Hey Jude

Hey Jude,

Who am I, Jude?

I’ve asked myself that so many times lately. I’m still trying to figure it out, but I feel like I’m always looking for answers that never come. It’s funny, because in you, I see so many of the same questions—the ones you never really got to answer for yourself. Your journey ended, but mine keeps going, and in some twisted way, that’s what makes it harder. It’s hard to grieve someone who will never know their impact, someone who will never understand what they’ve left behind.

You’ve given me so much, Jude, and yet you’ll never know that. How do you grieve someone like that? How do you process the weight of loss when the person you mourn never fully saw their own worth? Your life was filled with so much pain, so much self-doubt, that it feels impossible to celebrate you without feeling the sting of everything you lost—everything that was taken from you.

And maybe that’s what makes me ache the most. The fact that you didn’t get the answers you deserved. The fact that you spent so much of your life convinced you weren’t worthy of the love that surrounded you. But you were, Jude. You always were. And the tragedy is that you never truly believed it.

You’ve shown me what it means to carry pain so deeply that it becomes inseparable from who you are. You carried yours like a shadow, always just behind you, always threatening to pull you back into the darkness. And yet, you kept going. You kept loving, even when you thought you weren’t capable of it. You kept being, even when it felt unbearable. And in that, you taught me something profound—that survival isn’t about staying alive, it’s about finding moments of grace, even in the midst of all the suffering.

But who am I, Jude? Who am I in the face of all that you’ve endured? I’m not sure I have the answer, and maybe I never will. But I know that I’m someone who’s still learning, still searching, still trying to understand the ways in which our pain shapes us. Every scar you had, every wound you hid, they became a part of you. And in some way, they became a part of me too, because I see them reflected in the parts of myself I try so hard to hide.

It’s not easy, being vulnerable. You taught me that too. Vulnerability is terrifying—it feels like an invitation to be hurt. But you also showed me that it’s necessary. Without it, we’re just shells of ourselves, protecting what’s already broken. I think that’s what you did, Jude. You protected yourself so fiercely, so completely, that you couldn’t let anyone in, not really. Not even the people who loved you the most. And in the end, it cost you more than I think you ever realized.

But I don’t want that for myself, Jude. I don’t want to live in the shadows of my own life. I want to be seen, fully, even if it’s terrifying, even if it means risking more pain. I want to live in a way that honors you, that honors the love you couldn’t always accept. Because that’s what you deserve, Jude. You deserve to be remembered not just for your suffering, but for the way you kept showing up, even when it felt impossible.

It’s hard to grieve what you’ll never know. You’ll never know the answers to the questions that plagued you. You’ll never know how much you mattered, how deeply you were loved. And I’ll never know who I might be if I don’t let myself feel, fully, the way you never could.

But I just want answers, Jude. I want to know how to carry the weight of being alive without letting it crush me. I want to know how to love without fear, how to be without shame. I want to know how to look at myself and not see all the ways I’m not enough. But maybe those answers don’t exist. Maybe the only answer is to keep asking the questions, to keep living in the uncertainty, to keep trying to be better, kinder, more whole.

You didn’t get your answers, Jude, but you’ve given me mine in a way. You’ve shown me that we don’t always need the answers to keep going. Sometimes, the journey itself is enough. And that’s something I’ll carry with me, long after the nights have grown cold, long after the leaves have fallen.

Thank you, Jude, for showing me that even in the deepest darkness, there’s still something worth holding onto.

Always