For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with dates and numbers. Growing up, I was the only one in my family who seemed to remember the exact date we moved into our big New Jersey house. November 3, 2001, my half birthday. I was exactly six and a half.
In the years that followed, I celebrated our “house-versary” by myself, as the grownups in my family were preoccupied with daily life and didn’t even realize the significance of the date. I now realize that maybe that date held so much meaning for me as a young child because it was mere weeks after the 9/11 tragedy, and grasping onto another date that signaled a fresh start—farther away from the World Trade Center (before New Jersey, my family and I were living in Port Washington on Long Island)—meant that I could continue living my childhood with the weight of the tragedy being somewhat lighter.
As much of a creative, free-spirited person as I’ve always been, my strange fixation with dates and numbers has kept me grounded in reality. Keeping track of time also lets me easily note milestones and smaller achievements at each stage of my life. It’s been over eight years since my family sold that New Jersey house, and even longer since it felt like my “home” anymore. Every November 3rd, I still reminisce about the hope, excitement, fear, and uncertainty that filled my young mind and soul. This November will mark 25 years.
However, this past week marked an anniversary that I never thought I’d have to acknowledge. September 29th—eighteen days after the city observed the 25th anniversary of 9/11—was exactly six months since my cousin very unexpectedly passed away. There is a picture in my ancient photo album from my cousin’s 6th birthday at the start of 2002, the two of us smiling ear to ear as she held onto the Barbie doll my grandparents gifted her. We’d probably forgotten about the devastating tragedy the country had experienced months earlier. But looking at that picture now, I wonder what was really behind our innocent eyes as we were trying our best to continue being children in the aftermath of a once-in-a-lifetime nightmare.
“Cousins” never fully described the nature of our relationship. Eight months apart in age—minus just one day—we grew up like sisters. She’d get my hand-me-down clothes. We’d fight over who got to keep certain dolls and books (which sometimes ended in full-blown cat fights). My favorite memories from the New Jersey house entail the numerous sleepovers we’d have, almost always staying way past our bedtime to our grandma’s disappointment—gossiping about our respective friend drama from school and which boys we had crushes on. The grown-ups in our family were always shocked at how well she could understand my cerebral palsy-impacted speech, always applauding her for this “special ability.” But, in response, she’d get offended, sassily saying, “Of course, I understand Sarah. She’s my unnie.” (Unnie is the Korean word for “big sister.”)
By mid-elementary school, our parents’ fights kept us from seeing each other to our grave disappointment. I’m sure our parents were wrapped up in their own drama and whatnot, and didn’t even recognize the repercussions of their actions on us. Regardless, we always found ways to keep in touch through instant messaging, text, and, eventually, social media. And when we became adults, we saw each other on our own terms, picking up right where we left off as kids.
In prior years, the start of autumn meant my cousin would visit my husband and me in New York. She was a real global citizen, traveling all over the world for DJ gigs before coming to our quaint Upper East Side apartment to rest and rejuvenate. As much as she had a travel bug, she’d admit that it felt nice to stay in one place for a bit, with family.
Last year, she arrived in late September and stayed with us until March. It was the longest time we had spent together in one go. She even started looking for her own NYC apartment. Maybe it was because all three of us—me, my husband, and her—were entering our 30s that she wanted to start settling down herself, making the city her “home base” after spending her 20s constantly moving from one country to another. (This past January was the first time since that 2001 picture was taken that we celebrated her birthday together.) I think she appreciated my efforts to create a stable and steady life for myself and my husband, even, to my dismay, calling me a “tradwife.” At the same time, she’d acknowledge that I very much wore the pants in the household, taking over the role of our late grandma. Above all else, she mentioned on multiple occasions how refreshing it was to witness true love in our family—a stark contrast to the environments we grew up in.
She’d often say how our living situation was like a real-life version of “Friends.” We’d mostly do our own thing during the day, but always came together in the evenings. We’d cook up some Korean-inspired concoction in the kitchen and eat it together with a bougie bottle of wine—chatting up a storm about our day’s tales, more times than not, ending in a mixture of laughter and tears. Over six months, we watched more movies and TV series together than I can count or even recall now—something she mentioned she’d never had the chance to do with anyone else before, since she’d always been on the run.
In turn, my cousin brought out the “fun and carefree” side of me that’d been dormant since college. I was fortunate enough to get a taste of her DJ lifestyle, always looking for worthwhile afters to attend after her gigs. As much as she liked to party—often being the life of the party—she made a conscious effort to surround herself with good, genuine people who deserved her energy. On these outings, I felt myself genuinely living in the moment, not dwelling on yesterday’s sorrows or tomorrow’s headaches.
I wasn’t ready one bit for my time with my cousin to end so abruptly. Over the past six months, my grief has come in waves; there are chunks of time where I continue moving forward with life because I know deep down in my soul that that’s what she’d want me to do. Her memory is truly a blessing, and I want to honor her by living the absolute best life that I can.
But the reality is that these past few weeks have brought on the worst depression that I’ve experienced to date.1 Although her death was a total accident, there’s still part of me that believes I had failed her by not being able to protect her from life’s ultimate punishment: death. Days before, I promised her that I’d never let anything bad happen to her as long as she was under my care. But then, she moved out of my place and was found dead less than 72 hours later. What if she had stayed with me for a little bit longer? What if she hadn’t felt so much pressure to give up her old ways and “adult,” to pick one place to settle down?
On March 29th, a part of me died with her, and that’s okay to accept. The bond we shared is completely irreplaceable. As someone who was literally born out of death, you’d think I’d have a better grip on grief. But this grief has been unlike any other, and that’s because our relationship was unlike any other. More than cousins, more than sisters—almost like soulmates, kindred spirits. Knowing myself and my fixation with dates, the 29th of any month (including my husband’s birthday) probably won’t pass by without me thinking of her absence. I’ll sit in this grief for as long as it takes me to process it—it might as well be for as long as I’m on this earth.
But this pain, as excruciating as it is, is a visceral reminder of how much I loved her—still love her—and how much of her love I was lucky enough to experience.
If you’re struggling with grief or depression, you don’t have to carry it alone. In the US, you can call or text 988, or chat at 988lifeline.org, any time. For non-crisis support, the NAMI HelpLine is available weekdays at 800-950-6264, or text “NAMI” to 62640.