Drastically, his mental state had deteriorated. 

Now I see it clearly: my brother was incredibly strong for holding on as long as he did. He carried the weight for over a decade, ever since I left him behind when I immigrated to Canada. 

Conditioned to live by abandoning his own needs and silencing his own dreams, he poured all his energy into everyone else. 

Facing my own suicidal thoughts became the heaviest burden of all. Only later did I learn from Dr. Alan Wolfelt’s The Wilderness of Suicide Grief: Survivors of suicide loss are at high risk themselves. It’s not just the ambiguous and devastating nature of the loss; we grieve multiple layers at the same time. In my case, it was a staggering amount of loss all at once. 

In the deepest agony of mourning, it was as if a veil suddenly lifted from my eyes, awakening a piercing question in my soul… 

What am I doing with my life? 

That moment marked the beginning of a slow, painful, yet valuable transformation- both within me and around me. I chose healing and released the relationships that no longer nurtured my growth. I let go of the false hope in a marriage that had starved my spirit, and began listening to my intuition, my dreams, and the signs I believed were from Arman. With determination, I searched for answers and opened every door to healing, even the ones that frightened me. 

Hiking in the mountains, sensing every breath of nature around me, spotting signs and images in the clouds on my walks, falling in love with hot yoga and Neurographica drawing, capturing beauty through photography, and being present as I could for my daughters–these were my undeniable efforts to heal, and slowly rebuild myself and my life. 

I know Arman wants me to live the life he didn’t have a life that’s fulfilling and free. His passing taught me that I must care for myself and honor my own needs first, so I can truly be there for my daughters and others. So I embraced my healing and, for the first time, began showing up for myself. I gave myself permission to feel every feeling, to move through the raging waves of grief with gentleness and compassion. 

Then I started writing, as if Arman was guiding my hand. 

I hadn’t written poetry since high school, but one day, I had to confess honestly, “I have to let it all out, or it’s going to kill me.” Writing became a pivotal part of my healing. My grief, my love, my hope, and the insidious monsters of guilt and unforgiveness- every word was soaked in my tears and heartbreak. 

Writing became not only a crucial part of my healing, but it also grew into something far greater than I could have imagined. It gave me the voice I had never dared to use before and led me to a beautiful discovery: the gift my brother had left me. FIVE A.M. The Silence After Goodbye was published, and it carries not just my voice, but Arman’s, as well. His poetry and songs are woven throughout its pages, bringing his spirit and words back to life. 

Alongside writing, I was unexpectedly drawn to get a tattoo. It wasn’t something I had ever considered before, but this decision came straight from the heart. I chose to have our special nicknames inked on my arm–in Arman’s own handwriting. Seeing his words etched into my skin brought a deep sense of peace, comfort, and hope. It’s a reminder that he’s still with me. 

The brick we dedicated to him in the park behind our house has become another meaningful connection. When my daughters and I walk our dog, we always pause there at this simple memorial by the entrance. Nature was Arman’s refuge, and in that space, his spirit feels tangible, soothing our souls. 

We feel that same love and presence every time we look at his photos on the wall. I often find myself talking to him, tracing his face in the frame, as if he’s right here with me, in my home. 

Inviting close friends for lunch on the day of his passing, decorating our Christmas tree, and sharing cake and dinner on his birthday in November aren’t grand gestures. They are sacred rituals – heartfelt acts of love that help me carry him forward while learning to carry myself. Through these moments, I show my daughters that grief is simply love that never leaves us, and that our connection with loved ones can become even stronger than before. 

As I reflect on my journey through grief and healing, I carry profound gratitude for my brother and the unexpected gifts he blessed me with: the courage to find and use my voice, and the calling to share our story. 

Our story is not mine alone–your story matters, too. 

We are not meant to walk through life or loss alone. As humans, we are created for connection–to stand beside one another in the brightest joys and the deepest sorrows; to celebrate life together, and to learn, painfully yet beautifully, how to say goodbye. 

If you’re grieving, please remember this truth: you are not alone. You should never have to be. 

In the darkest moments, when silence feels eternal and your heart unbearably heavy, know that there are others who see you, who hear you, who walk beside you- even if from a distance. 

I stand here, speaking openly about grief and healing through my book, through this story, and through every chance I get to break the silence, along with many brave–hearted souls across the globe. 

Grief is a language of love, a testament to the depth of our connections. 

It may twist us, break us, and reshape us, but it also teaches us what it means to be deeply human. Through grief, I have learned to live with tenderness for myself and for others, and to carry pain and hope side by side. I’ve come to understand that healing is not a final destination but a winding path we walk together, hand in hand, as one village, lifting and supporting each other through the ever–changing seasons of loss. 

To my beloved brother Arman: all I have left now is to hold you closer in every memory, in the silence between words, in speaking your name aloud, and in every breath I take. Your love still guides me, softly threading its light through all that I am becoming, leading me forward- beyond time, beyond goodbye.