The Small Deaths We Don't Talk About

When my brother passed away, I thought grief was supposed to come once and then leave. That I would cry, go home, and eventually move on. But it hasn’t really worked like that. Since then, I’ve realized that grief keeps showing up, not always in the same way, not always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet.  Sometimes it’s in the little things that end without warning, the people, places, and versions of myself that I’ve had to leave behind in my 20s. Grief didn’t just teach me about death. It made me notice how much of life is made of smaller goodbyes.

There’s a strange kind of loss that comes when you grow up. Nobody tells you that one day you’ll look up and realize you’re not the same person you were a few years ago, and that some of the people who felt like constants in your life are now just names in old messages. I’ve felt that kind of loss in so many ways: saying goodbye to the version of myself that didn’t yet have to be an adult, moving away from family, watching friendships fade even when no one did anything wrong. It’s like one day you wake up and the rhythm of your life has changed, and you didn’t even notice it happening until you’re already somewhere new.

After losing my brother, I started paying more attention to goodbyes. Maybe because I didn’t get the one I wanted with him. I catch myself trying to stretch out small moments, the last dinner before someone leaves, the drive back to Ann Arbor with my parents before they drop me off, the goodbyes to co-workers from internships, the final walk through a place that meant something. There’s always this quiet ache underneath, knowing that things won’t ever be exactly the same. And yet, I think these small deaths, the ones we experience every time we grow, are what teach us to live with a softer kind of gratitude.

I’ve learned that letting go doesn’t always have to mean forgetting. It can mean carrying pieces of what mattered with you. Even when life keeps changing. My psychologist told me once that our 20s are a series of reinventions, and that we shed versions of ourselves over and over again. At first, I hated that idea. It felt too unstable, too uncertain. But now I think it’s kind of beautiful… that we’re allowed to outgrow, allowed to become new.

When I think of my brother now, I think about how he taught me to keep moving forward, even when it hurts. Losing him was the biggest goodbye I’ve ever had to face, but it also made me realize how many times we say goodbye without realizing it, to people, to places, to who we used to be. And maybe that’s the point of all of this. Maybe our 20s are just a long process of learning how to release things with love.

I don’t think the small deaths ever get easier, but I do think they make us more human. Every ending leaves behind something, a lesson, a memory, a feeling that reminds us we were there, that we cared. And I think that’s what makes all of it worth it.