“Writing may not fix grief, but it may have given me the most important tool I have to live with it: a means to express the agony I’ve carried for fifteen years and a tribe of fierce and beautiful souls that not only honor that expression, but who also aren’t afraid of it. They aren’t afraid of it. By extension, they aren’t afraid of me. Writing can’t fix what happened. It can’t undo what was done, rewrite history, or bring back my dead brother. It doesn’t erase the pain, dull the grief, or make any of it suddenly “OK.” Writing didn’t fix me. It let me begin to honor myself, my
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