Try listening to the story instead of reading it!

My Little Falls reached out to Jordyan Mueller after reading this post on her Facebook page. We thought that her words might help others process what they’re feeling.

by Jordyan Mueller

I wrote this post on Monday night but have been sitting with it, really trying to understand what my intention is here. I feel impacted. I feel sad. I feel heartbroken for the families and children of Matt and Jason. But who the fuck am I? And why does any of what I have to say matter at all in the face of intense grief others are experiencing?

At this current juncture in my professional career, I’m using my story to train other people on how to help young people in crisis. So, I’ve been going back to my childhood quite a bit. Jason and his family are embedded in the composition of my story. His passing brings up a lot. And I think it brings up a lot for SO MANY people.

So, I guess my intention here is about a deeply personal process of trying to make sense of what living means.

If it helps anyone, great. If it doesn’t but someone might come to know me more, I’ll be fine with that. To the people I know who were close to Jason or Matt, PLEASE know that you are heavy on my mind.

I want to do something to alleviate your pain. There’s more action I want to take but all I can do is start here.
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In 2015, I was living in Brooklyn. I had found and built a family in a few close friends and because of them, I had a lot of realizations about myself and my life and it was wild and bright and beautiful.

And then one night in early August, our close friend went to sleep and never woke up the next morning.

KC’s death just so happened to coincide with the birth of my absolute best friend’s baby boy. The coupling of those experiences, life, and death, was incredibly jarring.

My friends and I sat outside the apartment where KC died for hours waiting for his body to be picked up. Brooklyn and the city seemed to spin on around us while we just sat there on the concrete suspended in complete anguish.

That’s what happens when someone is suddenly taken from this life. The whole world spins on and you’re left with a gaping hole inside your soul.

The same holds true when someone passes slowly, it’s just that the pain feels like a slow painful tear rather than a swift blow. It’s hardest, most intense, for those closest to it. But it radiates out, like ripples in a pond after a large rock sinks to the bottom.

Death reminds us of how insignificant we are because it doesn’t care who, when, or how: It will get us all. And so we are forced to reckon with the meaning of our own lives.

My community and so many people I love in it are suffering. Watching this, feeling the sadness of loss in myself, I am reminded of how important it is to live a fully intentional life; one that carries weight and impact because that is the mark of a person who knows how to love.

But not only that, I am reminded of how important it is to heal so that by the grace of whatever higher power might exist, I might be able to somehow soften the blow that my own death will surely deliver to those that I love around me.