Yesterday was the two year anniversary of Emily’s death. Like last year, I decided to spend the weekend in Knoxville with her parents. It’s been months since I’ve made the trek, and at first I felt a bit apprehensive. I questioned whether her parents would want me there. I worried I would be an imposition, just another thing for them to deal with during a very difficult time.

And yet, as I sat in the pew at their church this morning, I had this overwhelming feeling that I was exactly where I need to be.

“You Are My Person”

Emily had many friends, many of whom I’ve kept in touch with since she died and forged my own beautiful relationships with. And, much like each of the relationships Emily had with each of these friends, these incredible people fill specific roles in my life (and I do the same in theirs). I know that I can’t replace Emily for any of those people, though, just like I could never have been everything Emily needed all the time — we all need people to be our people.

That being said, I do think Emily and I filled specific roles in each other’s lives. Our friendship was beautiful and unique before we added the romantic partner label, and that never changed.

For example, I very quickly became a safe person for Emily to discuss her eating disorder with and help her complete challenges and provide accountability. I remember Emily saying on multiple occasions, “You’re one of the only people I can talk to about this because you don’t have an eating disorder.” She didn’t want to trigger other friends or receive messaging that would encourage ED behaviors. As time went on, she would often ask me things with the concern, “How do normal people feel about this?” or, “Do people who don’t have eating disorder do this?”

Also, because Emily and I knew a lot about each other from our time in group therapy, she knew I was someone she could talk to about topics like self harm and suicidal ideation. I wouldn’t judge her, nor would I instantly freak out and try to take her to the psych hospital. Instead, I would listen, ask questions, and suggest coping skills.

This is all largely why we had a lengthy conversation on my couch before our first kiss. Emily said, “You are one of my best friends, and no matter what happens, I don’t want to lose that.” Although I laughed at her request for me to pinky promise I’d still be her friend if we decided dating was weird, I completely understood why she did it. We were each other’s person, plain and simple.

“God Has Not Abandoned You”

When the doctor came back out to the ICU waiting room to tell me that ECMO had not helped and Emily was dead, I looked at her, my eyes already filled with tears, and the only thing I could think of to say is, “Why?” That why was quickly followed by, “No, this can’t be happening. She was fine just a few hours ago. How can she be dead?”

I felt so heartbroken and alone in that moment. And, despite what anyone does or says, I have continued to feel heartbroken and alone at least once a day every single day over the past two years. I have cursed God. I’ve asked Him time and time again why He let this happen to Emily and why He continues to let me experience such tragedies over and over again.

But, as I listened to the sermon at Emily’s parents’ church this morning, I couldn’t help but latch onto a single statement the pastor said:

“God’s silence is not God’s abandonment.”

Once again, the tears started streaming down my face as the gears in my head began to turn. The puzzle pieces suddenly all fit together, as if someone had suddenly helped me assemble all the edge pieces. Yes, I was heartbroken and will always will be after losing my person. But, I have not and will never be alone.

As I stood at Emily’s bedside, holding her hand while scanning the room looking for anything I could use to join her, a nurse entered and asked me to tell her about Emily and share a story Emily would tell her if she could. As I stepped away from the pulpit after speaking at Emily’s funeral and began to completely unravel, someone was there to catch me, wrap her arms around me, and let me cry. And the list goes on and on…

I have friends: ones who have been with me since before I met Emily, ones who came into my life because of Emily, and ones I’ve made since Emily died. These people have walked beside me during my darkest days, experienced some of the first moments of joy I felt when the storm began to subside, and continued to love me, mm even when I make that task incredibly difficult.

I have Emily’s family, who has continued to love me and welcome me into their lives. They’ve never once made me feel like a burden, like I don’t fit in, or blamed me in any way for her death. They’ve included me in gatherings and celebrations, shared stories I had never heard, and provided me with a safe space I can go to during the times I miss Emily the most.

I have our church, a place I would have never entered if Emily hadn’t asked a year and a half prior. It’s provided me with comfort, companionship, and purpose in more ways than I ever imagined. I’ve gone there when I’ve questioned my beliefs, when I’ve needed answers, and when I just needed to feel God’s presence.

In my mind, all of these people have been God’s answer to my prayers and exactly what I’ve needed to sustain me as pain, grief, and anger have depleted me throughout the course of the last 730 days.

The Courage to Continue

I don’t know what the future holds. And, honestly, I’m to a point where I’m not sure I even want to try to predict it. But, I do know this: Emily is with me wherever I go, and I am blessed to have so many people in my life to carry me when I fall. It’s because of all of this that I continue to have the strength to get out of bed each morning and will continue to have the courage to ride this roller coaster we call life.