81. Grief, Guilt, & Grace: My Return to My Best Friend’s Gravesite

The drive to the cemetery felt endless.  Each mile stretched out, heavy with good memories my best friend and I had shared over the years. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than they needed to, my knuckles pale against my skin.  A part of me had always known this moment would come, but I had convinced myself I wasn’t ready—maybe I never would be.  Returning to my best friend’s gravesite for the first time since his passing was something I had avoided for too long-seven months to be exact.  The weight of grief mixed with guilt made it easier to stay away, to pretend that not going meant I wasn’t really running.

He had passed away in May 2024, and now, in January 2025, I was finally facing what I had spent months avoiding. In the months since his death, my life had been a spiral, one I was only just beginning to climb out of.  Addiction had stolen so much from me, turning the world into a haze where loss and love blurred together in the fog of my using.  I had numbed myself against the pain of losing him, convincing myself that as long as I kept moving—kept using—I wouldn’t have to face it. Now, sober and forced to feel everything I had once tried to escape, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. His absence had never left me, and neither had the guilt of surviving when he hadn’t.

As I pulled into the cemetery, my heart pounded against my ribs.  I sat in the car, gripping the keys in my lap, staring out at the rows of headstones.  The air felt thick, pressing in on me as if the universe itself knew how heavy this moment was.  For minutes—maybe longer—I couldn’t make myself move. I had pictured this day so many times, rehearsed what I would say, how I would stand before his grave and somehow make things right.  Now that I was here, nothing felt right at all.

Finally, I forced myself out of the car.  My legs felt unsteady beneath me as I walked toward the spot I had avoided for so long.  The winter wind bit at my skin, the leaves rustling softly around me.  And then, there it was—his name carved into a metal plate, the finality of it stealing the air from my lungs. I had imagined this moment for months, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of standing there, sober, with nothing but my raw emotions to carry me through.

For a long time, I couldn’t speak.  I traced the letters of his name with my fingers, feeling the coldness of the plate beneath my touch.  My mind flooded with memories—his laughter, our late-night talks, and the shenanigans we got into as kids.  He had been my brother in every way that mattered, the one person who had always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking.  The words felt hollow, inadequate.  Sorry wasn’t enough to undo the years of self-destruction, the times I had chosen a pill or a bottle over facing this loss.  It wasn’t enough to erase the nights I had drowned my grief in substances, convincing myself it was easier that way.  But “I’m sorry,” was all I had at that very moment.

Tears burned my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks.  I let them fall.  For the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to fight it.  I let myself feel every ounce of the pain I had been running from.  I let it crash over me like a wave I knew I couldn’t outrun.  At that moment, something shifted.

I wasn’t just mourning him—I was mourning the person I had been, the years I had lost to addiction, the version of myself he had loved and believed in.  I had spent so long punishing myself for surviving, convincing myself that I wasn’t worthy of healing, of happiness, of a second chance but, standing there, I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to believe before: He wouldn’t have wanted that for me.  He had always wanted more for me.  He had seen something in me even when I couldn’t see it myself.  I truly believe that if he were here, he wouldn’t be telling me to drown in guilt—he would be telling me to live. To fight.  To keep going.

I took a deep breath, wiping my eyes.  The wind had died down, the air around me still and quiet.  I knelt beside his grave, tracing the words one last time before I finally found the courage to say what I had really come here to say.

“I’m gonna be okay.”

It wasn’t a promise, not in the way I used to make them.  It wasn’t a desperate vow that I would break the moment things got too hard.  It was a truth I was finally ready to accept.  I was still here. Still fighting. And that had to mean something.  As I stood up, I felt lighter.  The pain was still there, the grief still present, but it no longer felt like it was crushing me.  Instead, it felt like something I could carry—not as a burden, but as a part of me.  It was a reminder of the love we had shared, the memories that were mine to keep.

Walking back to my car, I didn’t feel like I was running away anymore.  I had faced what I had feared for so long, and somehow, I had survived it.  More than that, I had found something I hadn’t expected—peace.  As I started the engine, I glanced back one last time.  The setting sun cast a golden light over the cemetery, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t saying goodbye.  I was saying, “See you later.”  As I drove away, I knew I would keep going—not just for me, but for him.  He had believed in me and now, finally, I was learning to believe in myself, too.

I.L.M.O.C.G. <3