When I was young, I would always be writing stories. They were weird and wonderful stories and not the kind that I would be able to imagine and recreate now as an adult.

20 or so years later, I am writing again. But this time, I am not writing stories. I am writing to make sense of one of the deepest losses I will experience in this one beautiful yet aching life. I am writing because I have found that words out loud can never convey the love lost and the love that remains. My written words may not attain this pinnacle either, but they are my therapy and comfort, my most intimate connection to my sister and to all that we shared. 

A contemplated life is the witness to my journey, the one in which I am learning how to find my way when everything falls apart, by allowing there to be room for both grief and for healing. It is my search for meaning and for purpose, and the connecting of my dots, amongst all the beauty that still remains. But this is, above all, a testament to everything that a heart can feel, and to the infinity of love that can never be broken.