My Sister – A Reflection One Year Later

As I reflect on the past year, I realize grief doesn’t follow a straight path. It comes in waves. Some days bring sadness, others gratitude, and often the two arrive together.

When my sister Tory died suddenly, there was no opportunity for one last conversation, no chance to say goodbye or tell her one final time that I loved her. Instead, I faced one of the hardest moments of my life, telling my mother that the daughter she adored was gone.

People often say time heals all wounds . I haven’t found that to be true. Time doesn’t erase the loss; it simply teaches us how to carry it. The grief never disappears, but it settles into a quieter place alongside the memories. And when those memories return, they no longer bring only tears. More often, they bring a smile.

Tory’s life was marked by decades of addiction. It was a battle she fought for much of her adult life. Yet addiction was only part of her story. She worked hard, first as a nurse and later in medical coding. She owned her home outright, had retirement savings and still looked forward to what the future might hold. Like so many people living with addiction, she was far more than her illness.

After the shock of losing her came the practical realities. Because Tory didn’t leave a legally valid will, settling her estate became a long and frustrating process. Every step seemed to require another delay, especially the sale of her house, where each contract had to be approved by the court. Thankfully, an exceptional real estate agent carried much of that burden and helped us navigate a process that often felt overwhelming.

As difficult as it was, walking through Tory’s house became a reminder of who she really was. Her personality was everywhere. She loved vibrant colors, especially purple, and every room reflected that joy. Outside, a bright yellow pathway welcomed visitors to the front door, lined with whimsical garden ornaments that made you smile before you even stepped inside.

It wasn’t just a house.

It was a home full of love.

Over the past year I’ve written about addiction, the legal challenges of settling her estate and the devastating consequences fentanyl continues to have on families across our country. Those were important stories to tell because I hoped someone, somewhere, might learn from them.

But as this anniversary approaches, I’ve come to realize those weren’t really stories about my sister.

They were stories about what happened to her.

This is about who she was.

If you had known Tory, one of the first things you would have noticed was how easily she connected with people. Nursing wasn’t simply a career, it reflected who she was. She cared deeply, listened without judgment and wanted to make people feel better. Those qualities followed her throughout her working life. When she later became a medical coder, she formed close friendships that endured long after the workday ended. The messages I’ve received from former coworkers over the past year remind me just how much she meant to them.

Tory had an immense capacity to love. Whether it was family, friends or the cats she adored, she gave her heart freely. She never needed a special occasion to spend time with the people she loved. She simply enjoyed being with them.

She found happiness in life’s simple pleasures. Playing pickleball with friends. Going to concerts, especially tribute bands that brought back memories of another time. Long conversations over coffee. Working in her colorful garden. These weren’t extraordinary moments to anyone else, but they were to Tory because she understood something many of us forget: Life isn’t measured by grand occasions, but by the countless ordinary moments we share with those we love.

For decades, addiction tried to rewrite the story of my sister’s life. Too often, that’s all people see when someone dies from drugs or alcohol. Their illness becomes their identity.

I refuse to let that happen to Tory.

Yes, addiction shaped much of her adult life. It stole opportunities, strained relationships and ultimately took her from us far too soon. But it never took away her kindness, her generosity, her sense of humor or her ability to love. Those were the qualities that defined my sister, not the disease she battled.

Looking back over this past year, I’ve also gained a different perspective on what remains after someone is gone. A home can be sold. Retirement savings are distributed. Personal possessions eventually find new owners. Those things matter, and leaving our affairs in order is one final act of kindness for the family we leave behind.

But they are not our legacy.

Our true legacy is measured in the lives we touch, the kindness we show, the memories we create and the love we give without expecting anything in return.

A year later, I still miss her.

I still find myself reaching for the phone before remembering there will be no answer. I still see something purple and think of Tory. I still pass a whimsical garden ornament and smile because I know she would have found a place for it.

Grief hasn’t become smaller, I’ve simply made room for it.

As time passes, I hope people remember more than how my sister died. I hope they remember how she lived; her laughter, her compassion, her resilience, her colorful home and the love she gave so freely to family, friends, patients, coworkers and even the animals she cherished.

Because that’s the Tory I remember.

And that’s the sister I never want the world to forget.

Fly High

Fly high my sweet, loving sister,
Into the tranquil skies above,
With your brave and courageous soul
To find a peace, as you gently rest.

Victoria
August 5 1968 – August 13 2025