If that wasn’t vulnerable I’m not sure what is. Extremely delicate. Profoundly heart pounding. Thank you for sharing such a sensitive subject and making it such a deep and heartfelt but harrowing post. I feel the emptiness you survived.
You know, Michelle, you naming the emptiness I survived makes the room feel safer and wider. Thank you for meeting the tender edges without looking away. This is exactly why the HSP Sanctuary exists: so the hardest pages don’t echo alone. Have a good night, soul sister. I’m so grateful you’re here, and I appreciate the way you hold space for me.💛🤍
Sly you were in your BAG OK!!! This is excellent and thank you for sharing so much, especially what’s hard to relive in order to honor your brother and who you’re becoming. I really resonate with this, especially the health part because same! Childhood trauma combined with ongoing family mess at the time outright made me sick from 2020-2022. Even once the wrecking and triggering stops, healing made it feel worse for a while although it was necessary. So I can’t wait to read the rest of your work and I’m so glad you’re apart of Substack 😄
Wow! Sis this lands so deeply for me. I feel your pain. I get it because chronic illness is its own brutal teacher. My body’s been carrying autoimmune storms since 2013, flaring hardest from 2013 to 2023. Just like you said, even when the chaos stops, the healing work can feel like it wrecks you all over again but it’s the only way through, tbh. That’s exactly why I wrote that mother piece, and why I created this HSP Sanctuary, so we don’t have to carry our stories (or our symptoms) alone anymore. Thank you for letting me see your brave side too. Autumn you belong here, messy and real. 💛🤗💕
I feel awful when I tell someone how beautifully written their trauma was. I know as someone who also writes out trauma that the beauty in which we name our trauma is secondary to being able to just name what hurt and why, to acknowledge it and sit with it . Your words do it all. Grief is the hardest thing for me to acknowledge for myself and to others. I describe it as you don't ever stop grieving, you just get used to the weight of carrying it...but that's ok. The world we live in is obsessed with fixing things, I am obsessed with reminding people they're beautiful even if they never fully recover, even if all they do is try. To grieve is to acknowledge the absence of a love. It is clear you always have and always will love Andrew and you show it so stunningly in the most heartbreaking and inspiring way.
Canary Vale, this comment completely undid me because you’ve named something crucial that most people miss. 🤍 There’s this weird tension in trauma writing where the craft can make something beautiful out of the worst pain, and you’re so right that the beauty is always secondary to the raw courage of just being able to say, “This happened, and it hurt, and it mattered.” Your insight about never stopping grieving but just getting used to carrying the weight is exactly what I’ve been learning: that grief isn’t a problem to solve but a love with nowhere else to go, and somehow, that makes it sacred instead of shameful. What breaks my heart open in the most beautiful way is how you see that Andrew lives on in the very act of naming this loss because you understand that grief is love’s way of refusing to let go. The world does want us fixed and tidy, but you’re creating space for all of us messy, broken, still-trying humans to be enough exactly as we are, and honestly, that’s the most revolutionary kindness there is. Thank you for seeing this story with such tender understanding. 💕
Your heart-wrenching story brought tears to my eyes—thank you for sharing such a deeply personal part of your life. I feel certain your brother is cheering you on, smiling quietly at the woman you’ve become and the love you continue to carry for all that was shared, savored, and honored between you.
Your words, “Losing him felt like losing a piece of myself,” resonate deeply. Your writing is beautiful, insightful, poignant, and refreshingly honest. I look forward to hearing more of your truth.
Until then, I’m sending you peace, light, and love—on giant rainbows of joy. 🌈💖
Lis, I am sitting here with tears streaming down my face because your words just wrapped around my heart like the most tender embrace. 🌈💖 Thank you for taking the time to read Andrew's story with such care and for holding both our grief and our love with such beautiful tenderness. Your words about him cheering me on and smiling at the woman I've become. You know, that just undid me completely. There's something so healing about having someone see not just the loss but the love that continues, the way our connection transcends his physical absence. You understood that losing him meant losing a piece of myself, and that recognition feels like such a gift. What moves me most is how you've honored his memory by truly seeing our story, not looking away from the pain but also witnessing the beauty in it. That takes such a generous heart, and I'm so grateful for yours.
