This year has been one of the toughest years I’ve ever had.
I really hoped this would be a better year.
But then, on February 1, I lost my beloved dog, Watson.
I had spent every day with him because I work from home. I can’t even explain the pain I felt when I lost him. It knocked me on my ass for a week. I sat on my couch, lived off fruit gummies, and had this constant pain in my chest. The doctor called it broken heart syndrome.
About a month later, just as that pain was starting to ease, I received news that my brother was in the hospital. He’d had a fever for a few weeks. Mind you, I had also just started a new job—one I interviewed for while grieving Watson.
I tried to stay positive. I prayed it was nothing more than an infection.
It wasn’t.
It turned out to be an aggressive form of AML.
But I had hope. That hope was enough to send me back to New York, a place I hadn’t been in fifteen years. The last time I had seen my brother was in May 2024, when my father went into hospice.
My brother and I didn’t have the easiest relationship. Some of that—well, most of it—is reflected in my series. He was surprised I even came. I did get to see him while I was there, but he developed a fever, and my sister-in-love went into survival mode and stopped visitors. I don’t blame her. She was protecting her husband, and honestly, I would have done the same thing.
At the end of April, he went into remission. Also at the end of April, a former professor and colleague lost his battle with pancreatic cancer. He left a beautiful wife, a son and a brand new grand child.
Still, things were starting to look up for my brother. He was set for a transplant and working with Roswell. Things looked promising.
Until they didn’t.
By the second week of May, he was back in the hospital. That same week, a friend of mine went into hospice after her cancer returned at the beginning of the year.
By the end of May, my brother had gone through two surgeries within a week of each other.
But I still had hope.
Then came June.
During the second week of June, I lost my friend who had been in hospice. That one hit me hard because I never messaged her. I wanted to. I just couldn’t find the right words. We had made plans for me to come to Missouri to visit her, but I never did.
Two days later, I got a call from my sister-in-law telling me it didn’t look good for my brother.
So I went back to New York. That trip was hard in so many ways. I was going there to say goodbye to my brother while also seeing family I hadn’t seen in fifteen years. And on top of all of that, I was grieving —something no one in my family even knew about.
Once I got there, I stood watching Dave, and all I could see was the little boy I grew up with. The one I would have done anything to protect.
At that point, the numbness kicked in.
Then hope came back. I prayed every day, all day. I would wake up in the middle of the night and pray for God to heal my brother.
But on July 1, my brother lost his fight.
Earlier that same day, I had just finished a lesson on grief. It was also the last day I prayed.
I shut down.
I didn’t want to go to my brother’s funeral. I just wanted to sit on my couch and eat fruit gummies. Sad, right? But that’s where I was.
And then, on my birthday, we buried my brother. It wasn’t planned that way. My sister-in-law did her best to make sure family coming from out of town could be there. But in a strange way, I now have a stronger connection with my brother. When I celebrate my birthday, I also get to celebrate his life and the man he became.
And he was quite the man.
He was a good father, a great husband, and someone who gave back to his community. I didn’t fully understand how much until I sat at his service and listened to people talk about him. What is strange is that, for two people who barely had a relationship, we were so much alike. We just never learned how to relate to one another.
So now, here we are in September, and I feel like I’m finally beginning to come out of survival mode.
I didn’t really think about it until I met with my therapist a few weeks ago and told him everything that had been going on. I talk to my therapist a lot. We text a lot too—we went to school together. Yeah, I know, conflict and whatnot, but still.
There is no timetable for grief. It comes in waves. Will it ever completely go away? Probably not. But I think it gets easier to carry. I try to be strong for my sister-in-law and my family, but I’m not always great at comforting people. Who is? Sometimes I say the wrong thing. But when I’m in a room with them, I can be quiet.
I can listen. I can try to be strong for them. The key word there is try.
I didn’t mean for this to become so long, but I wanted you all to know where I am right now. Why you still don’t see me much on social media. Why sometimes it feels like a chore just to clean my house—and cleaning my house is something I actually enjoy.
I’m finding my way out of survival mode.
Slowly.
The same is true of my faith. I never lost my faith. I was angry.
And this morning, I realized something: God was waiting for me. I came across a video with a simple message—to pray that you can be a blessing to someone that day. Something about that stayed with me. So I prayed it. And today, I was able to be a blessing to someone. I think I’ll pray it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Maybe that’s where I start.
Thank you to everyone who reaches out and checks on me. And thank you for giving me grace when I disappear for a while. Most of all, thank you for embracing Hanna’s journey. She has had a tough road. Many of you have too.
So I’ll leave you with my dedication from Book 4:
For everyone searching for peace, healing, and a happy ending.
May you never mistake your scars for your identity
or your pain for your future.
Your story isn’t over yet.
The next chapter is yours to write.
It gets easier to carry. It always does, with time.
With love,
~Sophia 🧡