Everyone Has A March 21st

I think it’s become commonplace for people to say they have empathy.

It’s kind of like saying you “like to spend money on experiences, not things.” It sounds nice, but you’re not the first to say it and it might not be true.

There are people I’ve met who I’ve found to be narcissistic and self-centered but consider themselves to have empathy.

There are certain experiences you can only really process if you’ve lived them. Like being the victim of abuse or growing up poor. Or, in my case, losing a loved one young.

Today is March 21st, and it is the 8-year anniversary of my younger brother, Matthew’s, death. He was 10 years old at the time. 

His birthday is on August 16th, and this past year would have been his 18th. I thought no anniversary could be more painful than that one. That once the day my baby brother would have become an adult passed, these anniversaries wouldn’t sting so bad.

But I don’t think that’s true. March 21st is here and it’s as full of grief as the year before.

My personal definition of empathy is that everyone has a March 21st and an August 16th (and if you don’t by now, then you will someday).

For the most part, we’re all trying to cope with our grief and collect ourselves enough to go on with our day. So, when someone is curt with me or disrespectful or rude, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt and think maybe this day is a painful anniversary for them too.

Our trauma and grief are never fully resolved. Enough time passes and other things happen in our lives that occupy our attention.

In my case, this meant the spring of my senior year and college acceptance and prom and grad parties.

And then in the fall, moving away and starting college.

I don’t think I went through the traditional stages of grief, or at least they didn’t resonate mentally. But if I had to break it down, in the immediate aftermath of my brother’s death, I thought:

How can I possibly think about anything else? I can’t read a book or watch a game without my mind coming back to the fact that my brother is dead.

Then enough time passed that I could focus on other things throughout the day, but at least once per day—in the quiet moments—I would think about his passing.

This went on for probably a couple years. 

Then one day I didn’t think about my brother’s death at all.

And that felt like progress. 

But as I’ve gotten older, and the amount of time that passes between me thinking about my brother’s death grows longer, I start to feel guilty. Because maybe I’m not just NOT thinking about my brother’s death; I’m not thinking about my brother at all.

And maybe enough time will pass that I can’t form his face in my mind without a picture or remember his voice without a video. 

There’s this quote from Joe Biden, who’s no stranger to grief, that I like, but that also kind of scares me. He says to those who’ve lost someone:

To me, this feels like a lot of pressure: that I must commit my life to honoring the legacy of my loved one to fully heal.

 

I’ve never been quite so sure what this means. My younger brother had severe autism and was nonverbal; he had a difficult life. 

 

Does honoring him mean helping people like him? Whether that means people who have autism¹ or more broadly are less fortunate?

 

I’m not sure. Do other people feel this pressure? I know plenty of people who are indifferent to whether what they’re doing professionally makes a societal difference. And it’s their right to feel this way.

 

For me, I feel like if I continue down the path of well-paid but not fulfilling jobs, I might be doing myself a disservice. 

 

I recognize that fulfillment can come in a lot of different ways: maybe you enjoy a competitive environment or learning about a complicated subject matter. And there are volunteer opportunities and school boards to get your fix outside of work. 

 

But if I’m honest with myself, the younger me would hate to hear from the older me that I never fully committed myself to making a difference in the lives of others—people like my brother who experienced undue hardship. 

 

These are a lot of thoughts to process on a difficult day, and I wish I could be like the Book of Mormon and just “turn them off!”

 

But maybe these anniversaries provide a wake-up call, or at least a reminder of my past and what my brother means to me and why his life is still worth remembering.

 

Anyway, thank you for reading and be kind to the strangers you come across today.

 

Zac

 

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1 I say “have autism” rather than is autistic because I don’t want to dehumanize anyone that has this condition. A leader of a volunteer program for children and teens with autism once offered this correction and it has stuck with me ever since.^↩