Today won’t be easy and I’m sitting here not sure what to say or write and thinking I should just go for a walk.

Rehtaeh died seven years ago today at the age of 17 following a suicide attempt on April 4th. Seven years without her smile, her infectious laugh, her warmth and kindness.

It took seven years for me to accept she’s gone and that the sadness I’ve felt is only a reflection of the love I had for her. I’ve been haunted by her death. Haunted with guilt, pain, with what could have been.

A few weeks ago I had a call late at night asking me if I’d be interested in going to Coast Rica for a deep therapy session using psilocybin mushrooms. I had to decide right away and left two days later.

It was an incredible journey. It was a spiritual awakening.

I saw what I needed to see, not what I wanted to see. I wanted to see her again, to talk to her, to have her send me a message of hope. I wanted to know she’s okay.

Instead, I saw her burn. I laid with her in the fire as her body turned to ash and disappeared. Then I stood in her mom’s dark, empty living room alone. It was the night she hung herself. Paramedic gloves were on the floor, everything was a mess, and it was unbelievably quiet. She’d already been taken to the hospital.

I stood there as the bathroom door opened down the dark hallway and she came out. I fought so hard to say something to her, to hug her, grab her, scream no yet again. But she just walked by, out the open door, turned into a grey-white ash and blew away in the wind.

And she was gone.