The Life They Never Got to See

Sometimes I wonder what my dad and my sister would think if they could spend one ordinary day with me now. Not a holiday. Not a milestone. Just a random Tuesday.

For awhile, I imagined that conversation being filled with everything we’ve missed. Everything that happened after they were gone. Everything I wish I could tell them.

But lately I’ve started thinking about something different. I wonder what they would notice about me.

The easy answer would be that I’ve changed.

Because I have.

Life has changed me. Loss has changed me. Time has changed me.

But I don’t think they’d look at me and think, “Who is this?”

I think they’d recognize me immediately. I think we’d laugh at the same things. Tell the same stories. Tease each other the same way we always did.

And then I think they’d notice something quieter and something braver. I’ve become much more protective of my peace.

Years ago, I spent a lot of energy trying to make everyone comfortable.

I worried about disappointing people. I overexplained my decisions. I felt guilty saying no. I thought kindness meant always making room for everyone else’s expectations.

Now I know better. Now I know that having a heart of purple doesn’t mean giving every piece of it away.

I’ve also become more compassionate. Not because I’m stronger, but because I’ve been broken. When someone is hurting, I notice. When someone is struggling, I reach out. When someone feels alone, I remember what that feels like.

And yet, at the same time, I have less patience for things that aren’t real.

Pretending. Performing. Emotionally one-sided relationships. Drama for the sake of drama.

Life is too short for that. Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve learned the hard way that tomorrow isn’t promised. You become more protective of your own time and energy. Some may call it selfish, but I think my dad and sister would agree it's not just brave and admirable, but it's necessary as well.

I've also think if I could spend one more ordinary day with my dad and sister they would be overjoyed seeing my kids.

Not because they’ve accomplished anything extraordinary. But because they’re becoming themselves.

And I think that’s one of the greatest privileges in life—to watch the people you love grow into who they’re meant to be.

Sometimes I wonder what my dad would say. Or what my sister would laugh about.

Would they tell me to slow down?

Would they remind me not to worry so much?

Would they be surprised by the boundaries I’ve built?

Honestly, I don’t think so.

I think they’d be proud.

Not because I’ve handled grief perfectly. I haven’t.

There are still days when I miss them so much that it feels impossible to explain. There are still moments when I wish I could call them, ask a question, or tell them a story.

That will never go away. But I don’t think the people we love want us to stay exactly as we were when they left.

Life keeps asking something of us. It asks us to keep growing. To keep loving. To keep showing up. To keep becoming.

So when I imagine them seeing me today, I don’t picture them saying,

“You’ve changed.”

I picture them smiling. I picture them looking at me with that familiar expression only the people who know you best can give.

And I imagine them saying,

“There you are.”

Maybe this version of me was always there.

Maybe it just took life—and all of its heartbreak—to uncover her.