My Big Sister Was Killed By a Drunk Driver. Here's Everything I've Learned Since.

In October of 2022, my big sister and only sibling was killed by a drunk driver. She was hit head on. The man who hit her had a BAC of 0.24, which can lead to loss of consciousness, alcohol poisoning, or death even if you don't get behind the wheel. He was driving flying over 80mph the wrong way down the interstate. She was on her way home from dinner with our family, and when he hit her, he was going so fast that she was ejected from the vehicle even though she was wearing a seatbelt. Let that sink in. The impact was so intense that her body left her vehicle despite being seat-belted in. Unthinkable. Unimaginable. Until it happens.

When I heard the news, a part of me died, too. My belief that everything works out the way it's supposed to, my reckless optimism that had guided me through life up until that day, my ability to fall sleep without fear of what the next 3am disaster phone call would be -- it all vanished along with my big sister. In October of 2022, I became a shell of a person. I was running on 'empty' 24 hours per day, and nothing had the power to refill my tank. Nothing mattered; nothing was okay. Everything was terrible. Everything hurt.

But at the same time, I didn't know how to ask for help. The only face I knew how to show the world was the people-pleasing, over-achieving, you-don't-have-to-worry-about-me mask I'd worn forever. So I did the only thing I knew how to do to keep myself emotionally safe: I pretended to be okay.

Lesson One: Don't pretend to be okay. It's harmful to you and to your relationships.

Two weeks after Alex died, I was back at work, and the reality of the next chapter started to set in -- the one where the world keeps turning. My world had come to a screeching halt, and it showed no signs of recovery; meanwhile, people everywhere were carrying on with their lives -- going to work, running errands, seeing friends. It made no sense to me. It was the cruelest part of the grieving process in those first few weeks -- realizing that there were still chores to do, food to prepare, texts to respond to, expectations to exceed.

I tried my best to keep up, but it felt a lot like playing the role of a normal human vs. actually being one. When something was meant to be funny, I laughed, even though I felt no humor. When someone complained about something trivial, I empathized, even though I burned with resentment about those smaller problems. I attended sporting events, and watched movies, and went out for dinners, and celebrated birthdays, and danced at weddings, and the entire time, my only thoughts were -- how did I ever find these things enjoyable? How are any of you enjoying yourselves? Don't you know what has happened? Don't you know the world has stopped spinning? Don't you know I'm completely dead inside?

This was starting to spiral out of control when my therapist intervened. One day he said to me, "Have you ever considered that by pretending to be okay, you're actually dishonoring the people who care about you? By not trusting them with the truth of your situation, you're actually teaching them that you don't think they're equipped to handle the truth. And how could anyone feel comfortable coming to you with the truth of their own pain after watching you demonstrate that you believe pain should be experienced alone?"

Sometimes you just need a mental health professional to say the hard thing out loud: you're lying to people. You're not giving them the opportunity to care for you, and then you're resenting them for not caring. I thought I was being kind to my loved ones and teammates by pretending to be okay, but I was actively damaging my relationships and perpetuating the loneliness that had taken hold of my soul.

Lesson Two: Grief will threaten to drown you, but loneliness will pull you right under.

Loneliness and I became very well acquainted after Alex's death. She was my only sibling, my best friend in the world, and the only person who made me feel completely understood. Anything I'd ever said, or felt, or done, or grieved, or experienced, or dreamed or feared or achieved -- she knew about it. That type of closeness does something to your soul. It gives you an intrinsic sense of confidence that you'd never think to name until it's gone. I walked through the world with a sense of safety and peace that only comes from knowing that your big sister has you covered no matter what. A place to sleep, a pep talk, a shoulder to cry on, a vault for your secrets, a fun night out, a reality check, a pot of fettuccine alfredo after your first heartbreak (true story, circa 2010)... big sisters know how to do it all.

It follows that losing that type of closeness would also have a profound effect on the soul. I told everyone for a solid year after Alex's death that I felt lonely in my soul -- not in my day to day (remarkable how fast your loved ones rally around you when you finally tell them you need help -- see lesson 1!), but deep down in my bones, somewhere no one will ever be able to reach. There's a missing piece now that I can feel on every inhale. I don't think that will ever go away, and truth be told, I would be crushed if it did. That's the part about being a little sister that no one can ever take from me -- the giant, Alex-shaped hole in my soul that proves that she was real.

