The Muse and Views

As we continue our Letters to Lost Loved Ones series, The Muse and Views co-author Wendy Peters reflects on a deeply personal milestone—the 20th anniversary of her brother’s passing. In this heartfelt letter, she shares how grief has evolved over time and the moments that have shaped her journey toward healing.

Dear Wayne,

August 9th used to mean something to me. Something horrible, terrible, incredibly sad. But last year, it came and went like any other day. I forgot that it wasn’t any other day.

At least until I looked up at the calendar a couple of days later, and then had to google the day you died because I thought I had missed the anniversary. And I had.

It was a big one too. Twenty years since you left this earth. 

For a moment, I wondered if I was being a horrible sister for having forgotten. But I didn’t feel guilty about forgetting. And I was a bit in awe that I actually felt like this was a big grief milestone.

The forgetting. Not forgetting you, but forgetting the fact that you’re missing.

You were never just a part of my past—you’ve always been here, tucked into the quiet moments of my present. Sometimes it feels like your memory sneaks up on me, not in the big, heavy way it used to, but like a whisper reminding me of the person I was when you were still here—and of the person I’ve become without you. Different, yes, but still carrying pieces of you within me.

For years, I clung so tightly to everything about you that I didn’t notice I was suffocating myself. Grief does that. It feels like something heavy falling on top of you, pinning you down so completely that you can’t move or call for help. And then, over time, it settles—not gone, but continuing to weigh heavily on you, leaving you struggling to find any strength to push back. I spent so much energy holding on to you and everything about your absence that I wasn’t growing or moving forward in other areas of my life either. Or if I was, it was only on the surface—just enough to get by. I didn’t realize how much of the world I was missing beyond the struggle.

But then, things started to change—not all at once, but ever so slowly. It was in the first laugh that didn’t feel like betrayal, in the quiet courage it took to let someone close again, in the smallest moments that began to feel less heavy. I remember the first time I looked at your picture and didn’t feel sad—I could see the happiness in your smile instead of the ache of missing you. Maybe someone lifted the weight, or maybe those small changes made me strong enough to bear it. Either way, I started to see beyond it, and the world began to feel open again.

I know in my head that you’d want this for me, and slowly, my heart has started to believe it too. But that doesn’t erase the guilt. There’s still a part of me that wrestles with living the life you didn’t get to. I’m learning, though—learning how to forgive myself for finding joy, for moving on, for being here.

I know I’m not the only one who misses you. Your sense of humor and wit were second to none, and there are many Wayne stories that still float around today. And yet, you’re still here, too, in your own way—woven into the stories, the memories, and the little reminders that catch me off guard. Like the birthday card you gave me when I was 13 or 14, with the yellow lab nuzzling the cat on the front (representing Goldie, our first family dog). You wrote, “Can you imagine Goldie being that friendly to a cat? Happy birthday, love your brother.” I’ve kept it all these years, and it still makes me smile every time I see it. I find you in the music that stops me in my tracks, in the jokes that only you would have told, in the random strangers who somehow remind me of you. It’s not the same, but it’s enough to know that you’ve shaped me in ways I’ll never lose.

This isn’t goodbye—not even close. I’m still figuring out how to live without you, and maybe I always will be. But now it feels less like drowning and more like walking forward, even if the path is uneven. 

I miss you. But it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. And that’s okay.

Love,

Your sister.