Today marks 16 years since my aunt, who was also my godmother, passed away. I can still remember that morning clearly. I was in college at the time, getting ready to head to my morning Friday class when my mom called. She asked what I was up to, and when I told her, she said, “Call me back after.” I knew what was waiting for me in that callback.
Earlier that week, my mom had called to tell me my aunt had cancer and was too weak for treatment. They didn’t know how long she had, so my mom flew out to be with her. Days later, I got the call I had been dreading. I don’t remember paying attention during class that morning. When I walked out and called my mom back, she confirmed what I feared: my aunt was gone. I sat there in shock, in the middle of the campus plaza, struggling to process it.
In less than a week, I went from hearing my aunt had cancer to learning she couldn’t receive treatment and then finding out she had passed. It was too fast. I thought I had so much more time with her. I remembered the last time I saw her—at a breast cancer walk earlier that spring. It was our first time walking together as a family to honor her as a two-time breast cancer survivor. I thought she could survive anything.
It was raining that day at the walk, so we didn’t stay long and parted ways shortly after crossing the finish line. Before that, I had seen her at my high school graduation, where she had flown into town just for the occasion. After the party, she stayed to spend time with us, but I was eager to attend my first-ever pride parade—a big deal for me—so I left. I think about that moment a lot. I also think about how I skipped my cousin’s wedding because of college—the last time most people in the family saw her. I always thought there would be more time.
It’s hard not to look back and feel regret. That’s part of grief, I think. It’s the sadness and love for the person showing up in our desire for more time. We want to go back and make up for those lost moments, but we can’t.
Life changes when we lose someone, and sometimes it changes us. We lose a part of ourselves when they’re no longer physically here, but our connection to them doesn’t disappear—it just shifts. I still wish I could sit across from my aunt, ask her things, give her a hug, hear her laugh, and tell her about my life. And in some ways, I do. I talk to her, ask her questions, and sometimes I even hear her voice in my head. But the best is when she visits me in my dreams. In those moments, I see her smile, and I cherish that more than anything.
There are other times, too, when she makes her presence known in quiet yet powerful ways. Recently, I was having a particularly hard day. As I walked to my car, I accidentally dropped my keys, which rarely happens. The locket attached to them popped open, revealing a picture of her, my mom, and me on one side, and a photo of my wife and me on our wedding day on the other. It was open in a way that focused on her picture, like she was saying, “I’m right here. I got you.” Another time, a family photo from the breast cancer walk fell to the ground, along with a few other things. When I picked it up, I could feel her presence, reminding me she’s still looking after me.
She hasn’t lost her sense of humor, either. She still finds ways to get our attention—sometimes in mischievous ways. My mom has countless stories of things being knocked off surfaces in her house. She laughs but always asks her sister to stop scaring her like that. But knowing my aunt, she probably won’t stop. She’s still reminding us not to take life too seriously—just as she did with my mom when she was alive.
Sometimes, her visits are more direct. When I visited my uncle, her husband, I asked my aunt if she was around. That night, I woke up to an alarm going off in another guest room. I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing it was her. I googled the angel meaning of the time on the clock and, though I can’t remember now exactly what it said, I knew it was a message from her. I turned the alarm off and playfully told her not to wake me up like that again, and she didn’t. Sometimes she listens - sometimes.
Back then, I didn’t handle my grief well. I kept it to myself and didn’t have many healthy coping mechanisms. Poetry became my outlet, and it’s been a constant comfort and support to me since middle school. To process my grief, I wrote a poem about her that I only shared with my mom and uncle back then. I found it again today and reread it. It brought back so many memories.
Losing her was hard to understand. She was someone who brought so much light into the world, and her impact was undeniable. She had this special way of making everyone around her feel seen. At her funeral, one of her former grade school students - who was older than me at the time - came to pay his respects. He said something she had told him years earlier had left a lasting, positive impact on him.
Even though my aunt lived far from her extended family in a different state, she was the one who connected our family. When we lost her, it felt like a huge void, but I saw our family come together in a way we hadn’t before. Even in death, she was still bringing us all together.
When I found the poem I wrote back then, I thought it was time to share it again. So here it is:
Thank You
To say goodbye after all this time, to you
was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
I couldn’t let you go without feeling the pain.
I wanted so badly to think your leave was not in vain.
To see how it affected everyone most important to you,
I knew you weren't only special in my heart, but to others too.
The strength and love you so embodied overtook us all.
But even with it, no one could stop the fall.
We leaned on one another to help us through,
And that was all on account of you.
The bonds we formed through the hardship
was something I knew was the start of relationships.
Ties once visited, began to take on a form, anew,
and I couldn’t help but think of you.
In this realization of change you brought upon our lives,
I could now see that we gained more than lost in the breaking of this tie.
In tragedy, something more beautiful accrued,
And in such experience, we grew in you.
Because of this I’ve found answers amidst questions,
Found my way, clearer, amidst confusion.
Finding the road after was difficult to do,
But I knew with every step, by my side holding on, was you.
You’ve meant so much to us, to me,
And so in our hearts, forever, you’ll be.
So before I bid you adieu,
I just simply want to say, “thank you.”
-I love you.
As I reflect on the 16 years without my aunt, I’m reminded of how important it is to stay connected—not just to the loved ones we've lost and the ones still physically here, but to ourselves and the healing we need. Whether you're navigating grief, looking for guidance, or simply seeking to reconnect with your inner wisdom, you don’t have to do it alone. If this resonates with you and you're ready to explore your journey of healing and transformation, I’d love to support you. Feel free to book a free consultation or a session with me, and we can walk through this together.
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