“Protest any labels that turn people into things. Words are important. If you want to care for something, you call it a ‘flower’; if you want to kill something, you call it a ‘weed.’” ~Don Coyhis
Losing my brother to a substance use disorder taught me things I never wanted to learn. Things nobody prepares you for. Things that will change you in ways you never thought possible.
It taught me that you can love someone so much it physically hurts—and still not be able to save them. It taught me that you can mourn someone you love long before they are physically gone, and no one tells you how helpless that feels. How humiliating. How you start bargaining with the universe in silence: Take anything you want from me. Just give him a little more time.
But the universe didn’t listen to me. Addiction didn’t bargain with him. It just took. It took his soul, his mind, his spirit, and the light from his eyes.
Before he died, I kept trying to hold onto the version of him I grew up with—the real him. The one who teased me until I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. The one who showed up for everyone else, even when he couldn’t show up for himself. The version of him no one else saw. I held onto those memories like lifelines, because the reality of addiction felt like watching him drown in slow motion.
And here’s the part most people will never understand unless they’ve lived it: you start grieving long before they die.
Every relapse feels like a funeral. Every “I’ll call you back” becomes a silent prayer. Every silence becomes a question you’re too afraid to voice: Are they alive? Are they gone? Are they alone? Every question leads you to calling hospitals, jails—anyone who may know where they are and can help you find them… alive.
Then the day comes when the phone rings for real, and your whole body knows before your brain does. You answer anyway. You listen. You break. And a part of you you’ll never get back collapses with him.
After he died, the world expected me to be “strong,” to say things like “He’s finally at peace” or “He’s in a better place.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to be anywhere else but here without him. I didn’t want him in a “better place.” I wanted him here. Messy, imperfect, trying—but alive. Alive and able to see his daughter grow up, to see his niece and nephew become who they are today, and to be the person I always knew he could be, sober.
What his death taught me is not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and painful. It takes away a part of you that you never thought you’d lose. It makes you feel like you can’t breathe. You can’t sleep or eat, and you feel guilty for smiling throughout the day.
I learned people judge addiction until it hits their family. Then suddenly it becomes “complicated.” Personal. Human. Before that, they throw around words like “junkie,” “choice,” and “his fault.” They don’t know addiction sits in the same category as a terminal disease—brutal, consuming, terrifying, and unfair.
I learned grief is violent. It explodes your sense of reality. You think you’ll cry and move through it, but grief has claws. It drags you back into memories you weren’t ready to replay, dreams that feel too real, and guilt you didn’t earn but carry anyway. I learned that it can come at any moment, at any time, and hit you like a moving train. It becomes all-consuming. You feel it deep in your soul, and you often feel like you will never wake up from this nightmare.
I learned I can be angry and love him at the same time. I’m angry he didn’t get one more day. Angry the world didn’t understand him. Angry at everyone who judged him. Angry that he left me here alone, something he said he’d never do. Angry at addiction for getting the last word. But my love for him never left and never will. Not for one second.
And here’s the hardest lesson losing him taught me:
You stop expecting closure. You stop expecting the pain to fade. Instead, you learn to live alongside it—like a bruise that never fully heals. You learn to smile through the pain. You learn to let the grief come when it shows up, and to always speak his name and his truth.
But there were lessons too—the kind you only understand after being cracked open:
I learned to tell the truth. Not the polished version of his story. Not the version that makes other people feel comfortable. I tell the version where addiction was part of his life. Not because it defines him, but because hiding it erases him.
I learned to see suffering in other people—the quiet kind that hides behind smiles and “I’m fine.” Losing him made me softer toward strangers, more patient, more protective. It made me realize that everyone is carrying something they’re terrified to say out loud.
And strangely, painfully, I learned love doesn’t die with the person. It settles into your bones. It becomes something you carry for the rest of your life—the ache, the anger, the gratitude, the memories, all mixed together.
Losing my brother taught me that the world can break you… and you can still keep going. Not because you’re strong, but because you don’t have another choice.
I wish I didn’t have these lessons. I wish he were still here. But since he’s not, all I can do is carry him honestly—not the sanitized version people prefer, but the real one.
The brother I lost. The brother I loved. The brother addiction couldn’t erase. The brother who will never be forgotten.
In loving memory of Joshua O’Neill Gray (August 6, 1982 – August 29, 2019).
About Sheena Crist
After her brother passed, Sheena made it her mission to raise awareness about substance use and substance use prevention. She obtained her degree in Behavioral Health Science with an emphasis in substance use disorders, and she has made it her passion to speak Josh’s name whenever she can. Addiction can impact anyone, and it doesn’t matter what your race, gender, or economic status is.
