Talk to Me Thursday: The Text I Never Sent

I don't really know how to start this one, so I'm just going to start.

On July 31, we lost my cousin Ryan. Tragically. Suddenly. The kind of loss that doesn't feel real even when you're standing right in the middle of it.

I'm not writing this because I have it figured out. I'm writing this because putting it into words is the only way I know how to get some of this ache out of my chest, and because if there's one thing I want you to take from this post, it's this: you never know when it will be too late. So stop waiting.

Who Ryan Was to Me

Ryan and his parents, Larry and Sherri, are family in the truest sense — Larry is my dad's cousin, which on paper makes Ryan and me second cousins, but that word never captured what we actually were to each other. When I first moved to North Carolina, I lived with them. That time shaped some of my favorite memories, and Ryan and I got close in a way I'll be grateful for forever.

But it started long before that.

I was about Lennon's age — maybe a year younger — when my uncle passed away, and Ryan and his dad met us in Florida. I remember it in pieces the way you remember things from that age: swimming in a hotel pool, chasing frogs, sipping Shirley Temples while the dads cracked open a couple of brewskis nearby. We played pogs. (If you remember pogs, we're friends now.) Even at that age, grieving something I couldn't fully understand yet, Ryan made it feel like there was still room for fun. That was just who he was.

Fast forward to us as "adults" — and I use that term loosely, because most of our time together looked like two roommates throwing back beers, making a run for wings (waaannnngs), running errands for his dad, and somehow always finding time for a pit stop for a margarita and cheese dip he wasn't supposed to know about. Bonfires. Shenanigans. A little trouble. A lot of laughing.

That's the Ryan I keep coming back to this week. Not the tragedy. Him.

The Text I Never Sent

Here's the part that's been sitting on my chest like a stone.

The last time I talked to Ryan was on his birthday — the same day my family left for the beach. He told me how much he missed me. He said we should hang out soon. And I told him I would reach out once we got back from vacation.

I meant it. I really did. But a month is a long time to let pass when you say "soon."

Friday evening, on the way to dinner with family friends, I actually thought about him. About reaching out. About finally planning that cousin date we kept talking about and never scheduled. A few minutes later, he was gone.

I never sent the text. I never planned the hangout. And now I can't.

I don't know how to explain what that specific kind of regret feels like unless you've lived it. It's not just grief over losing someone — it's grief tangled up with almost. Almost reached out. Almost made the time. Almost got one more conversation. "Soon" turned into "too late" without any warning at all.

Sitting in It

I spent Saturday morning at Larry and Sherri's house. I didn't know what to say — I still don't, honestly — so I just showed up. I brought biscuits, because I knew they needed to eat something even if they didn't want to. I sat with them. I watched his parents cry, and it wrecked me in a way I wasn't prepared for. Watching the people who raised him carry that kind of pain — there's nothing that makes that easier to witness.

It still doesn't feel real. I keep waiting for it to.

What I Want You to Take From This

I'm not writing this for sympathy. I'm writing it because I think a lot of us are walking around with our own version of "I'll reach out soon." A friend you've been meaning to call. A cousin you keep meaning to see. A person you love who you assume will still be there next month, next season, next "when things calm down."

I assumed that too. I was wrong.

So if this is your sign — text them. Call them. Show up at their door with nothing but yourself. Don't wait for the right time, because none of us are promised one.

Ryan, I'm so grateful for every pool day, every wing night, every bonfire, every bit of trouble we got into. I'm going to miss you more than words can hold. I love you, cousin.

🤍 Katie

If you're walking through your own version of grief right now, I see you. You don't have to have the words figured out either.