Who Knew Grief Could Move Me Forward

I used to think love was the thing that changed a life most dramatically. Then I learned grief can do the same.

In August 2023, I lost my closest friend, Levi, to suicide. I still struggle with the word “lost,” as if he were misplaced, as if there were some road I could retrace, some overlooked spot where he is hiding out, some magic words that would bring him back into existence.

Grief teaches lessons you never asked to learn. It teaches you how final silence can be. It teaches you that “someday” is not a plan. It teaches you that the things you assume you will have time to say, fix, try, risk, or understand can vanish without warning.

That is the part I keep returning to now, especially as I prepare to leave for California: you don't always get a second chance.

I met Levi when I was 16, through a friend who had already decided he was going to be hers. That plan backfired almost immediately and frankly, quite hilariously. Levi showed more interest in me than in her, and he and I clicked in a way that was effortless and joyful.

We could talk about anything. He made me laugh in the unguarded way only certain people can. We could be goofy together (ask me about "Crash Bandicoot"), but we could also talk about the things most people kept hidden. The private fears, half-formed dreams, deeply held beliefs, and the tender, embarrassing truths of being young and wanting more than our small town could offer.

The trust between us was almost instant. Yet, I was always cautious.

Levi was extroverted, magnetic, and confident enough to draw a crowd anywhere (while I was a shy, quiet, and well, just weird). This meant he had a reputation that was equal parts charm and warning label, and whether it was earned or exaggerated (as teenage reputations often are), he was known for collecting girls like trophies.

As much as I enjoyed spending time with him, I didn't want to become one of "Levi’s girls." My reputation was more important than the risk, and that felt like self-protection. Maybe it was. But I think, looking back, that it was mostly fear. I mean, let's be real here - some choices are not as clean as we want them to be.

For years, Levi and I kept weaving back into one another’s lives. After a certain point, it became harder to see each other in person, but we never really disappeared. Weeks could pass. Sometimes months. Then one of us would reach out, and the conversation was picked up, like no time had passed.

We could always pick up where we left off. I took that for granted.

That is the trick grief plays. It takes all the unfinished things and makes them permanent. The conversation you meant to have. The apology you postponed. The confession you softened into a joke. The tenderness you kept at arm’s length because you assumed there would be another chance to be braver.

But sometimes there isn't another chance. Sometimes the window closes. Sometimes the person is gone.

I try not to hold regrets, but I do regret the times I let fear make decisions for me. I regret the moments I mistook caution for wisdom when it was really self-protection in a mask. I regret waiting for proof that something would work before I was willing to try. Despite my impulsive nature, I am by no means a natural risk taker. (Yes, I am aware of the contradiction, thanks for asking and go read the previous post...)

Losing Levi changed my life, and saying so feels cliche at times, but grief doesn't always announce the ways it redirects you. Sometimes it alters your choices quietly. It changes what you tolerate, what you confess, what you no longer postpone. It changes the urgency with which you love the people who are still here.

And it changes the way you look at opportunity. California is an opportunity.

It is also a risk. A move without a guarantee. A door I am choosing to walk through, perfectly aware that I don't have a fucking clue as to what waits on the other side.

THAT is terrifying, but it's also the point.

For most of my life, I have chosen caution. I have wanted to know the ending before I agreed to begin. I have lived in the constant tension between freedom and fear.

But grief has taught me that regret does not only come from what goes wrong. Sometimes regret comes from what we never allow to happen at all. Sometimes it comes from the choices we make because they feel easier to explain, easier to defend, easier to survive in the moment.

But ease is not the same as peace. And safety, when chosen too often at the expense of truth, can become its own slow undoing.

That does not mean every open door deserves to be walked through. Discernment still matters. Boundaries still matter. Wisdom still matters.

So does recognizing when fear is disguising itself as logic.

All of this to say that I am taking Levi with me to California. His memory already lives within me, but recently, I made his mark on my life more visible. His football number is now tattooed on my left wrist and it reminds me of who he was: funny, complicated, protective, magnetic, flawed, and beloved.

Levi taught me many things over the years, and now grief has taught me many things since his death. But this is the lesson I am carrying now: time is not promised.

Waiting can become its own kind of loss. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is step forward while the possibility is still in front of you.