Dear David, 

I know this isn’t your normal “Dear David” letter, because I’m telling my story instead of someone else’s. It took me a long time to be able to share this, maybe because the events of my life seem as if they were dreamt out of a soap opera, so dramatic, so heart-wrenching. Most of the time I feel as if I am talking about someone else. It seems inconceivable that I can walk the earth with a smile on my face, confident that this is indeed my path, that it was all supposed to happen. Yet here I stand, the last in one in my family, to tell the tale of a survivor. 

It began in the summer of 1998, my 29-year-old only and older brother, Tomas, was diagnosed with brain cancer after having a sudden grand mal seizure. This was my first bout with mortality, fracturing my ideas about youth and invincibility. After a successful craniotomy, we brought him home and within minutes, he began seizing. My parents froze in terror as I got to work calling paramedics, listening to their careful instructions on the do’s and don’t of seizure management. When Tom came to, he grabbed my arm and said, “Kid, you are quarterbacking this now. Mom and Dad can’t handle it.” At that moment my role in the family had changed: from kid-sister to caregiver at the age of 24. 

The next year, I was sent to Auckland, New Zealand for my first assignment as a Foreign Service Officer with the U.S. State Department. My emotions ping-ponged from excitement for this new adventure, this privilege to serve my country, fulfilling my parent’s American dream as Indian immigrants, to ambivalence in leaving my family, my brother still undergoing treatment for his brain tumor.

It was an action packed few years learning the complex nature of running a Consulate, and I was sad to leave this beautiful island nation I had grown to love. In a last farewell, my parents and I decided to take one final trip to discover the stunning glaciers and rugged coastlines of the South Island. About halfway through our trip, as we were driving in the middle of a national park on the way to Queenstown, my father became startled, swerved, and drove us into the Haast River. Somehow, I managed to kick through the windshield to surface and take a breath, noticing that my parents were not moving. I wasn’t able to get to them as the car sank so quickly and the river swallowed them whole. 

Little did I know that, just as I was about to complete my first assignment abroad, my final task as a Vice Consul was to identify my own parents’ bodies and have my staff process the death certificates of the ones I adored the most. I was trained to be a Consular Officer, to deal with hard realities of life overseas and help Americans when in trouble, but I soon realized that nothing could ever have prepared me for the moment I approached their cold, lifeless bodies, so very still after such an animated life. It felt as if the events playing out before me were so much bigger than I could fathom. I’m not sure I believed in fate until then. 

Not even a year later, my brother was back in surgery to resect the brain tumor and this pattern continued, bouncing between maintaining a career as a diplomat and dropping everything to be a caregiver for my brother, eventually leaving the service to settle back in the states to be closer to him as his treatments continued, until it was time for hospice 10 years later. 

One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do was convince my 49-year-old brother that hospice was a good idea. Hospice was a revelation because I was finally being supported by people who knew that the end was near, who understood that death was an integral part of our existence and talked with me honestly about the reality we were facing instead of injecting the

bright side into everything. I relished the truth, although brutal, in these times. I didn’t know that our eight months in hospice at my home in the Napa Valley, changing diapers, losing my brother piece-by-piece, would be the most meaningful time in my life. It was such an honor to give him a good death, surrounding him with the best of friends, delicious food, and a safe, serene place for him to find peace. Life boils down to the simplest things in the end. 

Once Tomas died, my worst nightmare had come true after two decades of grief and stress, and I needed time to figure out who I was without a family. Why was I still here? What do I do now after such a humbling experience? With time and so much patience, I began to put myself in situations that might re-wire a grieving brain and spark the mind-body connection as well as give me a purpose, like running marathons to raise money for cancer research, even as a 200-lb newbie. I wrote my memoir and created a podcast to flesh out my emotions and lessons learned in service of others. I became a blind runner guide with Team Achilles to help disabled athletes reach their finish lines. I became a Certified Professional Coach to help those who are ready to transform because I, better than most, understand how life can change on a dime and leave you reeling and helpless. 

David, the reason I wanted to tell you my story is to let folks know that they are not alone in this challenging, confusing world we inhabit. Whether it’s the loss of a loved one, a pandemic, a toxic political climate, or climate change, we are all trying to make meaning of this madness. Here are some of the lessons I learned to shed some light in the darkness: 

We are stronger than we could ever imagine. I remember when we registered with hospice, thinking, how am I going to do this? The key is that we are wired for survival. We are built to do the hard things and endure. So, say “yes” to them to build your resilience and up your courage game.

Death is a part of this life and in order to live well, we must accept it. If we can embrace both the concept of a good death and a good life, we can have hard conversations with our loved ones, which turn out to be so incredibly meaningful. 

When touched by death, we are gifted a clear vision, a new awareness. In those last months with my brother as I watched his body transition ever so slowly, it was as if my senses magnified suddenly. I could hear the birdsong so loudly, I saw the world in technicolor, and my intuition began to kick-in. It was as if I had been asleep until that moment. I believe that this awakening only happens when one experiences deep heartbreak. 

Joy can arise out of the darkness and bloom even brighter than you might’ve imagined. My favorite teacher, Thich Nhat Hahn, says, “There can be no lotus flower without the mud.” Suffering is the seed of joy. It’s hard to believe this when you are at your lowest, but have faith and know that you will bloom beautifully again. 

Grief is love, the deeper the love, the thicker the grief. It has been nine years since my brother died and almost 25 since my parents, but their loss is still so visceral and recent to me. Grief has no timeline and is not something to get over because you will live with it your whole life. It is your relationship with grief that changes. My family was my world and still are, because everything I do now is to make them proud. So, remember your dear ones and know that they are a part of you, always. 

David, I have emerged from the wreckage of grief as an enlightened, creative being who is curious about how I can contribute to a world I don’t necessarily understand, but I’m ready to learn more on this adventure. To those who are lost in the mires of grief, my advice is to breathe deeply and let the memories wash over you and embrace you. You are so loved.