Originally shared to Social Media on December 14, 2019
Today would have been my friend Evan’s 29th birthday.
In the car this morning, I was thinking about his lasting impact on my life, and wanted to honor him in some way. So in each of my 6 classes today, I told my students we were starting with story time.
I told them about my time doing theater, and what it meant for me. About how impressive it was for a Freshman to be cast in mainstage shows like he was. How he was funny and weird and talented, and how even after I graduated, I loved going back to LHS to workshop with him, cheer him on, and support the program. How, after he graduated, I only saw him a couple of times, but that that’s sort of normal and expected when you grow up: it didn’t mean there was a problem, just that it’s possible to care about someone even if you aren’t really close.
I didn’t tell them what happened, just that he was gone and we were surprised.
But then I told them about the most important lesson I’ve ever learned: as I sat at Evan’s funeral, I looked around at so many people I hadn’t seen in years. People I’d barely spoken to since graduation, but still hugged tightly and held on to and cried with. People who, like me, hadn’t seen Evan in a year or two, but were absolutely devastated. How, at that moment, I realized that if Evan had made a list of all the people who cared about him, he probably wouldn’t have put me on that list- but I did. And I still do.
I’ve always been nervous about talking about what Evan means to me, because the friends we had in common were in his graduating class, and they were much closer to him, had more memories with him, knew more about him.. But grief isn’t a contest, and the idea that only the people who know and love you best are allowed to say they loved you is.. part of what feeds isolation. Me sharing my grief isn’t taking anything away from those who knew Evan better- grief is not a zero sum game- in fact, it is a balm we all need to feel loved and valued.
Because if it’s possible for me to deeply mourn the death of a friend I’d drifted away from, then it’s likely that that would be true for me as well: that for every one of us, there are almost certainly dozens of people who love us- that we would never count among our loved ones. That in our time of great sadness, disconnection, and loneliness, there are, without a doubt, people who hold us in their hearts, even if they don’t demand our attention. That we are so cared for, and so valued, even if we don’t always feel it.
It’s difficult to feel loved in our culture. We’re so conditioned to believe that only our immediate family and intimate partner relationships count… when we are every day creating connections and touching lives and co-writing stories that will end up meaning so much to those people when we’re gone.
I think about Evan all the time when I’m thinking about theater, about high school, about my earliest teaching internships (one was volunteering for Major at LHS, so I worked with him then). About Schmendemin, and him pushing me around in an antique wheelchair, and helping him set up his prose binder, and watching him scribble on a whiteboard, and him coming over to my house to prepare for musical auditions, and working on the Musical program and designing multiple ads for him every year and.. and…
And he had no idea that I cared about him, because I had no reason to tell him- because at that point in my life, I hadn’t learned how important it is to validate the people you care about, and communicate your affection for your casual acquaintances. To reach out on occasion and reinforce old connections. To value the silent cheerleaders.
So today, I looked each of my students in the eye and told them, “You are more loved already than you will ever know. And the longer you live, the more people will love you. You matter. You’re important. You’re not alone. Don’t forget how much people are quietly caring about you. Don’t forget to tell people how much you care about them.”
And now, I’m telling you.
You are more loved than you could possibly realize.
Your impact on this world is greater than you know.
Every day, people think about you and smile, unbeknownst to you. The stars are as bright as the sun, just farther away. Just because you cannot feel their warmth, do not forget the beauty of their light.
You matter.
I’m so glad that you are here, and living.
Please Stay.
Happy Birthday, Evan.
Gloria Adams 