Everyone assured me that my grief would ease after a year, but it only intensified.

I couldn’t help but wonder—was there something wrong with me?

On January 5, 2022, profound sorrow and a great sadness enveloped my life, leaving me silent for a long time. I withdrew from social interactions, rarely seeing anyone except during brief encounters at the local grocery store or on an occasional walk with Aspen. When I did cross paths with someone, a polite hug might be exchanged, but words were scarce. Being around others was challenging for me. I feared that any conversation might rip open the fragile scab over my wounded heart.

We all experience the loss of loved ones throughout our lives. For most, time eventually dulls the sharpest edges of sorrow, those moments when every memory feels like a stab to the heart. When my grandparents passed away, I was heartbroken and missed them deeply, but I wasn’t overwhelmed with a longing for their return. They all passed peacefully after long, fulfilled lives. After losing someone dear, we slowly accept their absence, rediscover joy, and find meaning in our favorite activities. But when my brother died, I became stuck. My grief turned into a prison.

The past few years have left their mark on me, but at last, the weight of the deep sorrow, the great sadness, is gradually lifting.

What occurred 971 days ago (as of this writing) altered the rhythm of my life.

While I can express myself verbally, writing has always been where I feel most at ease—a passion I’ve carried since childhood.

I created this blog to share my insights and offer a glimpse into my inner world, that solitary space where it’s just you—and perhaps God if you believe. As you read, know that much of my writing comes from personal struggles. Some might seem unbelievable, and you can decide what feels true. Even if certain things aren’t scientifically provable, they can still hold truth.

Being part of George’s journey from December 4, 2021, to January 5, 2022, touched me in profound ways I hadn’t known existed. I found myself deeply invested in everything George and I discussed, desperately wanting it all to be true. We connected daily over Zoom, sometimes multiple times a day. During this period, I was still working, but as the demands of the real world pressed on me each morning, I began to lose touch.

Eventually, I had to start canceling aspects of my life, like my radio show and taking on new clients.

Up until last month, I hesitated to seek help because I believed—and still do—that my response to my brother’s death was a natural human reaction to an unbearable loss.

The thought of labeling my grief as something abnormal, something that needed treatment, was deeply unsettling. But deep down, I knew this wasn’t my normal state.

Did I want to continue feeling this way?

No, I didn’t.

If you dislike what you read here, remember that this blog wasn’t primarily written for you—or perhaps, in some ways, it was.

What you’ll find throughout these pages is the best I can recall, pieced together from years of research. This is my story, not anyone else’s. Memory can be an elusive companion, especially when you’re walking with someone you love through the final days of their life. I wouldn’t be surprised if factual errors or faulty recollections are scattered throughout.

These are not intentional, I assure you.

The notion that grief can manifest in two distinct forms—one that naturally resolves and another that lingers—dates back to Sigmund Freud.

In his 1917 work, Mourning and Melancholia, Freud described two possible outcomes of grief. Mourning, he explained, was a healthy, conscious process of grieving a loved one. In contrast, melancholia was an unconscious, pathological form of grief that extended beyond the loss itself, affecting other areas of life and proving difficult for the individual to comprehend fully. Being able to think about George now doesn’t mean my grief for him has ended. As I write this, tears are streaming down my face.

I’m still deeply saddened by what happened to my brother, and that sorrow runs through me, down to my core. That will never change. But I’m no longer afraid of the tears because I know I can make them stop when I need to.

The conversations and events captured on Zoom are as truthful as I can remember. I deeply grieved during this period, so I hope you’ll grant me grace. As you’ll see, these are not easy things to write about.