I used to lose my car keys a lot. To be fair, it wasn’t just my keys. It was pretty much everything—my wallet, my jacket, my cell phone. I even left a pair of high-top sneakers in the locker room of Cardinal Stritch High School after a junior high basketball game one night. Most days, I’d retrace my steps, check between couch cushions, and look underneath every nook and cranny until I finally found whatever it was that I was missing. (Shoutout to my dad for calling the principal of Cardinal Stritch High School to get my tennis shoes back for me in 1994).

 More than once I’ve fished my debit card from the dark space between the seat of my car and the console. One winter, it even slipped from my pocket onto the pavement during a freezing drizzle. By morning, it was locked under an inch of ice—waiting, patient and untouched, as if it knew someday, that I’d be back. I’ve lost the TV remote countless times, buried beneath a mountain of covers, wedged between the comforter and the sheet—hidden so perfectly, it felt like a never-ending game of hide and seek.

Some things, though, were lost for good. Swallowed by some unseen void, disappearing into that strange abyss, that unreachable place where missing socks, forgotten names, and childhood relics seem to go. I never found that blue and white wallet I had when I was 10, the one that had all my 5th grade classmate’s school pictures shoved inside. I’m not sure what happened to my silver fossil watch from the 90’s, no doubt set down somewhere “safe” and picked up by a stranger who hopefully enjoyed it as much as I should have.

It hurts to lose things. It’s frustrating and annoying, and sometimes even heartbreaking. As a child with no perspective, lost things become the epitome of a disaster—small, insignificant objects taking on a weight far heavier than their actual value. That missing toy, the lost favorite shirt, or the forgotten item in the store can feel like the end of the world, and the search to recover them becomes the most depressing journey of our lives. As an adult, lost things take on a new meaning. The anger and frustration are still there, but these feelings quickly give way to a deeper, quieter sense of acceptance. We’ve learned that losing things is a part of life and that even though we may still retrace our steps and frantically search for something we’ve misplaced, it doesn’t necessarily mean that we will ever find it.

As I got older, I became better at keeping track of my things. I learned to check my pockets before walking away, hang my keys on the hook by the door, and keep my debit card securely in my wallet, doing whatever I could to minimize the chances of an escape.

But no matter how careful I was, some losses were simply out of my control.  

As time went on, most of the things I lost weren’t things at all. They were people.

First, there was my grandfather—always a steady presence in my life, with his playful knuckle-pressing handshakes and familiar “What’s up, Doc?” He was the kind of man who would drive ten miles just to give me a ride to a school that was only two blocks away from my house. In a hospital room surrounded by family, I watched him take his last breath, the kind of breath that leads from this life to whatever comes next.

We lost my other grandpa a few years later. In a crowded hospital room, with his health declining, we knew the end was near, yet the pain of his passing hit just as deeply. He was a proud father of nine children and the grandfather of 21. His legacy lived on in each of us, but that didn’t make the loss any easier. The heartache was real, even though we’d seen it coming.

 

I lost my 5-month-old daughter to SIDS. I buckled her into her car seat one morning, kissed her soft cheek, and dropped her off at daycare—never imagining it would be the last time I’d see her smile, hear her giggle, or feel the warmth of her tiny fingers wrapped around mine.

My grandma passed away when my kids were small. I recall attending the funeral home for the viewing with both of them and feeling reluctant to approach the casket. The body inside, though still recognizable and undoubtedly my grandma, was just that—a body. The lively, humorous spirit that loved baking, known as the MacGyver of the kitchen, capable of creating a full family meal from whatever was in her freezer, was no longer there.

I lost my husband to suicide. He was someone I once shared all my hopes and dreams with—the person who knew my fears, my laughter, and the quiet thoughts I never spoke aloud to anyone else. I loved him fiercely, with every piece of my heart, believing that love was enough to hold us together. But in the end, the weight of his pain was heavier than my love could carry. I gave him my trust, my devotion, my everything—yet still, he slipped away, leaving behind a silence that will never quite be filled for myself or my children.

I lost my brother to cancer when he was just 44 years old. After years in remission, I never imagined the disease would return with such aggressive force, invading his body once more–unyielding, unforgiving, and refusing to surrender. Yet there I stood, at the edge of his bed holding his hand as he slowly disappeared from this world never to be seen or heard from again.

