The day the world heard of Liam Payne’s death was the same day I heard about my sister’s

It began around 2 a.m on Thursday.

I was settling into bed, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram one last time. A friend’s story caught my eye: news of Liam Payne’s passing. I couldn’t believe it.

I was never a Directioner, but even I understood the magnitude of the loss. Those men had once held an entire generation in a chokehold. And now, one of them was gone.

Curiosity pulled me deeper, and when I found the cause of his death, my heart broke.

So unnecessary. So painful. It shouldn’t have happened.

I stayed awake a little longer, as my thoughts were consumed by the finality of death. It’s a different type of pain, I think— knowing that for one person, the book is closed, their story done on earth. There’s no going back, no rewriting. Only the memory of them remains.

Seven hours later.

I was preparing for an appointment at immigration when my phone rang. The call wasn’t meant for me, and it was obvious right away. The voice on the other end stumbled over words, apologizing for something I didn’t yet understand. Their tone shifted sharply when I asked what they were talking about, and then they hung up.

I panicked. I started hyperventilating, texting friends in desperation as I sank lower to the rug under me. I wasn’t okay. Something was wrong — terribly wrong — but I didn’t know what.

I went about my day feeling like I was dragging an anchor through the hours. My heart was heavy, my eyes damp. A gnawing dread clawed at my chest. I couldn’t shake the sense that someone I loved was gone.

But never, not in my darkest imagination, did I think it would be her.

Hours later, my brother and cousin (who I now refer to as my brother) confirmed the feeling I’d painfully carried all day. It was done tactfully.

My sister was dead.

For a moment, the world felt like it had collapsed inward. My body stayed still, but my mind spun violently in place. And by the time I heard the cause, something like rocks settled in my stomach.

So unnecessary. So painful. It shouldn’t have happened.

The tears came fast, unrelenting. I wasn’t crying so much as unraveling. I was sick.

Sunday morning.

I couldn’t summon the strength to go to church. I stayed in bed, waking up with a song in my head — Peterson Okopi’s Osuba. It felt strange, almost misplaced, but the melody refused to leave me.

Eventually, I played it on my phone, letting it fill the room. For the first time, lyrics I’d never considered in the context of grief took on a deep, sharp clarity.

And I wept. My body shook with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than my chest. My heart was crying, too — pleading for solace, for God to ease the ache.

But as the song repeated, my tears began to slow. The words settled in my spirit, like gentle hands brushing over my wounds. I wasn’t healed, not by a long shot, but for a moment, I felt held. I was held.

The words settled in my spirit, like a whisper from God Himself. It really wasn’t a loud, dramatic moment — just a quiet assurance, a reminder that He was there. That He had always been there.

Grief is a storm, but I felt the presence of One who walks on water. The presence of One who can sleep peacefully in a raging storm.

It was as if God reached into the depths of my sorrow and cradled my heart in His hands. His comfort wasn’t a solution or a fix — it was simply Him.

The pain wasn’t absent, and boy, did it hurt. My tears still weren’t entirely done from mourning my uncle who had passed two months prior, but this comfort was great. Nobody living on earth could provide it.

I can’t explain how, but in the midst of the brokenness, I knew He was good. Even when life in that moment was anything but good, He remained good. Faithful. Steadfast. Merciful. His love doesn’t erase the ache, but I wasn’t alone.

And so, just like David who had mourned for days stood up from his bent position, washed himself and ate, I found the strength to get myself something to eat.

Grief is a strange, unwieldy thing. It’s not linear. It doesn’t follow a neat trajectory, and there’s no manual, no roadmap for how to navigate it. Some days you’ll feel like you’re drowning, others like you’re barely wading through.

Please know that there is no right way to grieve. There’s no timetable to show when to cry. Tears spill whenever — on the bus, when working, in prayer, in the midst of people, when you hear that song, or when you remember that joke.

There’s no checklist to show how grieving should been done for that day. Grieving that day may be finding courage to play that song you know they loved so much, on repeat. Grieving that day may be laughing about the fights you had that now seem petty. It may be buying a bottle of perfume because that scent reminds you of them. It may be remembering their quirks and flaws, and how you loved them wholeheartedly in spite of it. In fact, what you would give to have them back with those exact quirks.

You simply exist in its shadow until, slowly, it becomes a part of you. You welcome this new roommate no matter how uncomfortable they make you feel. You welcome this new roommate without knowing when they’ll pack up and leave. You welcome them knowing there will be good days and bad days. You somehow learn to live with it. You learn to keep going, even as it shifts and changes within you.

I saw a post the other day that pretty much describes what grief really does feel like. They likened it to having a pin in your pocket. You may forget about it for a bit until it pokes you.

If someone you know is grieving, please be kind. Then is not the time for unnecessary talk. Know that your presence matters more than your words. You don’t have to fix their pain, because you can’t. However, hold space for their grief. Don’t encourage them to stifle their tears or try to distract them from it. Grief is not a problem to solve or dismiss; it’s a weight to be carried. It’s a weight to be shared, and sometimes, your quiet company is the greatest gift you can give.

Again, be kind.

And to you who is grieving, please — be gentle with yourself. Be patient. Because healing and patience are lovers.