As I sat in a park during the pandemic, listening to the Evermore album through my headphones, a single song finally released the sorrow I had suppressed for five years.
By the time the 2020 pandemic arrived, five years had elapsed since my sister, Emily, passed away. She had battled cystic fibrosis her entire life, yet we remained a profoundly close and affectionate family. Laughter, hugs, and singing were common occurrences. When Emily died, rather suddenly, at the age of 30 (I was 27), I believed I navigated the grief as effectively as anyone could. I even took pride in my apparent outward resilience: I sought therapy, embarked on a new career. I immersed myself completely in a demanding schedule and the hustle of a large city.
It was only when time, in a sense, ground to a halt in 2020 that I truly confronted my sorrow. I was compelled to; having been made redundant that summer, like countless others, my days lost all structure. For many urban apartment dwellers, my sole modest liberty became a daily walk.