Let's not die today, k?

The world wants you here. We want you alive. Stay.

If you don’t know anything about me - then this next little piece of my lore is critical to this post. My high school sweetheart and husband of 13 years died by suicide on June 2, 2020.

Before he went, he made sure to fix up his bike and hand it over to my sister so she could enjoy it. He set up both family dogs with bark box subscriptions. He ordered sensory toys that came in the mail for several weeks following his death for Sloan. And he brought me coffee and breakfast in bed that morning, leaving me with words that - I know now - were his life-giving parting words of love.

This isn’t to romanticize him or suicide - not at all.

It’s to put into perspective that he was human: just scrambling to try to care for us while also being so lost and vacant that he couldn’t quite see the reality and far-reaching, devastating impact of his death.

The reality? No bark box, bike, or sensory toy would ever make us forget he’s gone.

When he died it set off a domino effect. A domino effect of unleashed grief, pain, and confusion. Of course I was at the center of the grief circle: grieving and lost in ways that felt impossible to move through at the time. So because of what I experienced in the wake of his loss - I don’t remember much from that time and the year or so following.

But I’ve now heard stories from friends and family. I know the things (both good and hard) that were said. And, although that immediate domino effect of loss has mostly mellowed out among our greater community: I still feel and see the impact of his loss in my day-to-day.

It’s a funny thing to sit here and know that if Aaron paid earth a visit today, the first person he’d visit is me. And yet the person who hurt the most - grieving the hardest - after his loss was also me. It’s still me. Picking up the pieces, reliving the memories, from his loss.

It’s not just grief I face, either.

I face so many little reminders. The bank calls me Aaron when I call about the checking account, a tech glitch. He’s still on my Prime account, so I see his name pop up almost daily. I get questions from people I am meeting for the first time: “Where’s your husband?” “I can’t wait to meet Sloan’s dad!” etc, etc.

And, this week, I had a conversation with Sloan’s school psychologist about the impact that Aaron’s loss had on Sloan. Something I really haven’t talked much about before.

I think Aaron would be relieved to hear that Sloan wasn’t ever impacted deeply. She’s Sloan. She was so young, had a lot going on, and had just recovered from almost losing her own life: she hadn’t had much of a chance to grasp the lives of those around her yet.

I think people might see that as a sad thing: but I see it as relieving. For Sloan, me, and - tbh - Aaron. Because I know Aaron didn’t want either of us to hurt. He’d be selflessly happy to know Sloan is living her best life, without carrying lingering grief or heaviness from his loss.

But in this conversation with the school psych, I’m the one doubly carrying it all. The one who carries the grief, logistics, and reminders.

I know Aaron couldn’t comprehend how his death would impact me and Sloan - let alone the big domino effect of grief.

But now that I know what he and I both didn’t know then: all I can say is…You gotta stay.

Stay. Knowing there are a lot more people that love you, care about you, and would miss you than you might realize.

Stay. Remembering that - in the case of Aaron - no material item began to put any semblance of a dent in the vast spaces of grief his loss left behind.

Stay. With confidence that there are better days ahead. I know this from experience, and know Aaron would’ve had those days too had he been here.

You need you. You’re reason enough to live.

But if, today, you need another reason to keep you propped up and standing for a few more hours: don’t forget that there are so many people, places, and spaces who would miss you too. Some you might not even be able to recall in this moment.

Stay.