However, the loneliness that the giant, Alex-shaped hole created is what threatened to pull me under. Grief comes in waves, and while it sometimes feels like you're going to drown, the waves eventually subside, even for a single moment, so that you can take a breath. Loneliness does not come in waves. Loneliness is not the water at all; loneliness is the shark. If you're not hyper-vigilant, it will pull you under without warning and without a second thought.

But it's actually not loneliness's fault; pulling you under is the only thing loneliness knows how to do. It's the only thing loneliness has been trained to do. When loneliness was tugging on my ankles and threatening my life, she was just doing what she was created to do. She didn't know any other way. When I shut the world out and refused to ask for or accept help, I was jumping into shark-infested waters with an open cut. I put myself in the position to be pulled under, and then I got mad at loneliness for doing exactly what she was created to do.

Once I identified my loneliness (I actually named her), I felt a lot less scared of her and a lot less angry at her. I'd feel her creeping up on me, and instead of thrashing around or trying to swim for my life, I'd just sit with her. I'd literally picture us sitting on an island, me and my shark, and I'd spend time trying to understand what she was telling me. Usually, when she started circling me, it was because I'd been crawling into my head again. I'd been ignoring texts and calls from friends, I'd been neglecting my health, or I'd been acting like a victim. I'd been creating the shark-infested waters and preparing to jump in. So when I took a second to sit with her -- to learn why loneliness showed up -- I'd be able to see how I got there, and I'd take the steps required in order to save myself. I'd call a friend back, or get out of the house, or go for a run. I'd put myself back into the community -- back into life -- and I'd call out a heartfelt "thank you!" to loneliness while I watched her swim away.

There's still an Alex-shaped hole in my heart, so loneliness still shows up regularly. But I no longer fear that she will pull me under, because I know how to react when she starts to circle. And I don't get mad at her for showing up, because she's just doing her job. I need to do mine in order to keep me safe.

Lesson Three: There is a way out, but it's not over or around or under -- it is only through.

I hope that unthinkable, unimaginable hardships never find you. I hope soul-crushing loneliness never pulls you under. But if it does, allow me to give you a three-year head-start on the learning curve: the only way out is through, and you can trust me on this, because I looked for every other possible way out. 

People love to say "time heals all wounds," but they're so, so wrong. Time doesn't heal anything. Time passes, yes, and it gives you the opportunity to heal, but you're the one who has to do the healing. And because healing looks different for everyone, I won't pretend to tell you how to do it, nor will I conjecture about how long it takes. I know for myself, I had to dive headfirst into the pain. I had to stop running from it -- stop fearing it -- and accept it as a part of me.

I so badly wish that I could point you toward a shortcut, but there isn't one. The only way out is through.

Lesson Four, and I'm just as shocked as you are: There is a beautiful, honest bravery that can only be achieved by embracing pain.

Pain is inevitable. Be it big, earth-shattering tragedy or smaller moments of disappointment, embarrassment, or hurt -- pain comes for all of us eventually. And a lot of people turn to numbing agents -- obvious ones like alcohol, drugs, sex; along with sneakier ones like anger, ego, bullying, bitterness, or fear. All of these things have the power to ease (or deflect) the pain that comes as a result of being a living, breathing human in the world today. But I think the single most powerful response to pain is to open the door for it, and let it in. Just like my theory about loneliness showing me the way I needed to live in order to save myself, I think pain has a lot to teach us if we can be brave enough to listen.

Bravery feels like it could be the key. Loss and grief and pain try to steal your bravery — they tell you that the world is scary (it is) and that you have everything to lose (you do). But I think being confronted with those truths -- and embracing the pain that life brings you -- gives you the power to choose to live bravely anyway. And once you’ve made that choice — to love people deeply even though you know you’ll lose them someday, to let yourself be so happy even though you know it could all be taken away in an instant — you’ve unlocked the real power of the human experience: to know that this is all temporary, and to throw ourselves wildly at it anyway.

So I say: whatever your pain is, let yourself be ripped apart by it. Let it teach you something. Let it move you. Let it crack you open. Let all of your insides spill out onto the floor. Take stock of what’s in there. And then, slowly, whenever you’re ready, with trembling hands, start to stitch yourself back up, using only the pieces you really love. When you’re done, there will be holes and empty spaces leftover from the pieces you left behind. Build new pieces there. You're going to look new, because you are new -- you're now a person who knows great pain, and you're a person who is choosing to live anyway. None of us make it out of here alive. We have to love big, and love hard, and give it all we've got. Which is really brave, and beautiful, and honest, and -- I fear -- the whole point.