Hammock Time: I water you. You water me. We both grow.

When someone you love dies by suicide, everything cracks open.

For me, the floor fell out. Gravity quit its job, and for a while, I was just floating in space, holding on to nothing but a big question mark and a lot of tears.

At first, I tried to be okay. You know, the kind of okay where you smile at the grocery store cashier and then cry over the bananas because they remind you of a joke the person once made. That kind of okay.

I thought I had to “get over” the trauma. Like it was a speed bump. Like grief would punch my ticket and I’d get to the other side—wherever that is—with my hair brushed and my heart stitched back together. Spoiler: nope. You don’t get over trauma. You learn to carry it without it crushing you. You learn to make room for joy to sit beside the pain. You learn to unclench your jaw.

Trust? Oh, yeah, that one took a while. After something like that, trusting people feels like trying to hug a porcupine. You want to, but your body goes, “Umm… maybe not?” I had to relearn how to trust life again. People. Myself. My instincts. That took practice. And patience. And a lot of ugly crying in places I never expected—like aisle five at Target.

Being strong again? It didn’t look how I thought it would. I used to think strong meant stoic. No feelings, no fuss, keep marching. But now I know strong is actually allowing yourself to feel everything without shame. Strong is asking for help. Strong is saying, “Today is hard,” and not apologizing for it.

And learning about life all over again? That’s been the weirdest, wildest ride. It’s like I got handed a whole new operating system—one where I don’t take people or sunsets or even mediocre hot chocolate for granted anymore. Where I say “I love you” more, and I care less about dumb stuff like being cool or having matching socks. I’m learning to show up. To laugh at dumb memes. To dance while I do the dishes. To sit in silence when I need to. To forgive myself.

And here’s something I’ve come to live by: I water you. You water me. We both grow. It’s not just a cute phrase—it’s a way of being. A gentle reminder that we heal in connection. That we’re not meant to do this whole “being human” thing alone. Sometimes I’ve been the thirsty one, barely hanging on. Other times, I’ve been the one holding the watering can. Either way, we need each other.

To trust myself again? That’s the secret sauce. It’s been a slow rebuild, like Ikea furniture with no manual. But I’m learning to listen to that quiet voice inside me—the one that says, “You’ve got this,” even when I don’t feel like I do.

Grief is a hell of a teacher. It doesn’t come with a syllabus, but it hands you lessons anyway. Some days I ace them. Other days I fall asleep in class. But I keep showing up.

And somehow, that’s enough.