Learning to Live With Grief

The World Kept Moving. Mine Changed Forever.

One year after losing my little sister, I am learning that grief isn't simply about missing someone. It's about the ordinary moments that suddenly feel different, the future you imagined together, and finding a way to live with questions that may never have answers.

If you knew Abby, you knew she was impossible to forget.

She was funny, wildly creative, mischievous, and unapologetically herself. She had a sharp sense of humour and an extraordinary ability to make people laugh, often when everyone else was taking life far too seriously.

She was a singer, an artist, a photographer, and a wonderful home cook. She loved music, experimenting in the kitchen, and finding beauty in unexpected places. She could turn the most ordinary moment into a story worth retelling.

And she was a goofball. The kind who could make you laugh with a single expression.

But behind that larger-than-life personality was a woman who had carried enormous emotional pain for much of her life.

On November 6, 2025, we lost Abby. She was just 39 years old.

I have spent much of this past year trying to reconcile the sister I knew so well with the parts of her life I wish I had understood better.

A Year of Firsts, and a Future That Will Never Be

The first few months after Abby's death were a blur. There were arrangements to make, difficult conversations to have, and the overwhelming task of accepting something that felt impossible.

Eventually, the phone calls slowed, people returned to their routines, and life resumed its familiar rhythm.

But for our family, nothing was familiar anymore.

I wasn't prepared for the anger, frustration, guilt, and endless questions that would accompany the sadness. When someone you love has struggled with childhood trauma, mental health challenges, and addiction, grief can become tangled with thoughts about what might have been done differently.

You revisit conversations. You question decisions. You wonder whether the right help at the right moment might have changed everything.

And then there is the future you thought you had.

Abby should have celebrated her 40th birthday this past August. Instead of planning a celebration, we were remembering her.

I often imagine Abby at 50, 60, 70, and heck, even 100. I can almost hear her making some outrageous joke about getting old, refusing to act her age, and making us laugh until our stomachs hurt.

I think about the sisterly banter, the gossip, the secrets, the disagreements, and the conversations we should still be having. The family milestones we would have celebrated. The grey hairs we would have teased each other about.

I didn't just lose my sister at 39. I lost every version of her I was supposed to know, and an entire lifetime of growing old together.

The Ordinary Things That Break My Heart

One of the things I've discovered about grief is how unexpectedly it appears.

For me, it lives in three very ordinary places.

The first is a set of traffic lights near the Bronson exit off the highway.

It was there that I received the call from the doctors telling us there was nothing more they could do for Abby. I remember the disbelief, the desperate hope that we had misunderstood, and the unbearable realization that my little sister was dying.

Now, whenever I approach those lights, I am transported back to that moment.

To everyone else, it's just another intersection. To me, it's where an ordinary drive became one of the most painful memories of my life.

The second is an oyster-shucking knife in my kitchen.

Every time I reach for it, I think about Abby's hands. I can picture her standing in the kitchen, completely absorbed in preparing something delicious, enjoying the simple pleasure of cooking.

It's such a small object, yet it carries an entire memory of her.

And the third is Smooth Operator by Sade.

I could be driving, shopping, or having a perfectly wonderful day, but the moment that familiar melody begins, I fall apart.

Sometimes I want to turn it off because it hurts too much. Other times, I want to listen to every note because it makes me feel close to her.

I never imagined a road, a kitchen utensil, and a song could hold so much of my sister.

There are other things I miss that are harder to explain.

Her wonderfully broken Tamil, and the animated expressions she made while trying to get her point across. The way she could tell an entire story with her face. Her opinions, her stubbornness, and the ridiculous things she would say just to get a reaction.

Abby knew a version of me that existed long before I became a wife or a mother. We shared a childhood, a family history, and memories that belonged to a world only the two of us fully understood.

Sometimes a memory surfaces, and my first instinct is still to ask, "Abby, do you remember?"

Then I remember there is no one left to share that particular memory with.

I have a lifetime of memories with my sister, but no more time to make new ones.

The Person I Have Become

From the outside, my life probably looks much the same.

