Living in a world without Hannah

Six years ago today at 1:30am, I lost my sister. As she dashed across 14th Street for a taxi, a drunk driver made a left and hit her. Inexplicably, the paramedics wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance, so I got in a cab that followed to the hospital. Despite seeing her body in the street, I never imagined that hours later, I'd hear the worst words in the world: "We did everything we could, but she just didn't make it."

I called everyone I thought would want to be there - her friends, my friends - and many of them came to that hospital and sat with me in her room, trying to say goodbye in some meaningful way. By the time we left the sun was already up.

One of her friends rode home with me and we climbed into bed, stunned, devastated, adrift. Those next few months were a sea of raw emotions spilling out, holding it together as I performed in the biggest show I'd ever done (I'd been cast just a couple days before it happened) then bursting into tears to random strangers at a bar.

I put a lot of energy into dealing with Hannah's death head-on. I had already lost my father years earlier, and never really dealt with that or told anyone about him, and I knew that wasn't going to work. Everything I had believed in suddenly seemed false, naive, ridiculous. Hannah was such a good person and was killed at 25 for no reason. What was left to cling to?

There's the land of the living, the land of the dead, and then there's another reality for someone grieving a loss this intense. For about a year and a half, I lived in another universe, cut off from Hannah and only partially rooted in this world. I did my best to just stay alive when it felt like dying would be easier than feeling this pain.

All along, though, I felt something inside - the desire to finish what I've started here. I am a performer. I live to be onstage. It's what makes me feel alive, and when Hannah was alive, she supported that dream toward becoming a reality. She came to my shows, she gave me her blessing, she held my hand when tears came to my eyes watching the Tony Awards. She just wanted me to be happy (finally) and she understood that being a performer was my destiny. I consistently feel her energy continuing to guide me now - she didn't get to finish her plans on earth, to live the life she had intended, so it's almost an obligation that I do. My path toward what I want is partly a tribute to her, a commitment to living life fully while I have it.

I miss Hannah. A lot. There was a sparkle about the two of us together, a way that I shined brighter because of the subtle differences between us. I feel that gone, and sometimes it's hard for me to sparkle without her. I'm not whole. I don't know whether I ever will be. What I do know is that no matter what the circumstances are, there are always more possibilities if I'm willing to ask and receive. I've felt the depths of hopelessness many times since Hannah died, and when I acknowledged those feelings and allowed them to move through me, every time, I've seen something new on the other side. Life is beautiful, there's no doubt in my mind. I need to keep receiving.

I love you Hannah. I miss you. I am grateful for the time we had together and I wish you were still here.