In Grief's Embrace: Move Forward, Not On.

Dear Brunei,

This is a letter I've written to someone dear to me, as part of a reflection assignment during my time as a first year counseling student. I want to share this letter with you because dealing with loss and grief is a universal experience that everyone has to go through in the course of their lives. Yet, the pain of such a journey is often not discussed due to its 'taboo' nature, making one feel vulnerable. Feeling vulnerable can be uncomfortable, yet it becomes empowering when spoken aloud. Although I've made slight changes to fit the format of the #DearBrunei blog page, the message I'm trying to convey remains very much the same: You don't ever need to move on from someone you've lost; you only need to move forward.

As I reflect on a letter dedicated to the memory of a personal mentor, my best friend were the first person who came to mind, My best friend, who reached out to the 15-year-old me, an unruly, attention-seeking adolescent yearning for love. There are countless things I wish to express my gratitude for, and I understand that a single letter cannot encompass them all. Nevertheless, I want to articulate some of the invaluable lessons my best friend has instilled in me that I wish all of my Bruneian peers can benefit from. When my best friend received the diagnosis of diabetes, she approached it with a smile, even though there might have been fear or denial lurking beneath. Her strength, the way she carried this burden without burdening a child like me, is a strength I deeply admire. My best friend were very much older than me, but our age gap never stop our friendship from blossoming, yet I've never thought she would be the first loss I will ever encounter in my life.

One memory stands out vividly — the day she patiently taught me how to drive, offering reassurance and encouragement. Even with an amputated limb, she made time and expended energy for me, all without a hint of complaint. The truth is, I've never felt good enough for anyone or anything, but realizing how she made space for me made me question that belief. Many people commented on how "strong" she was in facing this disease, often failing to acknowledge that she had no choice in the matter. I often thought about how people use the word "strong" to describe a person facing a terminal illness, and how suffocating that label can be. To this day I still suspect that she didn't want to be strong, she wanted to cry, to breakdown, but she held it all in for the people around her when others should've be the ones to be strong for her, not vice versa. Confronting the disease was the only path she could take, yet she showed everyone that when confronted with adversity, we have the option to embrace resilience. Witnessing her resilience gives me the strength to believe in myself once more, to believe that I am indeed good enough, that I'm not a burden to everyone around me — because I would never see her in that light as well. It also inspires me to assist others who are grappling with suffering, helping them find meaning in their experiences, and in doing so, I hope they discover growth and a will to live on.

Apart from her resilience, I also want to express a lesson I've learned on how to navigate the depths of grief. In my lifetime, I have encountered various losses, but none hit me as profoundly as hers did. I live with a constant regret of not spending enough time with her during moments when she needed me the most. I hope — I know — she'll find it in her soul to forgive me. To be honest, I was already grieving before her passing. I will always feel sorry for abruptly ending our calls and for not texting her as frequently as I should have. Part of me once believed that distancing myself would make her loss easier, but it never did. It was only after losing her that I realized the importance of living in the ‘here and now’. Although time does heal the wound, every now and then, the scars it left behind prove that I still grapple with how to handle this loss. And that's okay; it's normal. It's normal because when a person has touched you deeply, their scars serve as a reminder of the love they've given you, that the love is still yours to keep. The comforting touch of a pat, the smell of their shampoo, the sound of them walking behind you —such memories leave behind scars that are often unbearable but oddly comforting. Moving forward doesn't mean abandoning the person we've lost; it means carrying them within us. They live through our heart and soul. If there’s one good thing I’ve gained from loss, #DearBrunei — is the void that constantly reminds me to accumulate what makes me feel good and loved, and that usually comes from a house of deep gratitude for what I already have at the moment.

#DearBrunei, it’s true that when we lose someone, we may never truly move on, and that's a good thing, because we never have to. If there's one advice I can give you when it comes to coping with loss and grief, is that we can always choose to move forward with the best of our loved ones. Their hearts, stories, and lessons are alive within us, and one day, our hearts, stories, and lessons will be passed down as well.

If you're still reading this, thank you so much for supporting the #DearBrunei initiative! Writing letters can be a lot of work (especially if you're a perfectionist like me) but it can be extremely healing and comforting. If you're ready to share your most vulnerable journey with Brunei, please send your letters to dearbrunei@gmail.com and shoot me a dm on Instagram @crescendorui because I would love to read your mental health journey too! To my best friend, thank you for the enduring lessons you've imparted to me, they not only altered the trajectory of my life but also shaped my counseling career in a meaningful way. As I continue to grow, I promise to carry forward your heart of resilience and the significant lesson of living in the present.

With a heartfelt gratitude,

Dorcas Fu