I go to work, travel, spend time with family, laugh with friends, and experience moments of genuine happiness.

But I am not the same person I was a year ago.

At family gatherings, I sometimes find myself imagining how Abby would have reacted to something happening around us. The joke she would have made. The expression on her face.

For a moment, happiness and heartbreak exist together.

Losing Abby has also changed the way I see people.

I listen differently now. I pay more attention to what isn't being said, and I have become more conscious of how easily we accept "I'm fine" without asking another question.

Abby was often the funniest person in the room. Yet behind that humour were struggles that weren't always visible to those around her.

I've come to understand how little we sometimes know about the people closest to us.

There are conversations I wish had unfolded differently and things I wish I had recognized sooner. I suspect those thoughts will always be part of my grief.

But I am trying to turn those reflections into something meaningful.

I want to be more patient with people whose behaviour I don't immediately understand. More willing to listen without offering advice. Less quick to judge someone whose experiences are different from my own.

Because sometimes what a person needs most isn't another solution or an opinion.

It's someone willing to listen without making them feel ashamed of their struggles.

Why I Am Choosing to Speak About Abby

For much of her life, Abby lived with the lasting effects of childhood trauma, mental health challenges, and addiction.

As a family, we witnessed how difficult it could be to find appropriate care for someone whose needs were complex and interconnected.

We advocated for her, searched for answers, and experienced moments of profound helplessness.

I still carry questions about the care she received, the opportunities for intervention, and whether a more compassionate, trauma-informed approach might have changed her journey.

Her experience made me think deeply about how our healthcare systems respond to people living with both mental health conditions and substance use disorders, particularly when repeated crises and hospitalizations make conventional treatment pathways difficult to navigate.

These are questions I intend to keep exploring.

But speaking about Abby also means challenging the assumptions we make about people.

How often do we mistake laughter for happiness? How easily do we judge someone's choices without understanding the experiences that shaped them?

I often imagine a different future for Abby.

One where she found the peace she had spent so many years searching for. Where she could speak openly about what she had experienced without fear or shame.

Perhaps she would have used her creativity, humour, and compassion to help young people who felt as alone as she once did. Perhaps she could have become the person she needed when she was young.

I wish she had been given the time to discover that possibility.

I know that sharing her story cannot change what happened. But silence can leave too much misunderstood, particularly when it comes to trauma, mental health, and addiction.

I want to speak about these experiences because behind every complicated medical history is a human being with dreams, relationships, talents, and people who love them.

And because Abby's life was never defined by the circumstances of her death.

Still Her Big Sister

A year later, I am still learning what it means to live without Abby.

There are days when the sadness catches me completely off guard. Other days, I can look at a photograph or remember something ridiculous she did and find myself smiling.

I don't know whether the traffic lights on Bronson will ever stop reminding me of that terrible phone call, or whether I'll eventually be able to listen to Smooth Operator without crying.

Perhaps those memories will soften with time.

What I do know is that losing Abby hasn't changed the instinct I've carried since we were children.

I am still her big sister.

I still want to look out for her, worry about her, share things with her, and know that somewhere in this world she is doing something that makes her happy.

That instinct has nowhere to go now.

And perhaps that has been one of the hardest things to accept.

I think about all the things I wish I could tell her. How much has happened this past year. How often she comes up in conversation. How much I wish she were here to experience the ordinary, uneventful days with us.

I wish I could tell her that I am trying to find meaning in her story, even though I would give anything not to have to.

I cannot give Abby the years she should have had, or the future we imagined growing old together.

But I can continue living my life while carrying her memory into it.

I can speak about the difficult questions her experience has left behind. I can remember the woman who made us laugh until our stomachs hurt, who loved music and food and art, and whose wonderfully imperfect Tamil still makes me smile.

And I can be grateful that, for 39 years, I had the privilege of being her big sister.

Abby, you were my little sister long before grief became part of our story. And you will be my little sister for the rest of mine.

In loving memory of Abarna "Abby" Varaprasatham.

August 27, 1986 – November 6, 2025.