash Kher, Nirvana, Massive Attack, Madonna, ’90s Bollywood, Radiohead and find her there. It all makes me weep until I’m just too exhausted to feel anything other than the remnants of leftover grief, a sensation so intense it almost feels like standing on the edge of death itself (this shit is not for the weak.)
But recently, Netflix blessed me with two grief-based shows, After Life with the incredible Ricky Gervais (a favourite of her’s), and a Norwegian show, Pernille, and in them I finally saw a reflection of my own struggle on screen.
Ricky’s out-of-the-blue weeping for his dead wife and Pernille’s grief for her sister was so pure, and I recognised every flicker of heartbreak in their fictional eyes.
Pernille even talks to her dead sister on the phone, and just like me, both these characters couldn’t just snap back to normal life. And mind you, these were both otherwise sane, hardworking, well-adjusted individuals. Pernille even finds a partner who not only accepts but embraces her conversations with her dead sister; he makes it part of his daily life.
Now that’s hard love. The kind that I hope attacks me someday.
Seeing someone else, albeit a fictional character, navigate the same kind of tsunami made me feel less alone and reminded me that it’s okay to carry her with me, even as life goes on around me.
The truth is, I don’t want to close this gaping hole of a wound in my heart. I want to keep the pain of losing her throbbing under my skin for the rest of my days. And yes, I am aware of how crazy that may sound, but I am pleased to have found peace in my pain.
The big lesson in grief, the one I also share with my kid, is that perhaps grief isn’t something to be meditated or medicated out of your system. Maybe it’s about acknowledging that life will keep moving forward, as it should, while a part of your heart can still feel deeply broken or paused. And that duality? It’s okay.
It’s more than okay.
So, on September 30th and May 25th each year, and in the weeks and days leading up to them, I allow myself to feel, to remember, and yes, to utterly break. And in that breaking, I also learn how to carry her with me, fiercely and tenderly, because she may be long gone, but for me, she is everywhere, in every breath I take… and sometimes, even in the most unexpected, beautiful nooks of Netflix.
