Two weeks ago I celebrated the second anniversary of my brother’s death. Some of you might be wondering why I chose the word ‘celebrate.’ After all, I love my little brother more than life itself, and I miss him more than one can imagine. Last night before I went to sleep, I prayed to him, asking him to be there with me in my bed. It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep, and as the dreams started, I found myself watching Trevor play hockey―one of his many gifts. After the game, I walked to the center of the hockey rink and found him standing there alone. We embraced, sharing one of the most profound hugs of our entire existence―dream or no dream. I wish I could explain to you how much that meant to me, but it’s impossible. The adoration I have for my little brother is infinite.
Never-ending.
That’s simply because of love.
I didn’t know this until two weeks ago. In my heart, I always believed it, but I didn’t know it. I was always afraid of grief. The only way I would dare face it was with my friend, cannabis. It was too painful. I was too angry that he was gone, out of my life forever. I felt a longing for him, wishing for just one more day with him here on Earth. I never thought it was fair. And when you add the fact that another little brother of mine named Connor passed away only five and half years before him, I felt the world was constantly against me. It was hard to live. It was hard to pick myself up out of bed in the morning. It was hard not to wonder if I was going to end up like both of them.
I spent years running away from this pain. I spent years hiding from it. But on these anniversary death dates, there is no hiding from it. I’ve been dealing with this sort of thing for twenty-five years now, because death is not new to me. I was only fifteen years old when I lost someone who I loved with all of my heart, a little boy who was only six years old. Since then, these painful dates have always been a constant reminder of my past. I would wake up in the morning, fall into victim mode, and expect everyone to know what I was going through. Instead of embracing the pain, and allowing myself to feel it, I would project it onto other people, so they could feel it too. It wasn’t fair to me. And it wasn’t fair to them either.
It wasn’t fair to anyone.
Because death has never been easy.
Something changed in me two weeks ago. I was down in Costa Rica at a healing retreat, far away from my family and friends. I was with me, plain and simple, and it was grand. With four growing children and a very busy schedule, time away is imperative. It’s in these moments where I can fully sit with the pain that has haunted me for the better part of two decades.
It was on March 7th―two years to the day that our beloved Trevor died of a drug overdose. I was lying in a hammock, listening to the sound of jungle birds, thinking about my late brother. It hit me like a tidal wave, grief swarming me like bees. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t. I started crying. I started weeping. I put my hands on my face and asked God why the fuck this happened to me; why it happened to my brothers; why it happened to my parents. Of course there was an answer―that sort of thing is personal―but there was also a lesson; a profound lesson that I hadn’t been able to learn before this day.
What I was feeling at that moment wasn’t pain. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t longing. All I was feeling was an abundance of love. Let me say that again: I was feeling an abundance of love. And that love never goes anywhere. It stays in my heart. It stays in my bubble. It stays on the entirety of this ever evolving planet. That’s why it hurts so much; because love is that powerful. And that’s when I started laughing and weeping at the same time. Trevor might be out of my life―this life―forever. But to say that it’s over between us is downright laughable. I knew then that there was something so much bigger going on, and I no longer had to be afraid of grief; of pain. Because it’s a part of life, and the lesson always comes back to the same thing.
Folks, that one thing will always be love.
Because love always wins.
So do me a favor and remember that. The next time you’re feeling sad or angry or confused that a loved one has (or had) died, please remember that it’s actually love that you’re feeling. Nothing else. If we didn’t love these people so much, it wouldn’t hurt. We wouldn’t care. And where the fuck would that get us?
Nowhere.
After I stopped weeping and laughing―literally the best feeling in the world―I calmed myself down a little bit. I found a man who was at the healing retreat who had also lost a brother to mental health issues. I wiped the tears from my face, looked him in the eye, and said, “Dude, grief is just an expression of love.”
He stopped what he was doing, sat down in a chair next to me, and said, “What I’ve heard, my friend, is that grief is love with nowhere to go.”
Fuck yeah it is. I stood up and gave this stranger a hug. Although we had only just met, the similarities between us were staggering, and I know that being together for a week changed both of us, because now we don’t have to be afraid of these painful days. And neither do you. We can look at these days the way we’ve always should.
A celebration of love.
I love you, Trevor Graves.
I’ll see you again soon.
Dreams or no dreams.