Your encouragement about my writing and 'hearing more of my truth' means everything. Finding my voice after years of silence has been such a journey, and having souls like yours receive it with such grace makes the vulnerability feel sacred, rather than scary.
Thank you for being such a light in this space, for sending peace and love on giant rainbows of joy, and for reminding me that sharing our deepest stories can create the most beautiful connections. With overflowing gratitude and love, thank you again!💛
You are most welcome. Thank you so much for this beautiful message and your incredibly kind and understanding words. Over the last six years, I’ve lost five loved ones — my mother, father, aunt, mother-in-law, and eldest brother. Taking a deep breath after that one sentence. Each loss carried its own nuances and created its own “room” of sorrow within the house of grief.
These years have offered many opportunities for growth and reflection, and I’ve come to see how the love woven into our hearts continues to beat steady and strong within the sacred space of memory.
The love you have for your brother shines through your words. In the sharing, you honor his life — and the love you hold so close within your heart.
I receive your gratitude and love with open arms, and I’m sending the very same right back to you.
Reading this, especially tonight. I too know the love a brother brings into our lives. I am so sorry you have had to carry so much pain in silence. Thank you for sharing Andrew with us and for being so vulnerable within your healing and finding your voice.
Debra, your words wrapped around my heart like the warmest of embraces. Thank you for taking the time to read Andrew's story and for holding space for both the pain and the love with such tender care. Your deep understanding of the special love a brother brings makes this feel even more sacred. There's something incredibly healing about being witnessed by someone who truly understands. The complexity of grief, the weight of silence, and the courage it takes to speak finally. Debra, your presence here, reading and responding with such a genuine heart, is a gift beyond measure. Thank you for seeing Andrew, for seeing me, and for celebrating this step in my healing journey. Your role in making vulnerability feel safe is invaluable. I'm so grateful our paths crossed, and that you're part of this beautiful community, we're building together. Your light truly shines through everything you share. 💛
Thank you for your honesty and vulnerability. It's clear that this moment was such a cornerstone in who you've been and who you're continuing to become. We are masters of ignoring what our bodies are telling us, and I love your commitment to giving your nervous system the space to *feel* and to *heal* as way to reclaim your power.
Thank you for seeing me so fully Brit, it means more than you know. I’m learning to listen to my body’s quiet wisdom and honor the healing it’s asking for. I’m grateful for your presence and your support.
So true Sly !! From the importance of the connection between our minds and bodies to your wording on suppressed emotions and unspoken truths as well as how they can manifest in so many ways, was beautiful. I am so sorry for your loss but I am also glad you’re finally speaking your truth and healing these silent wounds.
Hi Stacy! Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words. It means the world to know my reflections landed gently for you. Yes, those silent wounds shape so much more than we ever realize, and I’m grateful for the space to finally speak them out loud. I’m holding this journey with tenderness, and your support makes it feel a little lighter.
Thank you for trusting us with something so tender, so sacred. I read your words with tears in my eyes and a stillness in my chest. The way you carry Andrew’s memory with gentleness, ache, and love .. touched something deep in me. I can feel the silence you lived through, the weight of unspoken grief, and the courage it takes to finally let your voice rise. You are not just telling a story you are offering a piece of your soul, and it’s impossible not to be moved by it. I see the brave sister, the small girl who held too much, the woman now reclaiming space with grace and strength. You’re showing us what healing can look like not neat or easy, but honest, raw, and full of love. Thank you for letting us walk beside you. I’m holding your heart with mine, quietly, gently, and with deep respect.🫂🥺
- God of all comfort, wrap her in your peace. Hold her in the quiet places where words still tremble. Let your love meet her in every memory, every breath, and every brave step forward. Amen.
Bria, your words feel like a soothing balm, providing a gentle resting place for my ache. Thank you for reading my story so thoughtfully and for taking the time to connect with it. Your quiet presence means more to me than I can express. You recognized the weight, the tenderness, and the quiet courage it took for me to voice my feelings. That you see the brave sister, the small girl, and the woman I am still becoming means everything to me. I feel your heart holding mine, and I’m grateful to be seen in this honest, messy, and authentic way. Let's continue to walk gently together.
