Grief & Growth: One Year Without My Brother

One year.

I keep staring at those two words wondering how that's even possible.

One year since my best friend knocked on my door with her phone in hand, my mother on the other end.
One year since the world split into a before and after.
One year since my brother, Gavin, took his last breath.

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Some days it feels like yesterday.

Some days it feels like I've lived ten lifetimes since then.

If you had asked me a year ago where I'd be today, I would've told you nowhere.

Because grief has a funny way of convincing you that life stops.

That the sun won't rise.
That you'll never laugh again.
That you'll never be excited about anything ever again.
That you'll never be whole again.

And maybe some of that is true.

A piece of me left with Gavin that day.

A piece of my parents left with him too.

The version of our family that existed for 27 years disappeared forever.

But what nobody tells you about grief is that life keeps happening anyway.

Not because you're ready.

Not because you want it to.

But because it does.

Over the last year, I've cried in grocery stores, parking lots, airplanes, work bathrooms, and at red lights. I've laughed so hard my stomach hurt and then felt guilty for laughing. I've listened to voicemails. I've reread texts. I've searched for signs. I've looked for him in cardinals, sunsets, songs, strangers, and dreams.

I've learned grief isn't linear.

It's not stages.

It's not something you conquer.

It's something you learn to walk beside.

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Some days grief is a tsunami.

Some days it's a quiet companion sitting in the passenger seat.

But it's always there.

The biggest surprise of this year has been discovering that grief and growth can exist at the same time.

I didn't think they could.

I thought I had to choose.

Either I was grieving my brother or I was moving forward.

Either I was honoring him or I was living my life.

What I've learned is that both can be true.

This year I stepped into the role of General Manager of the first PopUp Bagels in Chicago.

There are days I still walk into that shop and think, "How did I get here?"

Not because I'm not capable.

But because there was a version of me sitting on the floor a year ago convinced she'd never feel ambitious again.

Convinced she'd never care about work again.

Convinced she'd never be excited about building something again.

And yet somehow here I am.

Leading a team.

Building a business.

Creating community.

Making mistakes.

Learning every day.

Showing up.

Not perfectly.

Just consistently.

There were mornings when I walked into work after crying the entire drive there.

There were days I smiled for guests while my heart was breaking.

There were moments I wanted to quit everything and hide from the world.

But I kept going.

Not because I'm strong.

Because honestly, I don't always feel strong.

I kept going because Gavin doesn't get to.

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And if I'm lucky enough to still be here, then I owe it to him to live.

Really live.

Not someday.

Now.

Recently, one of my best friends lost her sister.

And watching her begin this journey has brought me right back to the beginning of mine.

I see the shock.

The confusion.

The exhaustion.

The disbelief.

The feeling that everyone else's world somehow kept spinning while yours completely stopped.

I wish I could spare her from all of it.

I wish I could tell her there's a shortcut.

A way around the pain.

A secret formula.

But there isn't.

The only way through grief is through it.

What I can tell her is this:

One day you'll laugh again.

Not because you forgot.

Because you remembered how to live.

One day you'll talk about them and smile before you cry.

One day you'll realize you've carried them with you into every room you've entered.

One day you'll discover that love doesn't end when a life does.

And one day you'll look in the mirror and realize grief changed you.

Not into someone worse.

Into someone deeper.

Softer.

More compassionate.

More present.

More aware that life is both incredibly beautiful and heartbreakingly fragile.

A year ago I thought grief was the end of my story.

Now I know it was the beginning of a chapter I never wanted but desperately needed.

Because losing Gavin taught me how precious every ordinary moment is.

The random phone calls.

The family dinners.

The inside jokes.

The "thinking of you" texts.

The people who show up.

The people who stay.

The people who love you through the ugliest parts of healing.

If you're reading this and you're grieving someone, I want you to know something.

You don't have to be okay.

You don't have to be strong.

You don't have to rush.

You don't have to have the answers.

Just keep going.

One day.

One hour.

One breath at a time.

And if you're lucky enough to have the people you love still here, call them.

Text them.

Hug them longer.

Tell them the thing.

Take the photo.

Make the memory.

Because none of us are promised tomorrow.

One year later, I still miss my brother every single day.

I still wish I could call him.

I still wish he were here.

I probably always will.

But I've learned something beautiful this year.

Grief is just love with nowhere to go.

So I carry it.

Proudly.

Because it means Gavin mattered.

Because he still matters.

Because he always will.

Love you forever, G-Man.

Keep saving me a seat.

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Sami Siegel is a hospitality leader, storyteller, and mental health advocate based in Chicago. After losing her younger brother, Gavin, in 2025, she began sharing her experiences with grief, healing, and hope in the belief that vulnerability has the power to make people feel a little less alone.