I woke up on a rainy Thursday morning in my cozy living room chair from a good night’s rest to my dad on the phone. All I heard was the shaky and almost unrecognizable voice of my mother coming from the other line, “This is going to kill her.” What an abrupt ending to an early morning phone call. I immediately pretended to fall back asleep in case my dad happened to figure out I eavesdropped on his conversation. All I could think of was the word “kill” over and over again, making my brain play out any possible explanation in my head as to what could have happened that would have shaken up my mom to that extent. But no imaginary situation could have prepared me for the roller coaster of emotions I was going to feel that day. 

The heavy footsteps of my father slowly creaked up the stairs, as if to notify me that the coast was clear and that I could stop pretending to be fast asleep. But after a few very long minutes of not knowing how to decipher the call, I convinced myself to walk upstairs and ask all of my questions. As soon as I entered the beige bedroom I was greeted with an unwelcoming tension, screaming to me that something wasn’t right. Without even saying a word, I could tell by the hurt in his eyes that I was about to get news that I would never forget: “Your uncle died.” The digital alarm clock blinked bright green at 12:07, and it seemed like an eternity passed before the next minute appeared. 

I still remember the feelings from that week as if it were yesterday, the feeling of being hit in the heart with a sledge hammer and not knowing how to repair the damage. I still remember constantly wanting to fall asleep just so that I didn’t have to feel anything anymore. I still remember having overwhelming amounts of flashbacks of every birthday party, weekly Sunday lunch, inside joke, every memory. I still remember the cold embraces and stiff half smiles from unfamiliar faces. I still remember seeing the person I once called the most go-lucky man alive completely lifeless, praying that I could witness his light-up-the-room smile one last time. I still remember his seven year old daughter holding my hand, giving me a hug and kiss before we walked out of the funeral home doors, saying “That was just in case I won’t ever see you again.” I still remember standing in the mirror and brushing my red hair, and I had no idea who the lost person looking back at me was. I still remember being angry at the world, wishing that my uncle could’ve been given more life. During that time period, I treated people the worst I ever have. I remained closed off to even my closest friends and family. Secrets weren’t shared, and the joyous laugh I once had became more and more scarce as the days went on. I knew that I was transforming into the worst version of myself, but felt I had no control over my own life. Grief and pain will pull a personality out of you that you wouldn’t even know existed. 

On a bright Sunday morning about a year later, I got myself out of bed and opened up my window to reveal the crisp fall air. My room wasn’t at all neat, but I made my bed and tidied my white desk for the first time in forever. I silenced my phone and looked out my window to watch the colorful cars drive by once again.  I felt warmth in my soul, and the smile in the mirror seemed to glow differently than usual. I swept my now blonde hair up into a ponytail to reveal the freckles on my forehead, and my normally blue eyes had a brightness that made them shimmer. I felt replenished. They say good things take time, and I now believe that with my whole being. I’ve gained wisdom and strength that I didn’t know existed, and realized that everything happens for a reason. I’ve learned that everyone handles heartache differently, so differently that it would be naive of me to justify any judgements I have directed towards myself or others. You find ways to make yourself more comfortable with the obvious hole that is in your everyday life. The day that I woke up and felt peacefulness again, was the day I was finally able to see the good in myself and others that I thought was lost. 

31 years old is way too young to die. After three years, sometimes I find myself forgetting what the sound of his voice was like or what his favorite thing to order at Taco Bell was. But realizing how lucky I am to have had 13 years with my uncle was one of the biggest breakthrough moments I can recall. There are still many days where I can’t even get out of bed to do my homework, or days where my room is so piled up that my lack of joy and motivation is obvious to anyone that steps foot near me. But throughout this long journey i'm still traveling on, I choose to use this grief I carry to help me become the things I loved most about my uncle while he was here. So instead of wishing I could give his or my own life more time, I do all that is possible to give the time I have a little more life.