If that wasn’t vulnerable I’m not sure what is. Extremely delicate. Profoundly heart pounding. Thank you for sharing such a sensitive subject and making it such a deep and heartfelt but harrowing post. I feel the emptiness you survived.
Sweet dreams. 🤍
You know, Michelle, you naming the emptiness I survived makes the room feel safer and wider. Thank you for meeting the tender edges without looking away. This is exactly why the HSP Sanctuary exists: so the hardest pages don’t echo alone. Have a good night, soul sister. I’m so grateful you’re here, and I appreciate the way you hold space for me.💛🤍
Sly you were in your BAG OK!!! This is excellent and thank you for sharing so much, especially what’s hard to relive in order to honor your brother and who you’re becoming. I really resonate with this, especially the health part because same! Childhood trauma combined with ongoing family mess at the time outright made me sick from 2020-2022. Even once the wrecking and triggering stops, healing made it feel worse for a while although it was necessary. So I can’t wait to read the rest of your work and I’m so glad you’re apart of Substack 😄
Wow! Sis this lands so deeply for me. I feel your pain. I get it because chronic illness is its own brutal teacher. My body’s been carrying autoimmune storms since 2013, flaring hardest from 2013 to 2023. Just like you said, even when the chaos stops, the healing work can feel like it wrecks you all over again but it’s the only way through, tbh. That’s exactly why I wrote that mother piece, and why I created this HSP Sanctuary, so we don’t have to carry our stories (or our symptoms) alone anymore. Thank you for letting me see your brave side too. Autumn you belong here, messy and real. 💛🤗💕
I feel awful when I tell someone how beautifully written their trauma was. I know as someone who also writes out trauma that the beauty in which we name our trauma is secondary to being able to just name what hurt and why, to acknowledge it and sit with it . Your words do it all. Grief is the hardest thing for me to acknowledge for myself and to others. I describe it as you don't ever stop grieving, you just get used to the weight of carrying it...but that's ok. The world we live in is obsessed with fixing things, I am obsessed with reminding people they're beautiful even if they never fully recover, even if all they do is try. To grieve is to acknowledge the absence of a love. It is clear you always have and always will love Andrew and you show it so stunningly in the most heartbreaking and inspiring way.
Canary Vale, this comment completely undid me because you’ve named something crucial that most people miss. 🤍 There’s this weird tension in trauma writing where the craft can make something beautiful out of the worst pain, and you’re so right that the beauty is always secondary to the raw courage of just being able to say, “This happened, and it hurt, and it mattered.” Your insight about never stopping grieving but just getting used to carrying the weight is exactly what I’ve been learning: that grief isn’t a problem to solve but a love with nowhere else to go, and somehow, that makes it sacred instead of shameful. What breaks my heart open in the most beautiful way is how you see that Andrew lives on in the very act of naming this loss because you understand that grief is love’s way of refusing to let go. The world does want us fixed and tidy, but you’re creating space for all of us messy, broken, still-trying humans to be enough exactly as we are, and honestly, that’s the most revolutionary kindness there is. Thank you for seeing this story with such tender understanding. 💕
Dear Sly,
Your heart-wrenching story brought tears to my eyes—thank you for sharing such a deeply personal part of your life. I feel certain your brother is cheering you on, smiling quietly at the woman you’ve become and the love you continue to carry for all that was shared, savored, and honored between you.
Your words, “Losing him felt like losing a piece of myself,” resonate deeply. Your writing is beautiful, insightful, poignant, and refreshingly honest. I look forward to hearing more of your truth.
Until then, I’m sending you peace, light, and love—on giant rainbows of joy. 🌈💖
With warmth,
Lis
Lis, I am sitting here with tears streaming down my face because your words just wrapped around my heart like the most tender embrace. 🌈💖 Thank you for taking the time to read Andrew's story with such care and for holding both our grief and our love with such beautiful tenderness. Your words about him cheering me on and smiling at the woman I've become. You know, that just undid me completely. There's something so healing about having someone see not just the loss but the love that continues, the way our connection transcends his physical absence. You understood that losing him meant losing a piece of myself, and that recognition feels like such a gift. What moves me most is how you've honored his memory by truly seeing our story, not looking away from the pain but also witnessing the beauty in it. That takes such a generous heart, and I'm so grateful for yours.
