The day my brother died, everything split in two. There was before, and there was after. People kept saying it would get easier, that grief follows some kind of pattern. But they were wrong. There’s no magic formula for how long it takes to grieve, no right way to do it. Suicide leaves you with a mess of feelings – confusion, anger, guilt – that don’t fit into any neat little box. At first, I felt like I was drowning. Every breath hurt. Every moment screamed his absence. I’d wake up at 3 AM, heart pounding, thinking I’d heard his laugh down the hall. The silence after was worse than any nightmare. 

I pushed everyone away. How could they possibly get it? How could they help? But bit by bit, I started to realize that other people were the only thing keeping me from completely losing it. It wasn’t the big gestures. It was my friend showing up with coffee and just sitting with me, not saying a word. It was my mom, looking as wrecked as I felt, holding my hand while we flipped through old photos. It was my coworker noticing I was having a shit day and just saying, “I’m here if you wanna talk.” 

These little moments became lifelines. A hug from someone who got it, a nod from another person who’d been through hell – they didn’t make the pain go away, but they made it… I don’t know, bearable? I remember the first time I laughed after he died. My friend made some dumb joke, and I actually laughed. It freaked me out. For a second, I felt awful. How could I laugh when my brother was gone? But then I thought – he’d want this. He wouldn’t want his death to stop me from living. 

It’s a tightrope walk, this life after. I’m trying to honor my brother by living the life we talked about, while also dealing with this massive hole where he should be. Some days, I can talk about him and smile, sharing stories about the stupid shit we did as kids. Other days, it hits me like a truck, and I can barely get out of bed. But I’m learning that both can be true at the same time. I can miss him like crazy and still find moments of joy. I can wish he was here and also be grateful for the people who are. It’s not betraying him to keep living; it’s loving him. 

This whole mess has given me a strength I never asked for, but now I’ve got it. Every day is different. Some days I feel like I’m getting somewhere. Others, I feel like I’ve slid back to square one. But I keep going, because I’ve learned there’s always someone willing to walk with me. To anyone carrying around a ton of grief today: You’re not alone. There are people who want to help carry that weight, who’ll sit with you in the dark and help you find a way out. Even if you can’t see it now, even if you think you’ll never see it again, there are people who’ll help you look. 

The light might not be what you expect. It might not be that carefree happiness from before. But it could be a friend’s smile that says “I get it,” a memory that makes you smile instead of cry, a morning that doesn’t suck quite as much as yesterday. When you’re stuck in the crap of trauma or loss, it’s hard to see how far you’ve come. But I swear, you have. You’re here. You’re breathing. You’re surviving. And there are people who’ll remind you of that, who’ll pull you back to now when the past tries to drag you under. 

We don’t get any more tomorrows with the people we’ve lost. That sucks, and we have to face it every day. But we can have tomorrows with each other, if we’re brave enough to believe that good stuff can still happen in this world that’s hurt us so bad. If your past makes it hard to face another day, I hope you’ve got people who don’t ask for big answers or expect too much. People who just say, “Talk to you tomorrow,” not asking anything more than for you to stick around one more day. 

I hope you give the world a chance to see you tomorrow. And I hope you see something good, too. Might be as small as a flower growing through concrete, or as big as a sky full of stars. But I promise you, good stuff is still out there. And you deserve to see it. We’re all fumbling through this mess of a life together. Some days we need someone to lean on. Other days, we’re strong enough to be that person for someone else. But we’re never really alone, not if we keep reaching out, keep connecting, keep believing in tomorrow. 

So here’s to tomorrow. To the sadness it might bring, yeah, but also to the chance for healing, for connection, for surprise moments of not feeling terrible. I’ll be here. Hope you will be, too.