When Michael was still here on this earth, the words “I love you more” carried so much weight. It wasn’t just a phrase; it was a promise, a reflection of every choice I made because of him. It meant I loved him more than tacos, which is why I always let him have bites of mine. It meant I loved him more than giving up on our relationship despite complicated family dynamics.
It meant I loved him more than a full night’s sleep because sometimes he needed me awake to help him breathe through anxiety attacks. It meant I loved him more than walking away when his temper flared, or letting others come between us. It meant I loved him more than doubting him, instead always giving him the benefit of the doubt, even when it was hard.
It meant I loved him more than letting people tell me he wasn’t good enough for me, standing firmly for him and for us. It meant I loved him more than having the last slice of pizza—I always let him have it. It meant I loved him more than sleeping alone in a queen-size bed when I could snuggle with him in a twin. It meant I loved him more than staying angry at him for small mistakes, choosing instead to laugh at life’s absurdities together. It meant I loved him more than enabling him; I loved him enough to push him, to be honest, to challenge him, because he deserved my best, always.
It meant I loved him more than throwing his Mets hat out of the car in frustration, more than going to bed angry, more than missing a chance to hold his hand. It meant I loved him more than ignoring the quiet, sweet moments—his smiles in sleep, the giant, kind heart that defined him. It meant I loved him more than judging his addictions, more than denying any part of who he was. He was flawed, yes, but to me, perfect in ways no one else could see.
Now that he’s gone, “I love you more” has taken on an entirely new meaning. It means I love him more than letting grief consume me, more than letting sadness swallow me whole. It means I love him more than shutting myself off from joy, more than allowing guilt over his death to dictate my days. It means I love him more than hiding from love, more than letting fear hold me back.
It means I love him more than avoiding his grandmother, his favorite person in the world, or skipping songs that remind me of him. It means I love him more than lying about my anger at being left behind, remembering that he didn’t leave by choice. It means I love him more than holding grudges or letting life’s unfairness blind me to the truth: he was taken by a powerful illness, not by a lack of love. It means I love him more than only crying when I think of him, choosing instead to smile and cherish the memories we made over twelve beautiful years, and especially in those last four months.
It means I love him more than avoiding places or foods that trigger memories. It means I love him more than letting judgment silence me from sharing his story, more than chasing people who can’t handle my grief. It means I love him more than being stopped by my broken heart from fulfilling his dreams—writing his book, traveling to the places he wanted to see. It means I love him more than impatience with myself, more than refusing to feel the pain of loss. I love him more than shame, more than silence, more than letting his memory fade.
I love him more than allowing him to be remembered only as an addict. He was so much more. I love him more than fear, more than giving up, more than failing to keep walking forward even on my weakest days. I love him more than anything else, because in every step I take, in every choice I make, I carry him with me, letting his love guide me to honor his life and fight the demons he battled.
One year ago today, my world was shattered. Everything changed; nothing looks or feels the same without him. Yet one thing remains: my love for Michael.
Michael… you were my “why” then, and you are my “why” now. You called me your angel, and now you are mine. I know you’re okay. I know you are here. Keep flying high, my love.
I love you. I love you more.
In Loving Memory of SMY. 11/8/89 – 8/25/18