Your encouragement about my writing and 'hearing more of my truth' means everything. Finding my voice after years of silence has been such a journey, and having souls like yours receive it with such grace makes the vulnerability feel sacred, rather than scary.
Thank you for being such a light in this space, for sending peace and love on giant rainbows of joy, and for reminding me that sharing our deepest stories can create the most beautiful connections. With overflowing gratitude and love, thank you again!💛
Dear Sly,
You are most welcome. Thank you so much for this beautiful message and your incredibly kind and understanding words. Over the last six years, I’ve lost five loved ones — my mother, father, aunt, mother-in-law, and eldest brother. Taking a deep breath after that one sentence. Each loss carried its own nuances and created its own “room” of sorrow within the house of grief.
These years have offered many opportunities for growth and reflection, and I’ve come to see how the love woven into our hearts continues to beat steady and strong within the sacred space of memory.
The love you have for your brother shines through your words. In the sharing, you honor his life — and the love you hold so close within your heart.
I receive your gratitude and love with open arms, and I’m sending the very same right back to you.
Warmly,
Lis 💖💖💖
Reading this, especially tonight. I too know the love a brother brings into our lives. I am so sorry you have had to carry so much pain in silence. Thank you for sharing Andrew with us and for being so vulnerable within your healing and finding your voice.
🫂💞💫
Debra, your words wrapped around my heart like the warmest of embraces. Thank you for taking the time to read Andrew's story and for holding space for both the pain and the love with such tender care. Your deep understanding of the special love a brother brings makes this feel even more sacred. There's something incredibly healing about being witnessed by someone who truly understands. The complexity of grief, the weight of silence, and the courage it takes to speak finally. Debra, your presence here, reading and responding with such a genuine heart, is a gift beyond measure. Thank you for seeing Andrew, for seeing me, and for celebrating this step in my healing journey. Your role in making vulnerability feel safe is invaluable. I'm so grateful our paths crossed, and that you're part of this beautiful community, we're building together. Your light truly shines through everything you share. 💛
Thank you for your honesty and vulnerability. It's clear that this moment was such a cornerstone in who you've been and who you're continuing to become. We are masters of ignoring what our bodies are telling us, and I love your commitment to giving your nervous system the space to *feel* and to *heal* as way to reclaim your power.
Thank you for seeing me so fully Brit, it means more than you know. I’m learning to listen to my body’s quiet wisdom and honor the healing it’s asking for. I’m grateful for your presence and your support.
So true Sly !! From the importance of the connection between our minds and bodies to your wording on suppressed emotions and unspoken truths as well as how they can manifest in so many ways, was beautiful. I am so sorry for your loss but I am also glad you’re finally speaking your truth and healing these silent wounds.
Hi Stacy! Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words. It means the world to know my reflections landed gently for you. Yes, those silent wounds shape so much more than we ever realize, and I’m grateful for the space to finally speak them out loud. I’m holding this journey with tenderness, and your support makes it feel a little lighter.
Thank you for trusting us with something so tender, so sacred. I read your words with tears in my eyes and a stillness in my chest. The way you carry Andrew’s memory with gentleness, ache, and love .. touched something deep in me. I can feel the silence you lived through, the weight of unspoken grief, and the courage it takes to finally let your voice rise. You are not just telling a story you are offering a piece of your soul, and it’s impossible not to be moved by it. I see the brave sister, the small girl who held too much, the woman now reclaiming space with grace and strength. You’re showing us what healing can look like not neat or easy, but honest, raw, and full of love. Thank you for letting us walk beside you. I’m holding your heart with mine, quietly, gently, and with deep respect.🫂🥺
- God of all comfort, wrap her in your peace. Hold her in the quiet places where words still tremble. Let your love meet her in every memory, every breath, and every brave step forward. Amen.
Bria, your words feel like a soothing balm, providing a gentle resting place for my ache. Thank you for reading my story so thoughtfully and for taking the time to connect with it. Your quiet presence means more to me than I can express. You recognized the weight, the tenderness, and the quiet courage it took for me to voice my feelings. That you see the brave sister, the small girl, and the woman I am still becoming means everything to me. I feel your heart holding mine, and I’m grateful to be seen in this honest, messy, and authentic way. Let's continue to walk gently together.