"They say death is hardest on the living. It’s tough to actually say goodbye. Sometimes it’s impossible. You never really stop feeling the loss. It’s what makes things so bittersweet. We leave little bits of ourselves behind, little reminders, a lifetime of memories, photos, trinkets, things to remember us by… even when we’re gone." -Grey's Anatomy

Today makes 365 days that you’ve been gone. That’s 365 days of no phone calls, no surprise visits, no coffee and cake dates. No watching Young and The Restless in the afternoon, no picking you up to go eat your Thursday lunch special at your favorite spot.

365 days. Yet somehow it feels like just yesterday.

365 days to heal, to question to sometimes become bitter. To cope, to face that reality that you’re gone. To come to terms that you won’t be in the crowd at my college graduation; that you won’t walk down the aisle before me at my wedding; that you won’t watch me raise a family. 365 days of wanting to call you the second anything happens in my life, whether it was going back to the major I loved, or just wanting to tell you about my day. 365 days of hoping that I’m making you proud.

365 days. That’s a lot of time. It might not seem like it to some, but a lot can happen in just one year. “Give it time,” they say. “It’ll all get better. You’ll heal, you’ll move on.” I’m not so sure they’re right, because 365 days later, and I miss you just as much as I did when we said goodbye in the hospital.

Grandma’s always have a special relationship with their granddaughters. Ours was no different. You taught me what grace and class was, you were one of the first role models I looked up to as a little girl. Sleepovers at your house with my Barbie suitcase and purple boombox were my favorite. You gave me my love for cooking, as well as my love for dressing up.

You were my very best friend, the pea to my pod. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss you or think about you, and even another 365 days won’t change that.

Here’s the reality for anyone who has ever lost a loved one: we’re never ready to say goodbye. Even 365 more days with you here wouldn’t have been enough. I would’ve still fought just as hard for one more phone call, one more visit.

One more chance to thank you. To thank you for teaching me to always give people of the doubt. For teaching me how to always look for the good in any situation, especially in people. I try each day to live my life more and more like yours, to go out of my way to love and care for people in the selfless way that you always did. To forgive people without ever getting an apology, to pray for people when it is the hardest thing to do.

To have a faith that was never shaken.

I’ll never forget one of our very last conversations before you got so sick. It was a month before, on the six-year anniversary of the death of your son. You said, “I don’t know what God’s plan was for taking him, and I may never know. Do I question it? All the time. But I still believe He has a plan.”

I don’t know what God’s plan was for taking you. I may never know. Do I question it? All the time. But I still believe He has a plan.