My older brother, Ari, would have been 60 today. He was 53 when we
lost him, and I am now older than he will ever be.
I share this as a reminder that lives are finite, time is precious, and family, in any form, matters more than we might have imagined. It’s also a reminder that life can be dark for some of us, that it never seems to play out as we had planned, nor does it have a reset or a rewind button.
Yet we owe it to those around us - and to ourselves - to find whatever light we can amid that darkness, and shine it where it needs to be shone. Even if it hurts to do so.
Perhaps this is TMI, but we grew up in a family that never “got” mental health. Psychiatrists, psychologists, and other professionals were called “shrinks”. Relatives who had the misfortune of mental health afflictions were ridiculed - sometimes gently, sometimes not - and eventually shunned.
To this day, no one in my extended family discusses the how. As if it’s fallen into a dark hole, never to be revisited again. The stigma is deep-rooted, and I struggle with how to express myself amid its molasses-like hold.
I wonder if his life might have followed another path if our environment had been different. I wonder if I had known what lay ahead, if I could have done anything differently, or better. I wonder a lot of things, and the answers never seem to present themselves. I will ask those questions for the rest of my life.
I’m comforted that in his abbreviated life, he accomplished much, and left a trail of achievement for others to follow. And his memory is indeed, in classic Jewish lore, a blessing. And an example for us all to keep following.
Yet I’m still haunted. Those left behind are forever haunted by the not knowing.
If you do one thing today, please reach out. To someone, anyone who matters to you. Be the one. Be the light. End the stigma. Show those who matter to you that there is always another path.
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