One year ago today my little brother Spencer died in a motorcycle accident at the age of 25. You can’t prepare for that phone call. No warning, no preparation, he’s just gone. The flood of emotions in that moment, and the thousands of hard moments in the first year of grief have been difficult to navigate.

Hours of introspection, crying, and therapy have taught me a few things that I’d like to pass on for any one that may experience loss of their own. Whether you have lost someone, or are trying to support someone who is in grief, I hope my painful lessons during the first year of grief will help.

“I am so sorry”

As friends and family learned of the accident, the outpouring of love was incredible. In many ways I was too numb to appreciate the support at the time, being emotionally drained and physically sluggish. Grief at this early stage felt like a heavy backpack, that somehow just existing sapped my energy. I would sleep for hours only to wake up to a living nightmare that my Spencer had passed.

What I do remember at this time was the incredible support from friends and family. As a family we had no energy to make our own food, and having regular meals dropped by and regular snacks was a godsend.

I also remember what kinds of comments or words helped the most. Words like “he’s in a better place” or any discussion of heaven just weren’t helpful for me at this early stage. There’s a time for that but with the shock of initial grief it just felt patronizing for people to give such hope when there’s so much pain front and center. The feelings were too raw for me to see beyond my own pain.

What helped the most were comments like, “I’m so sorry for you and your family” and, “there are no words, I’m so sorry.” Perhaps the most comforting were the people that just took me in their arms and let me cry, without any words except for the unspoken security of a prolonged embrace.

When you’ve lost someone, it can make others uncomfortable when they run into you and don’t know what to say. I had one friend that ran into me on the street and just broke down crying. I really appreciated her support, but she felt at a complete loss for what to say, and awkward about her reaction. During grief even the feeblest of attempts at support go a long way.

The Funeral

Leading up to the funeral the amount of support and attention was almost overwhelming. Friends and church members in the area dropped by meals for my family, as my parents house became home base. We all lacked energy and having food readily available was really helpful.

Once the funeral hit it felt like the culmination of a lot of love and support. The funeral really felt like a celebration of my brother’s life. While we cried a lot and there was pain, there was also laughter and a deep sense of community through the support we received. We all walked away from the funeral refreshed in an odd way. It was healing to all come together and honor Spencer’s life and impact on so many. It was one of my favorite parts of the grieving process, as painful as it was.

Someone warned me about the time after the funeral, which I was really grateful for. After the funeral the support leveled off as people returned to their normal lives. For my family, however, the grief continued, as we tried to orient ourselves to a new life without our brother and son. Those that continued checking in after the funeral and stayed with me in my grief in the months to come helped during some really hard and pivotal times.

It’s Not Your Fault

One of the deepest challenges of the grieving process has been dealing with the feelings of guilt. That somehow you could have prevented their death, or that you actually contributed to their death. Even a year later, I still struggle with these thoughts. As Spencer’s older brother my mind goes to what I could have said or done differently to have altered his path, or that my past experiences with mopeds and dirt bikes influenced his decision to get a motorcycle, that if I’d spent more time with him he would still be with us… it goes on and on, even now.

The mental anguish of losing a loved one is unavoidable, but our brain looks for ways around that pain, thinking of ways that we could have done things or acted differently, to avoid the current mental pain. I still struggle with these thoughts, but am realizing that it’s not my fault and there’s nothing I could have done to avoid what happened. Don’t live with that, and relieve your guilt. It’s not my fault, and it’s not your fault.

Waves of Grief

During the first month of grief, I began to do small weekend trips with my girlfriend. She has a fun personality, and brings a lot of joy to my life. I was in a dark place and the kind of laughter and fun she would bring felt wrong. I remember talking with my grief therapist about the guilt I would feel around having fun, and that it was time to mourn, feel sad, and nothing else.

He explained the idea of waves of grief.

Waves of grief are different than the stages of grief. I don’t agree with the stages of grief, and he shared that they are actually not founded in scientific research. There is really no specific progression or completion of a stage before you move onto the next. Grief comes in waves, in highs and lows.

I learned that it was okay I was experiencing a high point of laughter and joy, as there would no doubt be the low points of the wave where depression and darkness would return. Take the highs and the lows of grief, knowing that early on there may be extreme lows, and dramatic highs, but that over time these waves will soften.

Record Memories

During the first months after losing my brother, it was a shocking realization that there would be no new memories together. With that in mind, my immediate worry was that my memory of him would fade, and that the vivid images of his smile and our experiences together would also fade. I spent hours writing down the memories we had together and specific attributes or personality traits I recalled. Childhood, trips together, quirky personality traits, his smile, what I admired about him… it all needed to be recorded. In 50 years I know that my love for him will not fade, but that my memories of him will.

