“Still Here, Still His Sister”
by Monica von Hoff

The first time I laughed after my brother Jerry died, I broke. I mean instantly sobbed. I was 17, a junior in high school, and he had just died by suicide on his 16th birthday. He never got to see the red car waiting for him in the garage. He never ate his birthday cake. He never opened his presents. And I was… laughing? Grief will trick you like that. It will sneak in, disguised as guilt, and ask: How could you feel joy when he’s gone? Are you forgetting him already? Did you even love him enough? That’s the lie. That healing is disloyal. That joy is betrayal. That moving forward means letting go. But the truth? Joy is survival. And grief, it turns out, is a liar.

Jerry was the thoughtful one. The quiet one. The sensitive one. He was brilliant, artistic, weird, and hilarious. A math whiz with the ability to charm anyone, Jerry loved hard! He loved his friends, his family, his people. He loved animals. He asked for crab legs and Oreo cheesecake for his birthday and stole my Beastie Boys CD and comic books. He dreamed of opening up his own comic and card shop one day and being a nerd for life. And he loved me, even when we were slamming doors and rolling eyes and being teenagers who didn’t yet know how good we had it.

We were just 21 months apart, growing up in a home that, unfortunately, knew too much violence. He was my buddy, my partner, my first best friend. I was the rule-breaker, the troublemaker, the one always grounded. But we always had each other. Until I was alone. I didn’t see how much he was hurting. None of us did. And I carry that with me every day. Every single day.

After he died, the world didn’t stop like I thought it should. I floated through those first months like a ghost in my own life. I could see everyone else still laughing in the cafeteria, still complaining about tests, still planning prom and spring break like nothing had happened. But everything had changed. I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. And one terrifying question echoed louder than all the others: How do I live now that mine has been shattered?

The holidays were brutal. That first Thanksgiving? His chair. The silence. The weight of what was missing. I hated Christmas that year….the lights, the pressure, the songs that used to make me smile. But the second year? That was worse. Because the world had moved on. The cards and check-ins stopped. People stopped asking. And I was still there, still cracked wide open. Grief doesn’t go away. It just changes shape. It softens at the edges, but never really leaves. It settles in like winter: long, cold, and lonely. But sometimes, if you just look up for a moment, if you don’t numb it or run from it, you start to notice the small, sacred things. Like tiny, fragile snowflakes. Quiet. Fleeting. Gone in an instant if you’re not paying attention. But if you catch one, if you let it land, it holds a kind of magic. A reminder. A whisper that says: they were here. And they still are.

I call them Jerry’s little winks. A green teddy bear handed to me by a stranger. Free Bird on the radio. A random hardware store named Jerry’s. Nico’s Candy in the checkout line. An old Spiderman comic. Grape Soda. Hugging my son. My mom’s eyes when they crinkle. They aren’t magic. But they’re reminders. That love doesn’t die. That I’m still his sister. That he mattered. That he matters still. I’ve learned to look for them, these little hellos. They come when you least expect them, but somehow, exactly when you need them most.

These moments don’t bring him back, but they bring me back; to the sister I was, to the girl who stayed, to the love that still holds. I didn’t know it at the time, but that grief cracked me open in ways I could never have expected. It made me softer. It gave me a radar for pain in other people. I can look someone in the eye now and know they’re carrying something. I can sit beside a grieving mom or a scared child and meet them in that place. Not because I have the answers. But because I’ve been there. And I’m still here.

I stayed when it hurt. I stayed when I didn’t want to. I stayed because Jerry couldn’t. Because there are still kids out there like him; beautiful, hurting souls who need to know they’re not alone. I stayed so my kids could know their Uncle Jerry. Every April 21st, we celebrate him with crab legs and Oreo cheesecake. We talk about how he hid meatloaf mix in his closet so Mom couldn’t make it for dinner. We laugh about his love for women (young and old) and how he probably would’ve wanted a dozen kids.

I stayed so I could tell his story. And this holiday season, I’ll do just that. I’ll cry, I’ll laugh, I’ll feel it all. I’ll light a candle and hang a star. I’ll hang his ornament right in front and wish we could play like we did when we were younger, constantly moving it around just to irritate each other. I’ll play his music too loud and watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and eat cheesecake. And I’ll stay. Because staying isn’t weakness. It’s love. It’s remembering. It’s choosing joy when it feels impossible.

He’s my Jer Bear. My green dancing bear. And in my mind, we’re five and seven again, dancing in our pajamas to Springsteen singing “Dancing in the Dark.” I love you, buddy. Then, now, forever. I’m still here. Still breathing. Still loving you. Still your sister.

If you’re missing someone, I hope you know this: you don’t have to be festive. You don’t have to be okay. But if a little moment comes; a flicker, a wink, something small that feels like them. I hope you let yourself feel it. Maybe it’s a song on the radio or a scent you didn’t expect. Maybe it’s the way your niece rolls her eyes exactly like they used to. Maybe it’s a green teddy bear. Or a laugh that sounds too familiar. Those little things aren’t magic. They won’t fix the ache. But they’re real. And they matter. They’re proof that love doesn’t end. That grief might linger, but so does connection.

And joy? It’s not disloyal. It’s how we carry them with us. It’s how we keep them alive in the only way we can—by living fully, and remembering with our whole hearts. So if a little hello shows up this season, take it. Let it soften the sharp edges. Let it remind you: you’re not alone. And love never leaves. And always, stay.
 
Monica von Hoff is the Community Engagement Manager at Rise Against Suicide. She is a mom, mental health advocate, rock-n-roll enthusiast, and forever Jerry’s big sister.