Grief is like the ocean – it comes in waves.

Some days, it’s a gentle tide, reminding us of those we’ve lost. Other days, it’s a crashing storm, overwhelming and full of ugly crying. It’s been a year since I lost my older sister, Lildra, unexpectedly, and the waves of grief are still coming. I know she’s not coming back. She’s gone. But I miss her a lot – from all the fun and adventures we used to have to our dumb arguments and the amazing influence she had on me growing up.

Lildra wasn’t just my sister – she was my protector, my confidante, and, in many ways, my second mother. After our mother passed in 2008, she stepped into that role without hesitation. She was there for all the major moments of my life: surviving cervical cancer at 25, founding Cervivor, Inc., getting married, and, most of all, becoming a mother to my now 2-year-old son, Chayton.

Lildra was deeply religious and had the Bible memorized from cover to cover. It may seem weird that a woman who’s almost 50 needed her sister’s approval, but I was so nervous about how she’d feel about my unconventional path to motherhood – embryo donation and surrogacy. In true Lildra fashion, she simply said, “You always did things differently.” It was her way of giving me her blessing.

Looking back, I realize that the last few years were preparing me for life without her. Not that I could ever truly be ready, but the moments we shared, the wisdom she imparted, and the love she poured on Chayton and me have become the foundation I lean on now that she’s gone.

Our unbreakable bond

Lildra and I had a bond that only sisters can understand. We had our secret looks, our inside jokes, and our unique way of communicating. She could read me better than anyone. At the Sip and See party for Chayton’s first birthday, she spoke from the heart, as she always did, saying, “We give each other the looks, but we can’t be without each other.” 

The irony of those words stings because now I have to live without her. I’ve only watched the video of her speech twice because it’s still too painful, but it’s also a beautiful reminder of how deeply she loved me. 

We couldn’t have been more different. In my child’s eyes, she was the picture of perfection – beautiful, always put together like a supermodel. I, on the other hand, was the annoying little sister stealing her Clinique makeup and causing trouble.

When I became a mother, our relationship deepened in ways I never expected. She adored Chayton, and he adored her right back. She was my first call when he had a meltdown, always reassuring me that “this too shall pass.” That’s actually the last message she texted me and has become the message my childhood best friend, Quan, reminds me of when things get especially rough. 

Lildra swore Chayton was just like me as a toddler – wild, strong-willed, and full of personality. Some days, I still instinctively reach for my phone to call her, only to be hit with the realization that she’s not here anymore. Grief is like that.

Honoring her legacy

To honor Lildra on the one-year anniversary of her passing, I want to celebrate all the things that made her the incredible woman she was – especially her love of books and reading. Lildra was an English and language arts teacher for more than three decades at two middle schools in South Carolina, earning the title of Teacher of the Year along the way.

After her passing, the community plus family and friends came together to raise funds to create and dedicate a reading corner at each school in her memory – stocked with dozens of new books thanks to a generous donation from a Cervivor friend.

Recently, on a tough “this too shall pass” kind of day, someone sent me and my niece – Lildra’s daughter, Veta – a photo of one of the libraries, showing the plaque with Lildra’s name. They wrote, “I’m here with someone special.” In that moment, I felt like Lildra was sending me a message – a reminder that she’s still here in the ways that truly matter.

Having something so special in her honor – something tangible – means the world to me and my family. I can’t thank everyone enough who helped make it happen.

The future without her

One of the hardest parts of losing her is knowing that we’ll never be neighbors like I had hoped. I always joked about moving back to South Carolina and creating a little family compound. I would tell her I expected shrimp and grits once a week. She’d roll her eyes but never said “no.” Now, that dream won’t come true, and the loss feels even heavier.

I miss having her as my sounding board, my cheerleader, my safe place. I miss the way she’d drop everything to be there for me. I miss the way she loved Chayton with every fiber of her being. But even though she’s gone, her presence is still woven into my life in a million little ways.

A year later, the grief still comes in waves – especially when those iPhone and Facebook memories keep popping up! But so does the love, laughter, and memories. And that’s what I’ll hold onto – because she wouldn’t want it any other way.

xo,