My brother died

I stopped blogging years ago—it was so long ago that I didn’t even realise I actually still had a blog. I’d assumed that I’d deleted it at some point, or at least made it private. But no, here it is, in all of its glory.

At first, I stopped blogging because my dad got cancer. That was, at the time, the hardest thing I had ever gone through. My words couldn’t do justice to the fear and uncertainty I was feeling, so I stopped using them at all. I began to get panic attacks; my world shrunk and I shrunk along with it. 

Then, with therapy and medication, things got easier. They got far easier still when dad went into complete remission (he has now been cancer-free for eight years).

I began writing again. Life was good again. And soon, life was so good there wasn’t any time for blogging. I was working full-time, studying full-time, and writing for a couple of different websites and magazines. I moved near the beach and began my PhD. I finally shook the anxiety that had plagued my life, and began to relax and trust that things would be okay. Because that’s what we do, when we’re privileged enough to have had life work out—we have the luxury of telling ourselves that things will be okay and clinging white-knuckled to that hope.

Then, on 22 October 2015, my little brother, Daniel, died. It was unexpected, a road accident, no one's fault. He was twenty-four and the best person I knew. He was an absolute whirlwind of a human in the best possible way; his voice was loud, his laugh booming, his empathy and compassion larger and deeper than anyone I've met since.

The moment I found out he was dead, life broke into Before and After. But it has taken me years to realise that I never actually moved into the After, but stayed stuck in the Space in Between.

I stopped writing. I stopped caring. I stopped living.

In the years that followed, I ran away to Amsterdam with the man who was my husband but wouldn't be three years later. I began drinking, sinking, spending days in bed. The world became dark and small; the rabbit hole of grief, the siren song of loss calling me further down into it.

Then I fled back to Canberra, alone, in 2017. I missed my family. I missed the sun. I missed who I used to be.

I promised my husband I would return to the Netherlands in a few months time and we both pretended that was true. In this way—slowly and gently—we untangled the life we had built together and began to lay down new foundations.

I got a divorce. There were many reasons for this, but I think it was in large part because I let my trauma shape me. I couldn’t carry the pain so I passed it to others, pain doubled through the transfer, breaking others because I was broken. 

Which is a shitty thing to do. 

I became, for a few years there, a not-very-nice person. I was so focused on myself and my loss that I couldn't see beyond it to the people around me. 

Daniel was incredible; a kind, funny, passionate kid who spent so much of his life trying to help others. I knew I should try and carry this on for him, in his honour, but I was so sad and I was so tired of feeling sad and I was so tired.

But being alone, albeit briefly, gave me the space to reassess and look at who I was and truly examine how far I had sunk from who I wanted to be.

So, I gathered myself back together and took a step toward the After.

I settled down with someone new and we joined our lives together in a way that I haven't done in the past, both myself and my ex too set in our ways to ever really integrate our lives (which may have been why the untangling was easier than either of us had expected). My new love and I cook together, clean together, travel together, play boardgames, eat inordinate amounts of takeaway, and spend way too much time discussing the colour and texture of baby poo.

Oh, and we had a baby, Oliver (not going to lie, I named him after my dog Ollie). He’s the most joy-filled, hilarious, active, amazing little guy and, to mangle the wise words of Dr Seuss, my heart grew three sizes the day he was born.

Life isn't what it was. There is a sadness to it that never goes away, not even for a second. There is always the background music of grief to my days, the steady hum of loss. But there is beauty over it, and through it, and there is joy still to be found in the moments.

I am writing a book at the moment; a collection of essays about grief—I am halfway through and can finally see the endpoint. And it has been cathartic in that all of the thoughts have been carefully untangled and laid out on the page. And it feels important, because when Daniel died I went looking for memoirs about sibling loss and there was so little out there, and I felt so alone in my grief because of that. And, for reasons I don't fully understand, writing this book is something I need to do.

But it has also taken its toll. Because I have been so sad for so long, and writing the story means reliving the story and it is goddam hard to do when I had only just started to learn how to grow around it.

It has been a really, really hard thing to write.

When I rediscovered I had a blog, I skimmed through a few of the posts and am shocked by how young, and how happy, I sound. It reminds me of when I started a writers' group a few years ago, and for the first few months only read my pieces about grief. But then I decided to share a short story I'd written just before Daniel died. After I finished reading it out, one of the guys paused, looked at me, and sadly shook his head.

I didn't know you then, but I have to say that I really miss happy Kaylia.

Reading my old blog posts, I have the same feeling he did. I miss happy Kaylia. But maybe I can find her again in this little space I carved out online, where things were good and life was easy.

That's not to say I won't write about grief, because knowing me I will, but I will write about other things too. The beauty in the everyday; the goodness in stranger-smiles and doggy-grins and a tiny spit-soaked hand reaching for yours and family in-jokes and the way raindrops sparkle on spider-web.

I have to say, writing about the goodness and meaning in life makes it bigger somehow, words the magnifying glass for joy if we focus on the right places. And, particularly given how difficult these last few years have been for everyone, I think we can all agree that this magnifying glass is more important than ever.

Whoever you are reading this, wherever you are, I hope that you're okay. And if you're not, please know that it's okay to not be okay. And that this stranger on the internet cares. And that you are doing an amazing job just being here on this planet and just being you.

Sending you all the love.

xx