The hardest goodbyes are often the ones you never realize you’re saying.
There’s no warning.
No sign that an ordinary conversation will become your last.
No indication that the quick hug before you leave, the casual phone call, or the “see you later” will quietly become goodbye forever.
The last time I spoke to my youngest brother, Jesse, it was just another normal day.
He had called while driving his tow truck route. He had recently started a newer job and was excited because he was on one of his longest trips yet. He was going to stop by my house, but I was working and missed his call.
When I called him back, we talked like we always did.
We caught up on life.
We laughed.
We talked about going rock climbing together soon, a hobby he had recently discovered and was excited to share.
And when we ended the conversation, we said the words our family has always said to one another:
“I love you.”
At the time, neither of us knew those would be the last words we’d ever exchange.
The last time I hugged him felt just as ordinary.
It was after a visit to my mom’s house. A quick hug goodbye, fully expecting there would be another visit next week, another family dinner, another chance to see him.
A week later, he was gone.
For a long time, I replayed those moments over and over.
I still do.
I remember the sound of his voice and how happy he seemed. I remember the excitement in his life and the plans he was making for the future.
And if I’m being completely honest, there are moments when my mind wanders to impossible places.
I wonder what would have happened if I had answered the phone sooner.
If I had insisted he come to my house that evening instead of going where he did.
If one small change could have altered everything.
Deep down, I know none of those questions have answers.
But grief doesn’t always speak the language of logic.
It speaks the language of “what if.”
It whispers that maybe one more conversation, one different decision, or one changed plan could have rewritten the story.
The truth is, what hurts the most isn’t that we forgot to say “I love you.”
We didn’t.
We always did.
What hurts is knowing there was still so much life left to live together.
A rock climbing trip that never happened.
Random drives in his Toyota Tacoma with the music turned up too loud.
Stopping for greasy pizza or Chick-fil-A and ending the night with Friendly’s ice cream.
Watching him become an uncle to April and Clyde.
Celebrating birthdays.
Sharing holidays.
Growing older together.
Those are the moments I grieve most.
Not because they happened and were lost, but because they never got the chance to happen at all.
After Jesse died, the ordinary became priceless.
Every photograph became a treasure.
Every video became a time machine.
Every memory became something I wanted to hold onto just a little longer.
One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t take more pictures and videos when life felt ordinary. Not because I was taking him for granted, but because I truly believed there would always be another chance.
There’s another loss that still stings.
We were never able to access Jesse’s phone after his death. Despite every avenue we explored, it remained locked. There may be photos, videos, notes, or little pieces of his life stored on that device that we will never see.
It’s a painful reminder that memories are precious and fragile.
His death changed how I move through the world.
It changed how I love.
It changed how I parent.
I find myself wanting to document the little things with my children, but also wanting to put my phone down and simply be present with them. I make a point to say “I love you” often, to hug a little longer, and to never assume there will always be another opportunity.
Because there might not be.
If I could have one ordinary day back with Jesse, I wouldn’t ask for anything extravagant.
We’d ride around in his Tacoma with the windows down and music blasting.
We’d argue over where to eat, end up with Chick-fil-A or some greasy pizza, laugh about something completely ridiculous, and stop at Friendly’s for ice cream before heading home.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just one more ordinary day.
Because ordinary days become extraordinary when they’re taken from you.
If there’s one thing I hope you take away from my story, it’s this:
Love your people out loud.
Take the picture.
Record the laugh.
Save the voicemail.
Put your phone down and be fully present when you’re with the people who matter.
Don’t keep putting off the visit, the phone call, or the plans you’ve been saying you’ll make “someday.”
None of us knows when “see you later” will quietly become the last goodbye.
I didn’t know the last time was the last time.
None of us ever do.
So hug a little tighter.
Say “I love you” one more time.
Make the memories.
Choose the people over the notifications.
Tomorrow was never promised to Jesse.
It isn’t promised to any of us.
And while we can’t control how much time we’re given, we can choose to make the most of the time we have with the people we love, while they’re still here.
From Jesse’s Justice
No one should have to walk through grief alone.
Through free grief resources, advocacy, education, and community support, we strive to honor Jesse’s life by helping others navigate theirs.
If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing it. You never know who may need these words today.
🖤♥️ For Jesse. For Justice.