Forgetting—And Honoring—The Dead

It was my sister’s 39th birthday last Tuesday.

I forgot it.

I’ve never been much of a birthday person myself. Maybe that stems from the fact that one of the earliest memories I have of being genuinely excited for my birthday, my sister died three months later.

Now, my birthday is just a day where I seem to receive more compliments than usual.

Grief is complicated.

After she died—Carrie is her name—I was terrified to forget her. I made sure to keep her in my thoughts every minute of every day of every week. Back then, at just nine years old, I couldn't grasp the concept of permanence, so I thought that to remember someone, I couldn't ever let myself forget them. I was constantly, furiously drawing pictures of Carrie, reading her journals, writing in my own, writing letters to her, talking to her.

Talking about her would take time.

Inevitably, there came a time when I lapsed—just for a fleeting moment!—in my never-ending thought train of Carrie. And in that instant, I felt overwhelming guilt. I thought to myself, "She doesn’t get to be here anymore; it’s the least I can do, to think about her."

As it turns out, solitary thoughts can't preserve someone's memory or legacy.

When we die, we stop making new memories. And, significantly, others stop creating memories of us. We become fixed in time, frozen in the moments we experienced while alive. There are no opportunities to rewrite the story, to grow, or to shape the narrative. Our legacies become intertwined with the interpretations of those who knew us. The interesting part of these interpretations is that no two people see the same thing or person in the same way. The only person who truly understood all the intricacies of Carrie’s mind was Carrie herself. And now, there's no way to ask her about it.

Because I was so young when Carrie passed away, my most vivid memories of her revolve around her battle with cancer. My "memories" of her from healthier times are only told through stories.

For example, I really feel like I was there when my brother Luke and she had an all-out photo war. He chased her around the house trying to get a bad photo of her, but it proved impossible. She always cracked a smile at the last minute. I know this because I’ve pored over those few photos for hours and hours, trying to put myself in the scene.

Over time, new memories begin to overshadow the stagnant ones. Significant life events occur without that person. In spite of my survivor's guilt, I continued to grow up, and I eventually became older than Carrie would ever be.

But how could I forget?

As it turns out, the true way someone lives on is through collective memory. By 'collective memory,' I mean the shared recollections and stories that a group of people hold about a person who has died. It's the combined interpretations of our individual memories, anecdotes, and experiences, which collectively form a mosaic of their existence. It's a truly treasured gift when new memories appear, new evidence to add to the mosaic.

My family and I put in substantial effort to remember—together. It was often painful and challenging. I remember one time in the car, asking about Carrie, and noticing it made my mom cry. I didn’t have the emotional intelligence yet to know that I wasn’t the reason she was crying. At nine years old, I took that emotional burden on. If it were up to me, I would never have brought her up again.

And this is how people’s memory dies with them.

Nevertheless, we all knew, even if unconsciously, that we wouldn't allow ourselves to forget.

It was pretty difficult to talk about her with each other for several years. Seeing our grief reflected on others’ faces made it real in a way that felt too difficult to recognize or articulate. I remember sitting around the dining room table one night at dinner, when someone timidly brought Carrie up in the context of the story. Far from being easy, it actually halted the whole conversation. The table fell silent until someone else spoke to keep the conversation rolling—and it wasn't about Carrie.

We all went to a lot of 1:1 therapy, group therapy, grief camps, and as many resources and communities our parents could find for us. They are truly the most wonderful parents and I am forever in awe of how they led us through this time. They knew on behalf of us all that we could not fall victim to the very human instinct to run away from the pain that comes with confronting our grief.

It occurs to me now that after death, specific days become much more significant to the rest of us. I'm able to say "I'm not much of a birthday person" because I have 364 other days of the year to make memories. It can truly just be another day, if I want it to be. Her birthday feels extra important because there are simply no other opportunities to build memories of or with her. And the other unfortunate thing about death is that the rest of the world doesn’t really know how to interact with your loved one, either. A birthday or a death date are the days it’s socially acceptable to grieve, no matter how much time has passed.

When I realized I’d forgotten her birthday, I had a pang of guilt in my gut. I may as well have been nine again, forgetting her for the first time.

“I am a bad sister,” I thought.

That thought didn't stick, though. Because I know, as you now know too, that the way to remember someone isn’t through solitary thought. I'm starting to understand that honoring someone’s spirit might be even more important than remembering them every single moment. The years of hard work, where we trained ourselves to talk about Carrie even when it hurt, have meant that the next generation—Carrie’s nieces and nephews—talk about her as if she were still here. I'm often moved when I hear them mention Aunt Carrie so casually.

On Tuesday, at the very moment I was forgetting it was Carrie’s birthday, I was actively thinking, “she’d be so proud of me.” That's because on Tuesday, at nearly twice the age she’ll forever be—18—we sold our business. Throughout the last seven years of growing this business, I have turned to her often. I’ve asked her for advice in the low moments, I’ve asked her for praise in the high moments. I’ve had so many conversations with her about this business over the last seven years, I can almost hear her response.

"You've got this."

I often wonder what Carrie would be doing now if she were still here. I see glimpses of what her future could have looked like in the most unexpected moments.

Two weeks ago, I saw her so clearly in her best friend, a supermom of three who started and ran her own nonprofit. It surprised me how much it took my breath away, watching her manage her kids. It was like I could see Carrie’s silhouette, fully grown, with kids of her own.

Last summer, while I was out to breakfast with my niece, I was struck by just how similar her dry humor is to Carrie’s. I saw Carrie in her eyes, almost as if she was saying hello. (By the way, I believe I told my niece this then and she looked at me like I had three heads. I can always count on kids to humble me.)

I owe so much of who I am to Carrie's influence. I write to honor her. I create to honor her. I build to honor her. I've dedicated my career to uplifting women, all in her honor. Even my specialty—branding—is in her honor. I help others take control of their stories while they still can.

The path I've chosen of building a business is one I could have envisioned for her. And I genuinely believe that I deeply honored Carrie on Tuesday, even as I momentarily forgot the specifics.

I'm glad I forgot. It reminded me that remembering someone doesn't mean holding onto their memory every second of every day—and it certainly isn't confined to two days a year. Remembering someone happens daily in subtle ways, when we see traces of them in unexpected places. It's in my niece's thirst for life and love for dancing, or in the spunk and determination of a friend who's never even met her. Perhaps, honoring someone's spirit is a way of remembering that's even more powerful than never forgetting.

So, as I celebrate my sister's memory, even on the days when I forget, I cherish those moments when I glimpse her, fully grown, in the world around me.

If you feel compelled to contribute to Carrie’s collective memory, her friends established a scholarship in her name several years ago. You can make a donation here:

1. Select the donation amount. 
2. Go to "Tribute Gift" and select "In memory of" 
3. Write in Carolyn Shepard.