Eva S.
Photography by Dominick Fini
Dear Reader,
Eva’s letter describes her personal journey with grief and the circumstances surrounding the suicide of a friend. We advise those who may be triggered by this topic to exercise caution when reading this letter. If you are struggling please reach out to our Peer Contacts or one of the resources listed on our Resources Page.
Sincerely, The IfYoureReadingThis Team
When I got the call that Tyler was gone, I was in the middle of class, taking notes for a course called “The Resilient Student” — life can be ironic that way.
Tyler was the big brother I never had. He would sort the drink cooler before I arrived because he knew which flavors were my favorite. He made fun of my graduation cords and prom corsage, but he always wanted to know all the details of the night after. He could tell when I was upset from the slightest fluctuation in my “hello.” He stole my favorite pen all the time because he knew it would annoy me and he was the first person to ever encourage me to take journalism seriously. Tyler had the worst road rage, the most competitive spirit, and the goofiest grin. I miss him a lot.
Losing Tyler was confusing, made all the more so by the fact that he took his own life. In the months since, I have felt guilty — guilty that I didn’t text or call enough, guilty that I didn’t know how much he was struggling, guilty that I am still here and he is gone.
I drove home numbly the day of his funeral, and the service itself is still a blur of dark clothing and vaguely-familiar faces in my mind. And then, eight hours later, I was back on Grounds — worrying about student body elections and the week ahead. Since that day, I have not spoken to another person about Tyler.
But life went on. It quickly became a difficult year, and when I felt sad or confused or angry, I began making it a habit to walk. And soon, walking turned into talking. I filled my iPhone storage over and over again recording voice memos to Tyler, ranting and rambling.
And though I never talked about Tyler’s death with anyone, it changed me. Tyler is the reason why I never leave my friends without telling them that I love them. He is the reason why I find it difficult to listen to country music — it was his favorite — but I am slowly trying to ease my way back in. A few months ago, I put on an old sweatshirt of his only to realize after checking the date that it was the sixth-month anniversary of his death. I didn’t stop wearing that sweatshirt for four days.
I think I have been scared to talk about Tyler because I am afraid I will never stop. I am nervous I will snowball and scare people away. I do not want to be “the problem” and I have always hated the thought of being pitied. And so over the course of the last year, it has felt easier to lie — to pretend like I am perfectly fine or blame my moods on something else.
Sometimes it just takes one person to intervene in cycles like these, and I am grateful to have a support system that did this for me recently. Talking to an actual person instead of my phone has made me realize that the people in my life deserve to know me — all of me — while we are all still here. Trusting others with how I feel does not make me a burden — these are acts of love.
I do not mean to say that I have figured it all out, or that every day is a good day — but I have learned that emotions like grief and confusion can coexist alongside happiness and gratitude. And allowing others to see you, to listen to you, and to love you is the only way to truly live the lives we all deserve. That, I think, is what Tyler would want. If you are reading this, there is courage in vulnerability.
Eva S. (she/her), University of Virginia ‘23
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