It has been seven months since my brother died, and I’m still struggling to understand why the grief hasn’t eased the way I expected it to. I was told it would get better with time, that the pain would soften. But it hasn’t. It still shows up unexpectedly, heavy and consuming, and I don’t know how to deal with it any more now than I did in the beginning.

His life was heartbreakingly short, yet his absence feels endless. Some days I function almost normally; other days the loss feels brand new. Alongside the sadness is guilt—guilt for continuing to live, for having moments of happiness, and for feeling like “moving on” would mean leaving him behind. The idea of moving on feels impossible, but staying stuck in grief hurts just as much.

While still navigating this loss, I find myself facing another kind of grief. My cat, Lynx, is almost 19 years old, and I know his time is coming. Even though he’s only been with us for seven years, it feels like we’ve had him for all eighteen. He is deeply woven into our sense of home, and the thought of losing him feels overwhelming, especially when I’m already carrying so much grief.

This anticipatory grief has me mourning before the loss even happens. I watch him slow down and feel a constant ache in my chest, wondering how I’m supposed to prepare myself when I barely feel able to cope now. I want to stay present with him, but fear keeps stealing moments I wish I could simply enjoy.

I don’t have answers. I don’t know how to grieve, how to move forward, or how to prepare for what’s coming. What I’m slowly learning is that grief may not get better—it gets carried. It exists alongside love, memory, and fear, shaping us in ways we never asked for.

For now, all I can do is take things day by day. I can miss my brother deeply, love Lynx fully, and admit that I don’t know how to do this without giving up. Maybe that, for now, is enough. I suppose grief is the price of loving someone so deeply – and the proof that you were lucky to have them.