My Twin Sister Died 7 Years Ago. I Didn't Expect My Grief To Change Like This — But It Did.
Seven years gone feels like both a blink and forever... but is neither. It is this strange middle ground where the grief isn’t new, and it also isn’t long, so it sort of settles in, just beneath the surface.
My identical twin sister died almost seven years ago, just hours after she gave birth to a beautiful, healthy son. Losing Jenny, at age 37, was nothing she or I had prepared for, in the way that none of us want to imagine we will one day (or already do) live without someone we love most.
What do you do when the person who is your first call when anything happens, is the one person you can’t call when the worst does?
But darn those grief experts. Everything I read years ago assured that as time passes you grow around your grief, and it starts to feel less profound. At the time, I whole-heartedly rejected this sentiment because it took away from missing her. In absolutely no way would I ever feel any differently than I did the day Jenny died.
And yet, I do.
The acuteness and shock of her death has worn off. That part is true. The immediate deluge of people offering their love and support, who show up when you initially have a loss, have mostly retreated to their own lives. And that’s OK. Her death is no longer recent. It didn’t just happen. It’s not on the tip of my tongue, or anyone else’s, when I run into them at Starbucks. I don’t cry every time I tell her story. Honestly, her name comes up less often around the dinner table. If you don’t know me well, you may not even know what happened.
But it happened. She is on my mind as much as always, even if I don’t speak it out loud. The impact she made on all who knew her remains and is even more treasured. The heartache hasn’t diminished at all, but it is true that I have learned to live with this complicated loss and carry it with me as I carry on. I know there are so many of us existing in this middle place of missing, all while keeping up on the laundry — living our lives well in a way that may even appear like we’ve moved on.
Over seven years, of course, Jenny has missed so many huge milestones and moments in her immediate world and beyond — moments that she would have cheered for, been dismayed by, been hopeful about, laughed along with, learned from, been emotional about or just been there for. There for it all. It’s hard to reconcile all the life her loved ones are living in her absence. It’s even harder sometimes to imagine all the things that are yet to be without her.
It is the smaller, daily stuff though that really gets me. I wish she could see how my daughter’s fluffy ponytail looks just like hers did while running. She needs to know that the “Real Housewives” now has a Salt Lake City franchise, and we must discuss. Her son is an exceptional artist. I wear distance glasses now and it’s annoying. The Chicks came out with an awesome album last year she would love. My garden is blooming and I want to show off my flowers. Mom and Dad miss her terribly. There are countless books and podcasts to share. I eat buttered popcorn in her honor often and finally discovered the perfect moisturizer she needs to try. Pop culture trends are changing, but so much hasn’t. Crispy bacon is still the most delicious food.
I can look in a mirror and see traces of Jenny. The years since her death haven’t yet aged me enough for her to be unrecognizable in my reflection. I dread 10 years from now, and 20, and beyond. She is ageless. I am not. I will suddenly be my older self, and alone with that. I won’t have a picture of us where we look identical and everyone can see who we are together. She’ll be my twin from a previous decade, and I’ll have more wrinkles.
I am certain there is no number of years that will pass when I will not want her here with me, when my life is just as good without her as it would be with her here. We had grand plans of what growing old together would look like and I’ll forever be sad about what won’t be. But I’ve also proven, despite grief and sometimes even my best efforts, that I can live without the person I never thought I could or wanted to live without. That itself is its own painful realization. A grief that acknowledges we are resilient.
In the discomfort of accepting a new reality post trauma, after some time has passed, possibility and hope emerges.
In these last seven years I have continued to build a wonderful and fulfilling life with my family, who I adore. I am delighted by watching my kids grow, and binge-watching Netflix is still fun. My career challenges me. My big adventures have been amazing, too. I have made incredible newer friendships and they’ll never even know Jenny or how we were together. Our old friends are still as dear as ever. I laugh a lot because I love to, and I genuinely believe that life is mostly something to smile about.
In this middle ground of loss, life carries on in spite of grief — and in many ways, because of it. It has been seven years since her death, but it hasn’t been as long as it’s going to be. One day it will be 10 years. 20 years. And more and more.
I am sure this grief will eventually shape shift again as time goes on in ways I don’t yet understand, but its core remains. Jenny is gone. And life is good, grief and all.
Michele Lago is a tenured sports marketing and operations professional. Inspired by her sister, who was an accomplished writer, she is now an author and speaker on the subjects of grief, sibling loss, organ donation and maternal health. Being a twin is Michele’s most treasured identity and she is also a proud wife and mother of two.
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