There are no words that would make sense of things. But I have to try. Nick, I miss hearing your voice, because it had reason. I'll miss your company, because it always felt safe. I miss talking with you - you were always the best listener. I miss your friendship, the type of friend you can look at across the room and have entire conversations with, without saying a word. I miss your creativity that ran deep in your bones and was expressed in everything that you did. I miss your kind and gentle soul. 

I was fortunate enough to be able to lean on Nick while I was pregnant & grieving the loss of my boyfriend, Zack. Though we had been friends for years before that, I saw a different side of him during those unbearably painful early days. He was there for me during moments where I needed to talk and cry and grieve. But he understood sometimes I had no words, and he'd sit with me in a comfortable silence. He was there when I needed to pretend things were normal and would laugh and joke with me like everything was okay. He helped me search baby name websites, when I'm sure there were other things he'd rather be doing - he said if he had a daughter, he would name her Vendetta (I told him good luck getting his future baby mama on board). Nick showed up for his friends. He showed up for me. After I gave birth, he drew a beautiful portrait of my daughter that I have hanging on the wall across from my bed. I've stared at every night since he passed, devastated she will never meet someone who was such a true friend to me and her dad.

Grieving Nick from across the country, with the forced isolation we are all in due to the virus, has been difficult. I've learned that silence is really loud. Deafening. I think maybe I've spent my whole life trying to avoid silence. When you have silence, it's hard to keep stuff out. It's all there. And you can't get rid of it. I used to be able to get rid of things, banish them. But it isn't so easy anymore. Salina & the rest of my South Orange County Detox and Treatment family have been there for me in all this and my appreciation and love for you all is so warm.

Grief has many faces, many forms, it's not just grief: there's anger and forgiveness; mercy and burden; joy and sorrow; and gratitude and stubbornness. I wish we could all find common ground in our grief, but there's nothing common about this situation or its effect on all of us. The fabric of our being is threaded by how we react to trauma. We must alleviate the pressure and release the proverbial blood. Every day bleeds unique.

I think the thing I've realized is that life is just too long and also too short. Too long to feel like any of it should be hurried. Too short to not be fully present and free of the worry of wasting it. Savor each day for what it is. Cherish the slow seasons. Cherish the fast seasons. All seasons have value. 

I remember an encounter I had about two weeks after Zack's life was tragically taken, the same way Nick's was. Someone wandered in and found me blank staring at a wall, while I sat at a table surrounded by greasy food. "What are you doing?" She asked. Puffy faced and minority embarrassed at the scene she'd walked into, I responded "eating my feelings". "That's okay," she said and sat down. "You know you're not supposed to know what to do right?" (*cue a letdown of tears and brokenness from me). "You're not supposed to know how to breathe. You’re not supposed to want to move. That's why people are giving the way they are".  And I think it’s been my favorite advice I've been given so far because it wasn't advice at all. But a statement of blanket permission to be what it will be. Permission to return to that state as the waves ride on for the rest of my life. It will always feel different. You will always feel different. But you will be okay. And your life will be beautiful again. Just in different ways. If I could tell Nick's family one thing, it would be that. 

It's okay not to like where you are. It's okay not to be happy with every detail. But sit deep; find joy; always give the compliments you think of; and never pass on the chance to give a hug or to tell someone you appreciate them. Life's too long to feel like there's no time for doing the things you love. And life's too short to not make it about the people you love. Nick lived like that, and that lesson has truly been the greatest gift he has given me. 

Many times, when someone was having a tough day, Nick would have us stop to admire the sunset. He reminded us to take a moment to appreciate the small things. Every sunset is a sunrise somewhere else. And when the darkness hits, sometimes we need to learn how to step back into the light. This bumpy road stretches before us like uncertain waves, and we leave behind so many sunsets in our wake. One thing I know is grief never replaces love, it flows alongside it. It appears when love is not expecting it and never really goes away. Grief is a reminder our hearts have been touched by someone truly irreplaceable.