Recently, my daughter Kelly said something that hollowed out the air around us:
“My presence will never be as big as his absence.”

She was speaking about her brother, Tom. And in some ways, she wasn’t wrong. His absence is vast. It’s a presence in and of itself—quiet, heavy, and unrelenting. It takes up space in every memory, every milestone he’ll never reach, every conversation that begins with “he used to…”

But his absence, as painful and loud as it is, has also been my teacher. And so was his life.

Tom and I shared a kind of spiritual shorthand. From the moment he was born, I felt like I knew him on a level beyond this lifetime. It’s why I believe his soul chose mine—to walk this journey together, to grow and break and heal in ways I never could have imagined. He was both light and dark, silly and solemn, wildly curious and deeply introspective. He never compromised who he was to fit in. I’m still not sure if he couldn’t or wouldn’t conform—but I admire him either way.

Tom saw the world differently—and helped me see it differently, too. A walk or drive with him was like a guided meditation on sunlight through trees, sidewalk patterns, urban blight, architectural quirks, and how everything connects. He never had to tell me he was teaching me. I just knew.

And now, in his absence, I am still learning.

I’ve learned that the depth of his soul was greater than I ever understood while he was here. That he held multitudes, and he was still discovering who he was becoming. I’ve learned that my grief is not just about losing him—but about becoming someone new in the process. Someone more layered, more attuned, more spiritually aware. It’s like I’ve been handed a stronger microscope through which I now see everything: more detail, more nuance, more meaning.

I’ve learned that grief can be an invitation, a teacher, a path, because I know now that I am more capable than I ever realized—capable of breaking, healing, becoming more, and surviving the unthinkable. And, I’ve let go of so much: of expectations, illusions, grudges and the false belief that time and space are on our side.

So, I’ve learned to seize the day—not in the “climb a mountain” kind of way, but in the “be gentle with yourself and look for joy” kind of way.

Even in his absence, Tom is with me in ways that are sublime and so essentially him—when I notice how sunlight filters through the trees, or the symmetry of a city grid, the intrigue of an abandoned building (“a bando”, he called them) or the ornate detail on the corner of an old building. His mind was (there’s that word again… “was…”) always alert to beauty, order, and wonder in the seemingly ordinary. I will never again walk through the world without carrying his nerdy delight in the structure of things. He imprinted that lens on me, and I carry it with reverence. It’s one of the ways I know he’s still here—teaching me how to see.

He’s here. Guiding me still. Reminding me of who I am and who I’m becoming. Reminding me that love doesn’t end. It transcends and transforms.