January was one of the hardest months I have seen in quite some time. It was the first month following the loss of my best friend, Abi, in the physical world anyway. The days blurred together and I was never fully anywhere. All of a sudden I found myself in early June and it has surprisingly felt similar, having just passed the six month marker. When I realized six months passed to the exact day, I was surprised that I cried myself to sleep. It felt just as fresh as the day she died.

To go back a couple of years, I spent the last two away from most of my world. I chose to spend as much time as possible with Abi, who was diagnosed in February 2017 with Stage IV Neuroendocrine cancer. That can still knock the wind out of anyone to say or read.

Within the last two years, having no concept of how much ‘time’ we had or didn’t have, we spent much of our energy being as intentional as possible; there was an inherent feeling among us that we were limited on time. And for those who don’t know me, don’t know Abi, or know us both but don’t know much about our friendship, the best way I can explain it with brevity is to share the gift she gave me in her final month of life.

Abi created a day just for me.

You can read about it on Two Flounders, the blog she and her father created together. She titled it ‘Kylie Day’, and I woke on November 7, 2018 to a letter titled “Dear Kylie“. With little energy during her ‘recovery’ following an undeniably difficult surgery, she still wanted to give me that gift, with the support of her mother and some generous, talented humans. Following that day, I wrote my own reflection to share with her: “Milestones on our Own Timeline.” It was an attempt to convey the experience through my eyes to Abi. I wanted her to know how perfect it was. How seen I truly felt. How loved. Loving others with intention is a gift, and it was Abi’s forte.

It’s not November anymore, and I’m reminded that grief is rocky.

In fact, it’s boulders piled on boulders, piled on more boulders, all blocking a tiny opening to the exit of a deep, bottomless cave. It seems impossible to climb and feels like there’s no end in sight.

And with grief comes processing, or trying. In my best attempts at processing, I’ve found it nearly impossible to do so, and for anyone to understand my grief fully. It struck me as odd for so long because I know a lot of humans: humans who have navigated the pain of sudden, unexpected death; humans who have navigated the tortuous, slow loss from cancer and other illnesses; humans who have lost parents, grandparents, children, siblings, family members, partners, childhood friends, teachers, co-workers.

However, I actually do not know a lot of humans who have lost their best friend.

So while I have come across the most empathetic humans in the world, I wonder who knows the hollows of my heart, in this way, to the core.

Loss is consuming, as is grief. I lost myself and was surprised how little I cared to find her for a bit. I continued to show up to therapy knowing it was what I should do, what I needed, and deep down a place where the dark parts of my soul could find some safety in being. It was the place, after all, I once found myself balled up on the floor, hysterically sobbing, when asked what my body would look like if it reflected my emotions.

But there are so many questions left unanswered with navigating a deep loss. I grapple the most with the question: “How long is it appropriate to wear my grief so blatantly on my sleeve?”

I struggle with wandering around a world where I do not find many people to understand my type of loss and grief, but feel extremely loved and supported all in one.

My best friend is gone.

On my journey of “healing” or something like it, I struggle to find voices that relate to mine, or stories that normalize how I feel. I poured through books over the last two years on death, cancer, and dying, and there does seem to be an endless supply of grief books. A lot of them were comforting in a way, but none of them felt true to me. Many are steeped in religion, which I understand and appreciate to be a powerful vehicle for some, however, that particular platform did not resonate best with me.

While Abi was sick, I actually found the most comfort in reading When Breath Becomes Air, per her own recommendation. This book was written by an individual who was dying himself, and that was perspective I deeply sought after as part of Abi’s support network. Then, for my 26th birthday, Abi gifted me a new copy of Tuesdays with Morrie. Even though I had actually read it multiple times in my life, having it come from her during the first six months of her diagnosis hit me differently. And it was one of the only pieces that wasn’t about a married couple navigating death and dying in relation to cancer. Even those are hit or miss.

A lot of reads have this line of optimism that I discovered I did not want most of the time. That sounds dark, but it was true. Holistically, I lived much of my life with optimism. However there was something about this type of pain that I knew was meant to be felt in the most raw way. I think Abi referred those painfully good or painfully challenging, authentic feelings as “raw nerve moments.”

I believed that the level of pain I allowed myself to feel in my heart and soul represented the magnitude of slowly losing my best friend to cancer, and how important she is and will always be. Her husband, who’s experience I can’t pretend to know, validates this for me more than anyone else. I am thankful for that, and for him.

As I continued searching for voices that understood me, the closest book that I resonated with following Abi’s death was No Happy Endings: A Memoir by Nora McInery. It was one of the first audiobooks I listened to in a long time, and I highly recommend you hear her tell her story yourself. Her personality adds to the realness of pain and grief. She has a podcast, Terrible Thanks for Asking, and as it sounds, I finally was listening to someone who just was where she was, unapologetically. She lived a multidimensional life where she carried some of her pain pretty openly as part of her whole self.

I did not have a plan. I did not know what was next. But I did feel okay to just feel.

There were so many reminders drowning me. For the first time in two years I barely had anything on my calendar. I always had my next visit to Abi on my calendar.

