This will be my final annual letter to you. It will not be the last time I write about you, mental health, suicide prevention, or any other subject encapsulated in this universe. It will just be the final time I sit down on the eve of your passing with the intention of searching for a lesson to be found in your sudden loss and sharing it with the world.

Instead, for a multitude of reasons, I want to give myself the freedom to explore, read, learn, and share with others. I want inspiration to come organically. I want to remove constraints forced upon me by the calendar. But please do not think I have forgotten about you or that I am somehow ready to move on. Without exception, you cross my mind on a daily basis, and I hope you always will. In the seven years since your passing, I have raised nearly $10,000 for suicide prevention in your honor. I have spoken publicly about you. I have written countless essays and poems about you. These things are my gift and I intend to use my gift in an attempt to save whoever I can.

In the last seven years, I have written about the following: the passing of time, sudden loss, guilt, mental health, the power of story, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, shame, and suffering. All of these essays have led me to this moment in time and, perhaps, the most powerful lesson of them all. 

“To love the thing, I wish most had not happened.” -Stephen Colbert

A couple of years ago, as part of an annual letter to you, I shared a clip of an interview between Anderson Cooper and Stephen Colbert. I will share it again below, but for some context, I will share some of the story behind the quote.

When Stephen Colbert was a child, his father and two of his brothers were killed in a plane crash. The interview itself was being held a couple of months after Anderson Cooper’s mother had passed. In Stephen’s loss, his faith, the art he consumed, and the relationships he has had in his life, he has arrived at a moment in time where he finds a sense of self giving birth to the quote I shared above.

It is this idea I would like to spend some time discussing for this year’s annual letter. Why? Because I have arrived at the same place in my journey.

Now, to be clear, I wish Lucas was still here. I wish it with every fiber of my being. I would shave years off my own life for Lucas to be still here. I can wish, but nothing will make it true. In my mind, this presents me with a choice to be carefully considered. Grief, guilt, and a lust for attention can consume me or I can reclaim a violent moment in time and find the gift. I have chosen to find the gift. I also know family and friends of Lucas who have not yet arrived at this moment. They are still consumed with anger, confusion, guilt, longing, or a thousand other feelings. I believe some may eventually arrive at a heightened state. Some may never get there. Their journey is theirs alone. I do not sit in judgment. I cast no stones. This is a long and winding road meant to be walked in our own time and in our own way. It is not a race and there is no prize for arriving before others.

Here is my journey.

On November 3rd, 2014, I hung up the phone in shock. I immediately began making plans to get from Seattle to Oklahoma. I remember crying briefly in a hallway at work. I remember calling friends. I remember packing my suitcase. I remember a restless mind keeping me from sleep that night.

Early, the next day, I was on a plane. I had a layover in Denver. When I got off the plane, the reality of the moment struck. I was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of people who were clueless about the trauma in my life. I was having the worst day of my life and they were carelessly rushing to a gate. Alone, I turned my phone back on and a flood of text messages and notifications came pouring in from across the country. I was overwhelmed. Arriving at my gate, I sat on the floor and bawled. I cried and cried. Not a soul checked on me.

When the tears subsided, I stepped on the plane and put myself to work. I broke out my laptop and wrote a eulogy and what would become the first in a series of annual letters.

Arriving in Oklahoma, my aunt and uncle picked me up from the airport. As we made our way to Frederick, we barely spoke. I was grateful for the silence. It allowed me to steady myself. No one would make this specific call to action, but I knew I needed to be the consoler, counselor, and voice of reason. I knew I would be walking into a situation where grief hung thick in the air like smog. I would do my best to comfort. Then, back in Seattle, away from ground zero, I would work through my unresolved trauma.

In the days that followed, I held my parents, brothers, and sister close. I distracted kids with made-up games in the yard. I delivered a eulogy. I lowered my brother into the ground. I made a promise. None of this would be in vain. I decompressed with some friends. I did my best to settle my parents into a new normal. I flew home and began working on myself.

In the years that followed, I have spent countless hours researching, writing, reading, and talking with others. I have thought deeply about the passing of time and been gifted a chance at healing. I have wrestled sudden loss and been gifted the realization of how lucky I am to have loved in the first place. I have wrapped my arms around my own guilt and been gifted an opportunity to be more intentional in the relationships that remain. I have preached mental health and been gifted the realization my voice has power. I have shared countless stories and been gifted a chance at quiet conversations I hope saved someone. I have discussed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and been gifted opportunities to discuss trigger points. I have fought shame and been gifted refusal to linger on things I cannot change. I have suffered and been gifted an opportunity to connect with neighbors, friends, family, and people I will never meet more deeply.  

Looking into the rearview mirror, I cannot regret these gifts. I wish with all my strength the classroom where I learned them was different, but I cannot refuse the power of the gifts.

Be good to each other,

Nathan 

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