Video of him became precious, text message conversations where we had shared our love for each other were immediately screenshot… everything needed to be recorded. When evidence of a life is limited to what you’ve recorded – whether on video or written – you can never have enough.

With the attention around his passing and the funeral, we also realized the opportunity to capture thoughts and memories from his friends and family that were having the same raw feelings and vivid experiences as we were. I set up a Gratbook to capture memories from those who attended the funeral, and we were able to record hundreds of pages of memories that would have otherwise been lost.

Those Gratbook responses have become sacred. I’ve sat next to Spencer’s grave and cried while reading to him each of those responses, sharing memories with him as I revisit the life that he led. I’ve learned more about my brother through those entries, and expect to share these Gratbook responses and photos with my children so that they know about their Uncle.

Whether video, voicemails, texts, or a Gratbook, any form of contact with Spencer that we have recorded is now precious.

New Normal

Initially after losing my brother, I wasn’t sure how to feel “normal” again. As time progressed, I realized that life without my brother would never be the same. Losing him felt like losing a part of myself, and in many ways I did lose a part of myself. There are few people in this world that have experienced everything from childhood memories into adulthood with me. Few people that know me and believe in me like he did. Life will forever be different.

Recognizing this shift, where I would never be the same or never have the same life without that part of me, I needed to define a new normal. Whether a year into grief, or 30 years into grief, I will never stop missing my brother.

What I’ve had to do over the last year is define what this new normal looks like — times like family gatherings, holidays, or commutes home when I want to call him up and he’s not there.

My family and I have all had to decide what this new life looks like, and how to make it meaningful and even richer without him as a fundamental piece to what we’ve defined as our family.

My New Normal

With low energy, and general feelings of being in survival mode, my capacity to be social diminished. Rather than going to parties and keeping up with friends regularly, I found myself with completely different priorities. Family and time with my girlfriend became everything.

Instead of filling my life with constant socializing, it became important to fill my life with a smaller tribe of people. Whether it was a conscious decision, or a byproduct of grief, friends that I’d spent years loving and prioritizing took a back burner. I just didn’t have the capacity. Meanwhile, my relationship with my other siblings become so much more important. Over the last year I’ve flown out of state to see one of my brothers in Texas twice, while calling my other local siblings more often. Looking back on our relationship before losing Spencer, we have grown closer, somehow bonded and choosing to prioritize each other through grief.

Loss is Loss

The shock of losing my brother, someone so close to me, absolutely drained my body and spirit. I had no energy to respond to the outpourings of love, give of myself to others, or even feed myself some days. It felt like survival mode, where you cut out everything in your life except what you need for survival, as that is all you have energy for.

The few phone calls or messages I had the energy to engage with were often from those people in my life who also had experienced loss. Friends that had lost someone, be it a parent, sibling, child or friend became trusted voices as they had passed through a path that I was now on.

I recall one conversation with a friend who lost a child earlier in the year. He embraced me and really didn’t say much. I began to say “well, losing a sibling isn’t as hard as losing a child….” when he stopped me. “Loss is loss,” he shared, “it’s not comparable and everyone’s experience is valid.” This helped frame my pain at that time and prepare me for conversations with others.

Grief and loss isn’t comparable. Losing a sibling, losing a friend, or losing an aging grandparent is all hard and it is all valid. There is no hierarchy of pain, grief or loss.

Appreciation for Life

There are moments in public where I have a tinge of jealousy as I see brothers together, young children, or adults that remind me of my brother. At times there are hard feelings around people that are abusing their bodies or “wasting life”. I’ve chosen to turn these feelings into an appreciation for how vibrant and rich life can be.

As some of my numbness dissipates, I’m finding a richer appreciation for life. Celebrating humanity in all its forms, and not taking my own life for granted. There have been dark moments in the first year of grief where the pain is overbearing, but even that pain in that moment is a connection to my brother, somehow a testament to how much I loved him.

Everyone Grieves Differently

Especially early in the shock of loss, my family members each coped a little different. One would want to watch old videos of our childhood together, another would wear my brother’s clothes, another would play video games, as that was a connection they shared with our brother, while I preferred private reflection and time together as a family.

It was hard sometimes to let each person grieve in their own way, as we had our own brands of grief. Allowing independence in the first year of grief, while also having patience when someone invited us to join them in their method of grief was important for our family.

Pain is Love

This journey of grief is far from over. My heart will always have a hole in it where a living, vibrant brother once was. But in this pain in the first year of grief, my love has grown deeper. I admire and love my brother more than ever, with a deeper appreciation for the life that he led, more inspired to live a life that he would be proud of. My pain has become a signal of how much I loved him.

No two experiences with grief are the same, just as no two people or losses are the same. These thoughts are one person’s loss, but may they help as others navigate the difficulty and darkness of loss, grief, and ultimate richer relationships as we appreciate the deceased and live for the living.