We're used to seeing people die in TV shows and movies, we even cry when our favorite characters in stories die. But nothing can quite compare to the staggering sense of loss you feel when someone you truly loved, knew, and cared for is suddenly ripped out of your life and gone forever. That's the kind of sadness that a movie, tv show, or book can't distract you from. It's the kind of sadness that sits uncomfortably in your chest and threatens to burst out of you at any time.

If I can write from personal experience, I have been rather fortunate in terms of losing loved ones so far. I've been blessed with a rather happy, healthy family, and at twenty-one, I feel very lucky for this. However, there is one person I've lost whose death has impacted me strongly, and even five years later, I can't help but think about her constantly.

I lost my godmother to pancreatic cancer on October 30th, 2010. I was a junior in high school and had never even fathomed what it would be like to lose someone, let alone someone who, in my mind, was far too young to die. My godmother, fondly nicknamed by my family as "Poochie" because Mrs. Russo would have been too formal - was the brightest light I have ever seen. She loved unconditionally and selflessly, treating my two siblings and me as if we were her own. She was crazy in the best way - she'd run into the ocean fully clothed, or go exploring a marsh with my five-year-old brother in high heels - she did these things simply because she loved us, and she loved life.

I remember the denial I felt when my parents first told me she was sick - it didn't seem real, and I refused to believe it was serious. After all, Poochie was a survivor - she'd survived breast cancer before, and was the most upbeat, perky person I knew. There was no way she was actually sick again. It wasn't until we began to visit her in the hospital that I realized how sick she actually was.

And then it happened - in the blink of an eye - she was gone. One minute I was a sulky sixteen-year-old girl, throwing a fit because she couldn't go to a party, the next minute my world was sucked into a black hole of incomprehensible confusion. How could she have died? How had I missed the last goodbye?

The immediate aftermath of someone's death is overwhelming but easy - people all around you are sad, willing to comfort you, willing to listen and understand - it's once the funeral is over, and normal life resumes, that the truly hard part begins.

If you have ever lost someone important to you, you know the inescapable feeling that lies in your chest whenever you think about them. For weeks after her death, even when I felt "normal," I'd suddenly think about Poochie and my breathing would get more shallow, my face would flush, and bizarrely, I would always forget what I was supposed to do with my hands. I felt stupid and weak - I was always on the verge of tears and it felt like any little trigger might set me off.

But I think the saddest part about losing someone who meant the world to you is when you finally come to the realization about all the things you never got to do with them. I never got to bully Poochie into finishing the Harry Potterseries - even though I knew she would have loved it. I never got to be an adult with her - I was just a kid when she passed, and a part of me would give anything if I could just sit in the kitchen with her and have a glass of wine.

I have my memories of her - both a blessing and a curse at times. They sneak up on me, even five years later, when I least expect them to. Sometimes they make me laugh - like the time my godmother got in a fight with a woman at the National Spy Museum. Other times - like when she told my self-conscious and gawky 15-year-old self that I was beautiful, funny, and that she couldn't wait to see me do great things - these memories make me cry.

But my memories, both happy and sad, are what keep her alive, they're what keep her in my thoughts and in my heart. The pain of losing someone is horrible, but if anything, it shows you how lucky you were to have someone in your life that you loved that much. Five years later, I can tell a funny story about Poochie and not be sad when I'm remembering her, but something as silly as an Abba song she loved can still pang my heart. Losing a loved one is hard, and painful, but the ones we love never really leave us, so long as we keep them alive in our memories.