More than Her Death: Remembering My Sister Lisa

It’s been nearly 18 months since I lost my sister, Lisa, to suicide. The grief journey has been long, complicated, and filled with unexpected turns. What I remember most about her today is not just how she died—but how she lived.

What I Remember Most About Lisa

If you were to ask me what I remember most about my sister, two things come to mind immediately: her humor and her generosity. Lisa was absolutely hilarious—easily one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. Sometimes she didn’t even try; it was just who she was. I’ll never forget the time, after years of struggling with weight loss, she looked at me and said: “Denise… Jesus ain’t gonna come down and knock those Timbits outta your hand!” Classic Lisa—blunt and ridiculously funny.

She was also one of the most giving people I’ve ever met. She gave freely—her time, her money, whatever she had. Lisa regularly collected and donated clothes, shoes, and toys for families in need. She gave from the heart. This is what I would tell you now, nearly eighteen months after she died by suicide.

The Early Days of Grief

If you had asked me in the weeks following her death, though, I probably would’ve told you a very different story—one focused on her ten-month struggle with depression and anxiety. Back then, every memory of Lisa was overshadowed by her illness and her death.

The “firsts” without her—birthdays, holidays, family milestones—only deepened the ache. They were sharp reminders of what I had lost. Her death didn’t just take her away physically. It took possibility. I would never again spend time picking out a “sister” birthday card. There would be no more gifts labeled “To Lisa.” Without knowing it, I had already hosted our last family gathering with her present.

The Weight of Unanswered Questions

I was gutted. Why didn’t she stay? For me? For her daughter? For her grandchildren, her cousin… even her cat? I asked myself what more I could have done. What I missed. What I could have said. Grief can be cruel like that—layered with guilt and relentless in its questioning.

Understanding Suicide Through a New Lens

It’s taken time—nearly eighteen months—for me to understand something essential: Lisa’s suicide wasn’t about me. It wasn’t a choice between me and death. Her depression created blinders—she was in the tunnel. She couldn’t see beyond the pain, couldn’t see us, couldn’t see another way forward. To her, dying wasn’t a choice so much as the only escape from the anguish she felt—a mistaken belief that she was a burden, that there was no hope. I now know her death wasn’t a rejection of us—it was a symptom of a mind in pain.

She Lived, Too

What I’ve come to realize is this: Lisa’s legacy doesn’t have to be framed by depression. Her story doesn’t have to end with suicide. Because Lisa lived! She was an amazing sister, mom, and grandma. She was a bold, ambitious businesswoman who built a residential moving company from scratch and made nearly a quarter of a million dollars in her first eighteen months of business! She was my best friend, my travel buddy, and my partner in crime. We had plans—so many things we were still going to do. Lisa, like all of us, was a beautifully complex human being. Strong and struggling. Hopeful and hurting. Loving and flawed.

No One Is Just One Moment

As we approach the two-year mark since her passing, I hold onto this truth: no one should be defined by a single moment—not the moment they died, and not the moments those left behind replay over and over, wondering what we could have done differently. People—and relationships—are always more than one event. We are the sum of thousands of moments, both messy and meaningful.

Where Compassion Begins

Somewhere in that realization, forgiveness lives. So does empathy. So does healing. Compassion is born in the understanding that Lisa didn’t choose death to hurt us—she chose it because she couldn’t see another way. She believed it was the only way to end her pain.

Carrying Her with Me

I will always be Denise—Lisa’s big sister. And I will carry her with me, always. I’ll still travel and go to the places we were going to visit together. I’ll do my best to recreate her famous recipes. Maybe I’ll even ride my bike again. Because remembering Lisa means honoring not just how she died—but how she lived.

Peace,