Some losses don’t fade with time.
They stay in the body, looping in images you never asked to carry.
Five years ago, my sister died. What haunts me most isn’t only that she passed away — it’s how she was found. She had been alone in her apartment for a week before anyone knew. She struggled with addiction and her health was fragile, and our relationship was complicated. I carry a lot of guilt about that.
I can’t get the image out of my head — of her being there, undiscovered. I think about the indignity of it all: her final days, being found that way, everything that followed. What hurts most is the feeling that her journey ended alone.
I never got to stroke her hair one last time or tell her how much I loved her. That absence feels unfinished, like a goodbye that never arrived. I’ve tried to reason my way through it. I’ve spent time in therapy. I’ve told myself that once someone has passed, the physical details shouldn’t matter. But grief doesn’t live in logic. It lives in images and unanswered tenderness.
I’m still a young woman, and I live alone. After losing my sister, I realised that part of my grief is tied to one simple fear: being alone and undiscovered in the same way. Not because I’m afraid of living independently — I value that deeply — but because I don’t want the people who love me carrying the same images I carry now.
That’s why I use Solo Alert.
It doesn’t monitor me or interfere with my life. I check in, and nothing happens. I go about my day. And only if I don’t check in does anyone else need to know. That small, quiet reassurance has brought me a sense of dignity and peace I didn’t realise I was missing.
My grief hasn’t disappeared. But knowing I won’t be alone in that way — knowing I’ll be found — has eased something in me. It’s helped me feel safer, calmer, and more held, while still living fully on my own terms.
Sometimes grief doesn’t ask us to move on.
Sometimes it asks us to make meaning — and to choose care, gently, for ourselves.
