Letters to Laura: Grief Doesn't Travel in a Straight Line

Friday, August 7, marked two years since you've been gone.

I marked the day quietly. No grand gestures. Just silence, memories, and the realization that somehow two years have passed without you here. It's hard to believe. I still find myself wanting to call you, to share something funny, to ask your opinion, or simply hear your voice. I miss you. I miss having my best friend.

My birthday is approaching, and this year I'll turn 56. You'll always be 54. It's strange how birthdays become markers not only of the years we gain, but of the years our loved ones never had the chance to live. You died just a week before my 54th birthday. Every year as my birthday approaches, I can't help but think about that. Time continues moving for me, while for you, it stands forever still.

I recently finished The Things We Carry by Matt Wilks, his account of walking the Camino de Santiago. One thought stayed with me long after I closed the book. He writes about grief as cumulative. We don't simply "get over" one loss before life asks us to carry another. As the years pass, we lose more people we love, and those losses become part of us. The load grows heavier, even as we become stronger at carrying it.

That resonated with me.

So often we're told that grief follows stages, that time heals, or that eventually we'll move on. But grief has never felt linear to me. It doesn't politely march forward, growing smaller each day. Instead, it circles back. A song. A photograph. A birthday. An ordinary Friday in August. Suddenly, the ache feels as fresh as it did before.

And yet, it isn't the same grief.

It changes shape. It softens in some places while deepening in others. It becomes woven into who we are. We learn to carry it alongside gratitude, laughter, hope, and new experiences. The grief doesn't disappear because the love doesn't disappear.

Perhaps that's what the Camino teaches so many pilgrims. We don't leave our burdens behind. We learn how to carry them differently. One step at a time.

As I thought about you this week, I realized that even after two years, our friendship still travels with me. Your wisdom, your humor, your encouragement—they continue to show up in unexpected moments. Sometimes I hear your voice in my head reminding me what really matters. Sometimes I catch myself smiling at a memory that only the two of us would understand.

You are still part of the journey.

So today, I carry both gratitude and grief. Not because I haven't healed, but because love leaves a permanent imprint. And maybe that's exactly how it should be.

I miss you, Laura. I always will.