The hardest part about grief isn’t always the loss itself.
Sometimes it’s watching the rest of the world keep moving while yours stands completely still.
The sun still rises. People still go to work. Holidays come and go. New babies are born. Friends get married. Life continues, whether you’re ready for it or not.
And somehow, you’re expected to continue too.
When my youngest brother, Jesse, died, the world didn’t pause.
People still had appointments to keep. Grocery stores still opened. Social media filled with birthday celebrations and vacation photos. My own responsibilities didn’t disappear.
But inside, everything had changed.
For a long time, it felt like I was living in two different realities at once.
One where I smiled through conversations, cared for my family, and checked things off my to-do list.
And another where I still wish for one more conversation with my brother. One more laugh. One more ordinary day that we never would have realized was extraordinary simply because we were together.
That wish hasn’t faded with time. If anything, it has grown alongside the milestones he’s missed and the life he should still be living. I think I will spend the rest of my life wishing I could pick up the phone, hear his voice, or tell him one more story.
I still hear his laugh sometimes. Not in the room, but in my memory. It was infectious the kind of laugh that made everyone else laugh too. Even now, I’ll watch a funny video or hear a joke and instinctively think, “I have to send this to Jesse.” For just a split second, it feels normal. Then reality catches up, and I remember that I can’t.
As time passes, people often assume grief gets easier.
In some ways, it does.
You become better at carrying it.
You become better at wearing the smile the world expects.
Faking a smile becomes second nature. You learn how to answer, “How are you?” with “I’m doing okay,” even when your heart feels impossibly heavy. You laugh at the right moments, celebrate birthdays, go to work, and keep your commitments.
From the outside, it looks like you’ve moved forward.
But the truth is, you’ve simply learned how to survive while carrying something unimaginably heavy.
We are forever altered.
Not just individually, but as a family.
I didn’t just lose my brother when Jesse died. I lost the version of our family that existed before March 2023. I watched my mom lose her son, and I watched all of us become different people overnight.
There is a version of us that only exists in memories now.
Sometimes the grief sneaks in during the quietest moments.
Rocking my baby in the middle of the night, when the house is silent and the rest of the world is asleep, I find myself wishing more than anything that Jesse could meet him. I imagine placing his nephew in his arms, hearing one of his sarcastic comments, or watching him light up the room with his energy.
Those moments will never happen.
And that realization never stops hurting.
Jesse had a way of making any space feel like home. It wasn’t something you could explain—it was simply who he was. His laughter, his presence, and the way he made ordinary moments unforgettable made everyone around him feel lighter.
Losing him didn’t just leave an empty chair at the table.
It changed the feeling of home itself.
Three years have passed, and I still wonder what he’d be doing today. I think about the hobbies he was discovering, his passion for bodybuilding, the future he was building, and all the milestones he should have experienced.
I think about the uncle he would have been to my children.
People often ask if I still miss him after all this time.
The truth is, I never stopped.
I never will.
For me, grief hasn’t gotten smaller. It has become more familiar.
The sharp edges have softened, but the love remains.
The longing remains.
The missing remains.
If you’re grieving today, I hope you know there is no timeline you have to follow.
There is no deadline for missing someone you love.
And if you know someone who is grieving, remember that your support matters long after the funeral is over. Reach out months or years later. Say their loved one’s name. Ask to hear a story about them. Let them know they haven’t been forgotten.
The world may keep moving.
But sometimes the kindest thing we can do is slow down long enough to remember the person who is missing and the family forever changed by their absence.
Every milestone, every holiday, every new beginning carries a quiet question in my heart:
What would this have looked like if Jesse were here too?
I carry him into all of it.
Not because I’m unable to let go.
But because love doesn’t end when a life does.
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.