It's been 2 years...

It has been 2 years since my brother was killed by an underage drunk driver. We have learned so much over the last 2 years. We have tried to live our lives like he would want us to. We have become more empathetic and sympathetic with people. We have learned that grief comes in waves. Grief moves like a circle. It comes and goes but each time, the circle gets bigger and bigger and takes longer to go around, but it always comes back. We have learned compassion and forgiveness for the drunk driver. We miss Stephen terribly, but we have made it our family's mission to tell those we meet about drunk driving and what it does to people's lives.

I have had people contact me through this blog, and tell me how helpful it has been to them. Most have been sisters who have lost brothers. I've also had some very rude comments left, but I have to understand that they are probably still in the "anger" stage of grief. I feel I have let God lead me in my journey through grief and recovery.

Around 14 months after Stephen died, I realized the weight I was carrying around. I was aging myself, alienating myself from my family. I knew I had to give my worry, anxiety, anger, sadness, my entire life, over to God and let Him hold the reigns. I couldn't do it anymore. Ever since that day, a weight has been lifted. I have found a "new normal," and I am able to live my life, my new life, without Stephen.

I hope that others can find joy in the sadness and compassion and forgiveness where there's anger. Life is so much better if you can let all that go and let God do what he wants done.

Anger doesn't bring your loved one back. Nor does crying or lying around and moping. I have done all of those things and Stephen's still gone. I feel I have come a long way. I don't want to sound callous or cold, and like I don't miss Stephen. I do. And when I really sit down and say to myself "he's gone and he's not coming back," it tears me up inside. But I can't do that all the time. Sometimes, I forget he's gone. There are things that the kids will do, or stuff I see that I want to pick up the phone and call him. Then it hits me. I've adjusted to him not being here. I know I'll see him again. And this life will seem so small by the time that happens.