Read more: Taking loss by its hand, letting it know where it stands

One of the hardest parts about navigating your twenties is this line we walk between finding ourselves, and losing everything we once were.

Often, it is metaphorical: we shed the layers, emotions, and people we used to be. Sometimes, this is literal — we lose pounds, baby faces, and people.

People — we lose all sorts of them. We outgrow friends, and romances (if we can quantify romance in our twenties), and cousins. But the most profound losses are reapings of those closest to us: the young loss of siblings and parents.

We often allow loss to consume us; engulf us, until all we know is that overwhelming ache of all that we were, of the people we defined ourselves as. We become loss.

But that is not who we are. Not really.

I’m going to tell you an abridged story of who I am, so you can see where I’m headed. I grew up a caretaker, in a family where I was the only non-disabled family member. It wasn’t always this way. Once, my father and I led the charge. But he, too, became ill — far too young, far too soon — and the responsibility to care for my family fell on me.

I don’t say this from a place of Martyrdom — my parents raised me well. I was always loved, cared for. But a large part of my identity was embroiled in what I could give other people; rather than what I could receive, be. I started life thinking love was all giving — no matter the toll, or stakes.

Specifically, my sister and I were close. She was diagnosed with Muscular dystrophy at age 3. I became her protector; she became my sand. I say sand, not rock, because living with Katie –my sister — was like sinking into the sand: she was warmth, and home, but always sliding through my fingers on time we both knew was borrowed, but chose to ignore. I provided her physical, emotional and mental care. I advocated for her in school, for her accommodations. I even advocated for her with her friends. Being Katie’s sister became my identity. To that, it became expected. My parents expected I would always be there for her, and I never refuted it. If anything, I embraced it.

This became particularly problematic the day she passed. She was 21. I was in law school at the time, and I had already mapped out a life where it would be Katie and I. I was searching for places we could live in DC, and schools with inclusive programs. It was going to be us, no matter what.

I hadn’t thought of what life would look like without Katie. Never thought I needed to. Although, many years ago, she was given a life “deadline” of 18, we had surpassed the mark. Her condition was stable. We were stable. Everything was fine.Until it wasn’t.

Let’s be real: the twenties are a whirlwind of identity crisis. You change your mind on your path, career with the tenacity of a twister, moving from place to place — idea to idea — until you disappear into the comfort of something. Something can be a place, or a person, or a job. But it is something that — at least temporarily — brings us pause.

That identity crisis is exacerbated by loss. My identity had become so inexplicably woven into being Katie’s sister, that I didn’t know who I was, or where I would go. The question became: if I wasn’t Katie’s sister, then who was I?

The answer? Who I was always meant to be. Being Katie’s sister was an integral part of my story. But it was not the story. And that is where loss becomes so tricky: we become our people, our family, our sisters. Maybe this family is one that is atypical from the norm — less biological, more found — but it still defines us, roots us. We are an intricate collection of every past version of ourselves.

I fought that revelation for a long time. Embraced this painful purgatory of penance. I would always be Katie’s sister, but I was not only Katie’s sister. No more than someone else defines themself as someone’s daughter, or brother. A part of me would always be a past version of myself. The next step was walking with that self, and showing it what it could be.

I took Katie’s loss and fought it. I journaled, and cried, and bucked against every emotion that drifted across my mind. Slowly, more friendships began to flake away. I ran to the gym, and boxing classes. I was shifting like sand — only, it was less of an hour glass of ticking time, and more of a revelation. Of something — someone — new.

In this process I discovered that the more I fought loss — condemned it, railed against it — the more it found me. Ignoring crumbling friendships, and not setting boundaries with my parents wasn’t working. Loss was becoming me; it was me. Then, I lost my father a year later. Shortly after that, my mother was hospitalized, resuscitated, and ultimately on a ventilator for months.

Loss was all I was, I thought. It had become me; engulfed me.

But that is not the truth.

The truth of loss can never be mistaken: it is a part of us. I would not have written this — found law school, or advocacy, or anything else I love — without it. But it is not who we are.

Life became bearable when I saw loss like a friend. An unruly, gloomy one — usually the one we prefer to have a 1-hour cap on, but nevertheless, get stuck with them at a days-long event. I took loss by the hand, sat with it. I told it what I thought about it — in no uncertain terms — but that I understood it.

“But you are not me,” I said, to loss.

It gave a solemn, limp smile.

“Finally you get it.”

The regrettable conclusion to this is that I cannot provide solid advice on getting you past grief.

Because the reality of it all? You won’t. It gets folded into who you are. But I can say that no matter the magnitude of your loss, you are not it. Not ever, not for a moment.

Take your grief by the hand. Sit with it.

But never let it become you.