Today marks five years since my friend Megan died. People often say there’s no timeline for grief, and I’ve found that to be true. I’ve lost other friends over the years, and each loss has felt different. But with Meegz, it’s been harder than I expected.
She passed away during the COVID shutdown, back home in Michigan, while most of our little crew was scattered along the East Coast. I still remember the text that led to the news—words that didn’t make sense at first, words I desperately didn’t want to believe.
For years, our girl crew had an epic group chat where we shared everything—memes, venting, life updates. It was our way to stay connected after we all started moving away from Boston. On August 28, one message came through that changed everything:
During the shutdown, we were making a real effort to see each other on Zoom. I noticed the part of the text about “bad news,” but still logged in excited to see everyone’s faces. The moment the screen loaded, though, I could tell something was wrong. When one of my friends said, “Megan died last night,” I thought it had to be some kind of (terrible) joke. Sure, she wasn’t on the call—but others weren’t either. Then I saw A’s face, and I knew. I remember saying “No!” over and over. I had just texted with her two days before. How could this possibly be real?
Because of the shutdown, there was no service, no chance to travel, no gathering where we could sit together and cry and hug and share memories. Intellectually I knew she was gone, but my heart couldn’t process it. My way of coping was denial, clinging to the thought that maybe, somehow, it wasn’t true.
About a year later, I told the girls I felt like we needed to do something to honor Megan. We’d pulled off get-togethers before, even living in different states, but the pandemic still made it impossible. Without a ritual or a goodbye, it never felt final.
I’ve lost a lot of people in my life, but losing Meegz has been its own journey. Part of it, I think, is that we never had that moment of closure. Even now, five years later, I still catch myself reaching for my phone to ask her for HR advice or to get her opinion on an outfit. Every August 28, our group raises a glass of rosé in her honor, but still—she feels close, like she could text back at any moment.
This summer I heard a quote that stuck with me: “No one really dies until you stop telling stories about them.” For so long I thought I needed to say goodbye, to close the chapter neatly. But the truth is, for the past five years, I’ve been keeping her alive in the stories I tell. And maybe that’s why she’s still here, in my heart.
Mooventures 