Twenty years ago, I lost my brother to suicide during a bitterly cold winter when the sun refused to shine. He was twenty years, eight months, and two days old—as old as he will ever be in this lifetime. I was twenty-two and believed I was on the cusp of something profound. Grief wasn’t the destination I expected, but it’s the one I’ve learned to cultivate into something profound and beautiful. For the most part, I have a deep sense of peace regarding my brother’s death. I know that like 90% of people who die by suicide, Joe had a diagnosable, treatable mental illness—in his case severe depression. I know everyone involved did the best they could and that we all loved each other. I know that life is not a guarantee. Each day is a precious gift. Today is … Read More