Of course losing someone is a much different experience than losing something. Losing someone is final. There’s no couch cushion to look under, no place to frantically search, and no amount of retracing our steps can ever bring them back.

I wonder if the surface-level grief we feel when we lose something prepares us for the profound, soul-shattering pain of losing someone. Does it teach us the coping skills necessary for the moment when we inevitably face the heart wrenching experience of losing the most important people in our lives? Perhaps these smaller griefs serve as a rehearsal, allowing us to navigate the complex emotions that accompany loss. They might help us understand sorrow, enabling us to recognize that grief can manifest in various forms, each with its own unique challenges and lessons. These experiences of loss, while initially trivial in comparison to the death of a loved one, can provide us with insights into the nature of attachment and the fleetingness of life. They remind us that everything we hold dear is subject to change, and that our emotional responses to loss, no matter how small, can shape our resilience. Through the process of mourning these smaller losses, we learn that grief is not a linear journey but rather a complex one of emotions that can often catch us off guard at any given moment.

These experiences of loss also reveal to us a fundamental truth about life: that regardless of the depth of our sorrow, our lives continue on, pausing only briefly to acknowledge and mourn the passing of what we have lost. Life persists, even in the face of heartache, and we must find ways to carry forward the memories of what we have lost while also embracing the moments that still lie ahead.

A little over a year after losing my brother, my other grandmother passed away. She was a true lover of life and all creatures, great and small—except, perhaps, for the mosquitos that dared to bite us as we gathered on her front porch every Saturday night after a family meal at El Zarape’s. My grandma’s greatest passion was her family, and through that passion she taught us how to love each other in good times and in bad.

Losing my brother was infinitely worse than misplacing my keys. While losing a set of keys can be frustrating and inconvenient, it’s a temporary setback, easily resolved with a little effort or a spare set. In stark contrast, the loss of my brother is a profound and enduring sorrow that bleeds through every aspect of my life. He was the shining star illuminating our paths with his warmth and kindness. He was the glue that held us all together, the one who could effortlessly bridge the gaps between diverse personalities and experiences. His ability to connect with people was unparalleled. He had a unique gift for making everyone feel valued and understood. For 44 years, he filled our lives with laughter, hope, and inspiration. His laughter was infectious, capable of lifting spirits and brightening even the dullest of days. He had a remarkable talent for storytelling, weaving tales that captivated our imaginations and brought joy to our lives. With every joke, every shared memory, he reminded us of the beauty of life and the importance of cherishing each moment. In his absence, the world feels a little dimmer, and the memory of his laughter has faded into a haunting silence.

But maybe all those little things I lost when I was younger somehow prepared me for the bigger losses I faced later in life. Each small item that slipped through my fingers seemed insignificant at the time, yet collectively they contributed to a deeper understanding of loss and the value of what we hold close. Maybe leaving my tennis shoes in that locker room was not just a moment of forgetfulness; it was a lesson in responsibility and the importance of taking care of what meant the most to me.

Maybe the incident with the lost debit card was more than just a minor inconvenience. It served as a profound lesson in perseverance and resilience. It was a reminder that sometimes, despite our best efforts, things can slip away from us unexpectedly.

As I navigated through these seemingly trivial losses, they began to shape my perspective on life and loss. These experiences prepared me for the inevitable heartaches that would come my way, equipping me with a toolkit of emotional resilience. Each small loss became a stepping stone, teaching me to cope with grief and disappointment. I learned to process my feelings, reflect on what I could control, and recognize the importance of moving forward, even when I didn’t want to. In a way, those little things I lost were not just insignificant objects but lessons in disguise, guiding me towards a more profound understanding of life and the significance of realizing what truly matters.

Loss is a part of life. It reminds us to hold on a little tighter, to say “I love you” more often, and to appreciate the people in our lives while we still can. And while there are some things we may never get back—some people who are lost to us forever—their love, their laughter, and their impact on our lives remain.

Not everything that’s lost is gone. Some things, and some people, stay with us, even when we can no longer see them. We search for what was, only to find that it still lingers in who we’ve become. And maybe, in that way, we never truly lose it at all.