She left with the words “I love you, I'll be back home tonight.” But Andie never came back and instead, her bike was found 60 miles away on the Golden Gate Bridge. I was 16, and she was only 21. The initial shock. The overwhelming grief. The insidious guilt. If only I… Why didn’t I… I should have known… In that moment of crisis, if I could have changed anything, I would have changed everything. In the following weeks ironically, yet statistically predictably, I developed intense suicidal ideation. Death felt inevitable, yet impossible. I couldn’t put my family through that again, and I pretended I was okay. Over the next two years, I overwhelmed myself with work, a distraction from the all-consuming thoughts in my head. I tried to comfort my parents, who never cry, as they broke down everyday. I built a coop for the chickens Andie wanted to rescue, immersed myself in environmental causes, and created a NAMI chapter at my high school. I supported a suicidal boyfriend who refused to get treatment and who I eventually called a 5150 for. I maintained a rigorous course load and was later accepted into Stanford. By the end, I was so burnt out. I had thought that I was done grieving for my sister, I thought the emotional turbulence inside had burned out too and I would return back to normal. But when I went to this new place, this fresh start at Stanford, I was faced once again with triggers and overwhelming emotions. The question “Do you have any siblings?” 2 or 3, 3 or 2... Living in the Bay Area, the Golden Gate Bridge was everywhere—a symbol of hope for many, yet to me the blood-red bridge is a literal symbol of death. My birthday and her death day, perpetually taunting that soon I will be older than my oldest sister. Lastly, the silence. This is a fundamental part of my life, but I cannot talk about it. It is perpetually living with an invisible scar, a pain you cannot express because you do not know how to and even if you did, people don’t understand or don’t know how to respond. Eventually, I realized that there was no returning to my old way of life. This is the new normal and there is a new me. I began to accept that it is okay to tell people about this part of me precisely because it is a fundamental part of my life. That I can unapologetically wear my scars but still be more than just girl whose sister died by suicide. This changed me but it does not define me. Opening up to people and them opening up to me was the most healing thing I experienced. I realized that I wasn’t alone, everyone else had their own problems and challenges they were working through. I learned it was okay to not be okay and it was important to get help. After years of bottling up my feelings, I finally processed and unpacked what was going on inside of me. Only then did I begin to prioritize my well-being over trying to do as much as possible. For those who have also lost a sibling to suicide, I want you to know that you are not alone, you should not be ashamed, and I encourage you to be vulnerable with yourself and with others. Most importantly, take time for yourself for that gives you strength to continue. We cannot change our past, however, we can use that past, those hardships and experiences, to shape a better future.