This Labor Day marks one year since I lost one of my closest, best friends.

Grieving and processing that loss has been among the most difficult things I have ever done. I was devastated. The fallout from the loss caused severe disturbance in my sense of self, sense of worth, and belief in my capability to relate to others. I hadn’t realized how integrated emotional health is with physical, mental, and spiritual health: I lost weight, lost sleep, lost courage, lost confidence.

Unspoken motives, boundary collisions, and irreconcilable differences in how we handled conflict complicated the grieving process, making it difficult to understand what was lost and what was left to rebuild. Grieving someone who is still alive carries a unique confusion—there are no tidy rituals, no shared closure; just the exhausting temptation to replay every detail and wonder where you failed.

Devastating loss has a knack for exposing cracks in the foundation. I was – in the words of the youths – “shooketh”. This emotional earthquake set into painful motion lessons that I have been grappling with through professional counseling, personal journaling, some good cries on the couch and in the car, and snot-sniffle phone calls to people who love me well. This year has been one of sifting, sorting, and rebuilding. I’ve learned and grown far more than I asked for, but even yet, I am grateful.

I’ve learned that I cannot simply will myself through emotional pain. Buried pain was a parasite, silently stealing energy from what I considered simple tasks: cleaning, cooking, meal planning, grocery shopping. I wrestled with guilt as I laid on the couch; recycling boxes piling up in the corner of the dining room, the Christmas tree up in July, emails left unread for months. This isn’t me, I wept. This isn’t who I am.

Perhaps the greatest journey I’ve been on over this past year is one of self-discovery: Who am I?

Here are some things that 2026 Jess knows now – hard-earned, invaluable things. Important things.

• Your worth is not dependent on who needs you.
  
• Sometimes your body knows fear before your brain does. Pay attention.
  
• Look at yourself in the mirror with the same compassion you afford others.
  
• Treat your own presence as something worth savoring.
  
• Words have power, but they are hollow if actions don’t follow. Watch while you listen.
  
• When you are left unheard, it’s not always because you didn’t speak.
  
• Love ≠ Access. Boundaries are part of a healthy relationship.

I haven’t “made it”. I’m still shuffling, stumbling, scraping my way back to feeling whole. This unanticipated loss in a time of great social, geographic, and vocational upheaval sent me into a tailspin. I’m still working on disentangling shame from the perception that my response was disproportional to the injury; but my body tells the story of trauma. And it’s okay to (still) not be okay.

Perhaps you’ve had chapters with similar themes. Perhaps you’re in one now. I’m sorry for your pain. But I am more and more convinced that pain can serve a purpose, if we allow it. If the trial of this year had never occurred, I wouldn’t have chosen to learn how to love myself better. I wouldn’t have chosen to learn how to listen to my body, to speak up for myself. I’d have missed the opportunity to see where over-functioning and “fixing” get in the way of authentic connection. Most important of all, I would have remained blind to the rich network of friends I have across life stages, countries, and roles.

Somehow, losing something I had gripped tightly made me richer.

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Recently I sat with a respected and beloved elder in my family, and I asked her how she dealt with relational loss:

Oh, I think I love everybody. I loved the one who hurt me; I never stopped loving them. My love just had to look different.

Here’s to love looking different – and to giving ourselves room to heal at our own pace. ❤️‍🩹