Dominic M.
Photography by Ashley Kung
If you’re reading this, it’s okay to be alone.
In a world full of constant stressors, everyone needs time alone to decompress. Isolation from the bad can provide us with much needed serenity, stabilizing both the mind and body. In solitude, we can reflect and find our truest selves. Yet what happens when one simply cannot be alone? A whirlwind of voices bustling in the mind can truly ravage the worst mental storms when given time and space to manifest. This nightmare became my reality for quite some time, yet deepened my understanding of my own well being.
As my senior year drew to a close, poised to go off without a hitch, disaster struck. My world came crashing down as a friend uttered the words, “There was an accident last night, and he didn’t make it.” Less than 12 hours prior, my friend, roommate, mentor, and so much more exited this earth as the victim of a hit-and-run motor vehicle accident. The following 24 hours were full of excruciating events; I informed loved ones of his passing, attempted to process emotions, and began to re-imagine a life without him.
Fortunately, I possess an incredible support system in my friends and family. From the moment the news of his passing spread, I was immediately surrounded by loved ones who housed me, provided meals, established connections with grief counselors, and more. And slowly but surely, life progressed. Spring break turned into graduation ceremonies which morphed into travel that slowly shifted into MCAT studying. For 6 months, I found myself distracted, constantly surrounded by others and immediately focusing on what was to come next.
Yet when the dust finally settled after receiving my MCAT score, the lull in my gap year began to set in. Friends became busy with employment, grad school, and more, which left me to be alone with my thoughts for the first time since the accident. It’s funny how your body picks up on the small things once distractions are removed; my heart beat became more prominent, the weight on my chest felt a bit heavier than before, and anxiety about the future came into fruition. Six months of grief and suppressed emotions were finally breaking through the cracks, and I could feel both my body and mind deteriorating. Without something to focus my attention on, I finally realized I truly had never grieved his loss.
Yet over time, I began to find comfort in my solace. I reflected upon the ideas of loss; I recognized the pain in not having my friend there to celebrate my accomplishments. Graduation, awards, and new jobs were information which he would never get to know. And in my time alone, I saw for the first time that the void left through death truly can never be filled. While this may seem grim at first, I genuinely think there is some beauty to this sentiment. The memories we hold with the deceased are special. Though they may not be replicated again, they will forever be a part of you. These moments in time, encaptured in various means, have played a role in shaping the present version of yourself. As I came to terms with this, I could finally process emotions which were established months prior. Regret and desolation morphed into comfort.
Recognizing the fragility of both life and time, I found myself reflecting upon what truly makes me happy. I began focusing on my wellbeing, picking up long lost hobbies such as reading and painting. Through these outlets, I was able to find myself again. I could express my feelings in a manner that was healthy and enjoy my time alone. Grief is not a linear process. There is no proper time and place to deal with loss. But it is critical to recognize that distracting yourself does not equate to processing emotions. Setting sights on a career in healthcare, I recognized that in order to care for others, I must first care for myself. And this meant coming to terms with things beyond my control rather than running from them.
This period of growth culminated on New Year's Day, when I visited the grave of my friend for the first time. Staring at the light reflecting off the images engraved in his headstone, I felt a tear trickle down my face. In that moment, I realized while physically alone, mentally I was not. My friend was still with me in my own very existence. Lessons we had learned together provided my current set of values. His ability to find joy in even the most desolate situations is something I continue to work on. And the physical objects around me tell the story of our friendship. I see him in the green plastic spoon that sits in my car, the Lego figurine which stands by my bed, and the gavel which lies near a photo of us on my desk. Death may be the end of someone’s physical being on earth, but it is not a definitive ending of their character. Though we may not create new memories, we can constantly reimagine the old ones, and become a better version of ourselves. And in reflecting upon the past, we can come to terms with loss itself.
If you’re reading this, it’s ok to be alone because even in isolation, the ones we love always remain with us.
Dominic M., University of Florida
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