Suddenly, I grew to loathe my hollow Google calendar.

At the end of January, I was forced to reengage with it so that I could add an upcoming wedding to June. I had not been to June 2019 in quite some time, though my heart dropped through the floor beneath my feet when I saw that I had been there once before. Highlighted in purple was an event waiting for me to discover it on June 10. For context, that is the day Abi and I deemed our friendship anniversary eleven years ago. It was the day she got into a terrible car accident just before she graduated from high school, which led to a deepening in our own friendship after spending her summer of recovery together. It’s a story for another time, but our story nonetheless.

There on our anniversary I saw the title, “Business Plan Check In Discussion 🙂 🙂 🙂.”

Three smiley faces just eyeing me.

I mustered up the strength to drag the mouse pad slowly to the description. I was the one who sent the invitation to Abi. I should have known that from the three smiley faces.

The description read:

“This is not a drill. Three years ago on this day (jk it was June 20 but whatever…) we discussed our plans for the CRAFT CAFE. Live on, dreams!
PS I hope we’re rich and maybe you have a kid?
PSS (or is it PPS?) Happy anniversary!”

Three years ago.

Before.

My stomach was being tortured with the dropping feeling of a roller coaster that never ended. How is it possible to keep falling? “Maybe you have a kid?” Everything went blurry as my eyes filled with tears and I could feel a constant stream down both of my cheeks. We had no idea this was a possible reality for three years from that innocent, enthusiastic, early 20’s ideation phone call of our limitless future.

I’d like to imagine we all have those people in our lives we could see ourselves starting a business with when the time is right. Someone who compliments you in the best ways, challenges you comfortably, and adds gas to the fire of your creativity.

Abi was that person for me.

I really had to think about what was happening three years ago to center myself.

Slowly I began to remember. It was when Abi was gearing up for her MBA program and we had weekly check in phone calls where we found ourselves talking about the business we would open one day. We needed a reasonable amount of time before checking in, enough to allow her to finish her degree, and for me to relocate back to Virginia per her wishes. The location of the event even read “…hopefully in Virginia.” It also looks extra morbid because of the red ‘x’ next to her name, which I believe was the result of her deleting one of her Google calendar pages over the last year.

I did find my way back to Virginia in that time, just like we hoped. The rest, I imagine, is still in progress. I thought deeply about the endless ideas we had for our business.

As Abi was dying, many people reached out to me to tell me how much they appreciated our friendship. A common reflection I heard was either that folks had a best friend they could not fathom living without, or they didn’t have anyone in their life in this way and they thought reading about us and seeing us as best friends was something so rare and special.

When I think back to ‘Kylie Day’ and what it represented, the intentionality and the unwavering understanding of another soul, I realized it inspired the relaunch and expansion of my creative platform. I want the world to know what it means to love your humans and how to do it better.

I do not deny that my bond with Abi is special. But when so many folks shared that they felt it was so unattainable, I knew there were more stories of intentional friendship like ours that needed to be shared.

I guess this isn’t quite the “Craft Cafe”, or at least yet I will say, but I wanted to keep going. Abi winks at me constantly, and especially when I’m hiding. Sometimes it’s while I’m burying myself at work, or when I’m giving myself some space from the people who will ask me how I’m doing and really want to know. Receiving that care is actually harder than it seems.

I have spurts where I feel motivated to keep trucking.

I have angry days.

I have days where I don’t think or feel much.

I have better days.

Sometimes I sit at my window and watch the trees blow in the wind. On occasion, they shake gently, like a small toddler waving at their parents for the first time. Other times the wind blows so hard the whole tree sways from side to side like a dramatic hug between two friends who have been apart for too long.

Today, I tune back in to what I’m doing and I hear Fleet Foxes, mid “Helplessness Blues.” In between strums on the guitar, I talk to Abi for just a moment. I mention our big plans.

I want to channel this loss, this hole in my heart, these days without you… into creative healing. I want to get better, and I want to do something beautiful for me and for you.

And I need you to be part of it, of me, always.

Whenever I make something for another human, I spend time with them in a way. If I’m creating a card, I think about what symbolizes their spirit to me, through colors, patterns, images, and designs. Are they free-flowing? Are they warm like the sun? Do they glitter in the sunlight? And slowly, I make. And I write. And I wrap. I spend so much time loving and reflecting on this human that I care for so deeply. I know that we had this in common, and I know it will inform what’s next for this business of ours.

For now I hope this report is sufficient for our three year business plan check in, Ab. I think June 10th can remain a strong anchor for us moving forward, especially in my own healing. Maybe I’ll even add something to the calendar. I have some ideas I think you’ll love and some I know you’d hate.

I’ll report back soon.

To the readers that are here with me on day one:

At this moment, I am excited to share this first phase of our project together. You are the first to be part of the expansion of Better by the Letter: a platform for storytelling, creative projects, and taking a deeper look at relationships through my lens. I hope you’ll join me in my new adventure to spread the joy of intentional relationships, made better with love, in honor of my best friend.  

Happy anniversary, Soulmatch.