One of the things I believe fully is that life is all about relationships. They are at the core of our quality of life and the richness of our experience. They are also at the core of our ability to achieve in our professional lives. Whether you believe it or not, existing in isolation, succeeding in isolation, is next to impossible.

Not every relationship lasts forever, we know that. Some of them are the product of a place and time that no longer exists. Some break apart for a variety of reasons. Some simply wither for lack of attention. With effort and desire, some of these relationships can be restored if both parties are willing. But that is the exception, I think, rather than the rule.

Loss, however, puts a hard stop to relationships. Death is that period at the end of a sentence, often a sentence we have not finished and long to continue. It is that longing for one more conversation, the chance to have said the things we wish we had said, the moments of “if only” that will never be realized.

When end of life is in the natural order of things, when it follows a long disease process or a clear aging trajectory, there is time to say the words if we are able. But when death is a trauma, when it is premature and unexpected, there is no outlet for the words left unsaid, for the feelings that will never be expressed.

I think of that often with respect to losing my brother. While it is more than 20 years since his death in a freak accident, rarely does a day go by when I don’t long to have a conversation with him. I confess that I sometimes have that dialogue in my own mind, mulling over a problem or a situation and hearing his reassuring voice telling me, as he always would, “You’ve got this, kid.” And while nothing will ever mend that jagged hole in the middle of my being, allowing myself to remember who he was, the support he always gave me, offers some comfort.

After he died, with both our parents already long since gone, I thought about what it meant to no longer have that family of birth, the family I thought was always going to be mine, the family I felt would always love me, no matter what. They forgave me the stupid moments, the thoughtless words, the careless actions, the questionable decisions. They were the foundation I thought unshakeable, permanent, enduring. On some primal level I felt as if those who had some “obligation” to care for me, who were, somehow, “required” to love me were gone.

Of course, we know that no one, whether family of origin or not, is required to care. We know that relationships, whether by blood or by choice are voluntary. Families disconnect just as other relationships do. Perhaps family estrangement is a little messier, with more emotional baggage, but it happens all the same.

If life is all about relationships and relationships are a choice, it is also clear that they require care and feeding. They require a conscious commitment. They require giving as well as taking. And they require the deep understanding that life is fleeting, that everything can, and does, change in the space between one heartbeat and the next. That knowledge is truly a key to holding our full hearts.