I once told myself that one way to orient amidst a multitude of feelings was to put pen to page. For years, journaling has reminded me of the power of writing—of giving shape to emotions through words. It’s like unplugging the drain of an overfilled bathtub: letting out just enough to prevent the spill.

I return often to this state of emotional overwhelm. I imagine most people who choose to face their feelings know it well (those who avoid them, obviously, don’t).

But no matter how much I write, I doubt any number of words—any attempt to articulate this particular grief—could ever drain the bathtub of my missing them.

They were my intellectual solace. When we first met, I was astounded by the breadth of their perspective and the depth of their intelligence—spanning disciplines, social contexts, ways of thinking. They balanced wit, empathy, and compassionate accountability. With effortless grace, they called people out on their contradictions in a way that invited reflection, not shame. They did this for me.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the loss. Their existence was hope. Hope that making a meaningful contribution to the world was possible. That it had a point. Their presence, their continued survival, meant others like them were out there. They were proof that brilliance and care could coexist. And when I learned they were gone, I lost that hope, in a way.

I never met anyone like them again.

I flew across the country searching for minds and souls like theirs. It’s one of the reasons I turned to graduate school. Even though we weren’t in touch, the idea that others like them existed kept me going. I dedicated myself to finding them—but after three years, I hadn’t. No one compared.

They were my oasis. A sounding board for the irrational, the nonsensical, the deeply human contradictions I witnessed everywhere. Their friendship made the dishonesty and dissonance in the world more bearable. And without their presence, I’d be remiss not to admit: I’m still struggling to find that hope again.