Occasionally I look down at my phone on the trek between classes, read a text message, and smile. Maybe it’s my mom sending me a cute picture of my dog, or my roommate sharing a funny story about her day. Or maybe the group chat is poppin’ and that one kid who never has any homework is busy sending memes.
This time, however, it was different. I read the text message but didn’t smile. Instead, my normally hasty walk came to a sudden halt. My vision became blurry, my muscles became weak, and panic swept over my body with a powerful, suffocating grip. It felt like I had just taken a blow to the chest, and now I was left to deal with the throbbing, perpetual pain.
As I fumbled to type in the four-digit passcode to unlock my iPhone, I refused to accept that what I read was true. I kept hoping I misread it the first time, or that my foggy vision was preventing me from seeing things clearly. Or maybe I did read the message correctly, but it was some type of cruel, messed-up joke.
Turns out, it wasn’t. My friend and teammate of five years, Noah, had been hit by a car and killed. He was eighteen-years-old, just two weeks away from finishing his first semester of college. I would never have the chance to see or talk to him again, and I just couldn’t wrap my head around it.
I remember walking back to my dorm after hearing the news, passing hundreds of people along the way. It was the first time I felt so isolated and alone while being completely surrounded by others. For everyone else, it was a normal Wednesday afternoon. For me, it was the day everything came crashing down.
Those people who passed me had no idea that something was wrong. They couldn’t see the pain I was experiencing. I was just another student taking up space on the sidewalk, standing in the way. As a result, I suffered in isolation and behind closed doors.
In the weeks following the accident, my days were hijacked by frustration, panic-attacks, and emotional turmoil. The bathroom became my newest hiding spot, silence became my coping mechanism, and the morning became my favorite time of day. For a split second each time I woke up, I felt a tiny bit of hope that Noah was still here, hope that it was all just some terrible dream. That is, until seconds later when reality began to settle in again.
Now, nine-months post Noah’s death, this hope hasn’t gone away. I still haven’t come to terms with what happened. Truthfully, I don’t know if I ever will. The tears have stopped and so have the panic attacks, but the pain is constant. It’s something I’m learning to accept, as much as I wish I didn’t have to.
I find comfort knowing that Noah’s time on Earth may have been short, but his impact was profound. His presence is felt by me, and countless others, every single day. Through it all, Noah’s life and the way he lived has taught me more than I ever could’ve imagined.
So this is what I believe: life is incredibly short, and tomorrow is not a guarantee. In the blink of an eye, everything that seems normal can change, and someone or something can be taken away. For this reason, we must always take the time to appreciate what we have, when we have it. We must tell our family, friends, and loved ones how much they mean to us when we still have the chance. We must live in the moment and make every second count, while also taking the time to recognize that the people all around us are going through something and facing personal, uphill battles we know nothing about.
Ultimately, I believe that we should all live more like Noah. We should smile, laugh, live freely and fearlessly, and radiate positivity and kindness in all directions. By doing so, we can ensure that my friend’s bright light will continue to shine on this Earth for generations to come.