On a day I’ll never forget in 2015, I woke up to a phone call to my hotel room in Doha, Qatar, where I was staying for a weekend away.
The news from a family friend on the other end was that my younger sister had passed away just five weeks shy of her 33rd birthday. Her long-term struggle with alcohol addiction was over. She had lost.
I sat silent for a while, then the pure shock of it drove me into action: ringing work, trying to get in touch with the coroner’s office, calling family and friends both back home in the US and in the UK.
As it was unclear what exactly had caused her death (they knew it was alcohol-related, but unsure which of her vital organs had failed first), we had to wait months for a coroner’s investigation before we could bury her. I was the first to tell my three younger brothers back home that she’d been an addict.
It’s been six years now, and it was only last year that I said the words: ‘She’s dead. She’s never coming back.’
I don’t know why it took that long, but one day I just… accepted it. No matter how many times I reach for my phone to text her, how often I dream of her and how much some of my close female friends remind me of her – she really is gone.
The loss of my sister changed literally everything about how I view the world. While the crippling survivor’s guilt and ensuing depression are still a struggle, losing her has also changed me in a positive way.
I think part of me realised with certainty that I needed to embrace living more fully – whereas before, I was bogged down by trivialities.
I’m more adventurous now than I ever was before. Nine months after she passed, I fulfilled my lifelong dream of learning how to sail on the open sea, gaining my certificate from the Royal Yachting Association.
I said ‘yes’ to relationships and love; and sought out job promotions I’d previously been too scared to pursue.
Since losing her, I try to remember that I’ve got one shot at this life and, as cheesy as it sounds, I’m living for both of us. I couldn’t ‘save’ her, but the heartbreaking lesson it taught me is to be grateful for every single day.
The alternative to growing older is dying, so I may as well try to live – and to live excellently.
My sister doesn’t get to do those things. Her story is written. The book is closed. Her vibrant laugh, obsession with all things sci-fi and geeky, the fact she stopped and spoke to most of the homeless people in her adopted city of Bath – those things now only exist in my memory.
Remembering her kindness often makes me feel guilty for being the surviving sister.
There have been days, weeks and months where I’d gladly have traded places with her. But I’ve kept going, putting one foot in front of the other and suddenly, without me realising it, I’m nearly 41.
One of the positives I’ve taken is that I’m no longer afraid of ageing because I know that any shame associated with women growing older is fake – a misogynistic hangover from a male-dominated world that simply isn’t accurate.
I have wrinkles, a half-head full of grey hair (when it’s not dyed every colour of the rainbow) and my boobs are starting to sag. And that’s wonderful.
At one point, before I lost my beautiful little sister, I spent ages looking in the mirror, petrified that I could see my mother staring back. I still remember when my under-eye bags got to the point of no return after one particularly harrowing session of grieving.
I woke up the next morning and expected them to bounce back, but age and the toll of living without her meant they were here to stay. And that’s OK.
While Western society continues to value women for their youth and looks and to castigate us for daring to exist outside of a sexualised, youthful image, I place a hand on a bit of sagging skin and honestly I love it.
My wrinkles are literal, physical proof that I’m a survivor. That I get another day to do the job I love, to see friends, to learn new skills – even to fail, apologise and try to do better.
I care so much less about ageing. You see, my worth is not tied to my youth, to the pertness of my breasts or to my ability to bear children.
Wrinkles and grey hair don’t stop any of us from grabbing life by the horns and making the most of it.
If you’re a woman and feeling as if you don’t matter because you’re over 40 or 50 or some arbitrary number that society views negatively – just remember that you’re still alive and kicking! Don’t let anyone make you feel less worthy. You’ve made it. You’re a survivor.
I’m hardly alone in losing someone dear to me under tragic circumstances. But I do know that I’ve taken my grief and channelled it into a motivator for living a better life.
Wonderfully, my honesty and vulnerability about my sister’s death has helped others. Whenever I post on social media about missing her, people get in touch.
‘My dad died two years ago and I don’t know what to do with myself.’
‘I lost my partner and best friend and the whole world seems empty.’
I’m not a therapist, but I can be a friend. I can help people through the first stages of Grief Club – a horrible club that, without fail, we all eventually must join.
And I hope this story makes my sister proud and honours her memory, just as I want my life – wrinkles and all – to do.
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