The Day My Grief Found Its Voice
How Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist helped me reconcile with my past
Grief.
A word we often tie to death, but it encompasses so much more. It’s the sting of unmet expectations, the ache of lost opportunities, and the weight of unsaid words.
This story was written with the assistance of an AI writing program.
I, like many, used to box my grief neatly away. When a close friend once asked me to describe my biggest regret, I brushed the question aside with a joke. I didn’t want to open the floodgates.
But if I were to be honest — if I were to strip away my defenses — I know exactly what my biggest regret is.
It’s tied to my brother.
The Things We Don’t Say
My brother was an enigma. He was the kind of person who made a room brighter just by walking in, but he had shadows he didn’t let anyone see. While he struggled internally, he gave everything to the people around him. To me.
Growing up, we had this ritual — our “secret code,” as we called it. Late-night talks under the stars. We’d sit in silence, sharing popcorn and dreams, pretending that the universe was ours to conquer.
But as we got older, life happened. Responsibilities happened. The silent nights turned into rushed texts, and then, into nothing. The last time he reached out, I was “too busy.” The message he sent went unread for three days.
By the time I responded, there was no one on the other end.
The Alchemist Found Me
Grief came like an avalanche, smothering every part of me. I blamed myself, the world, and even him. Why didn’t he try harder? Why didn’t I?
Months later, during one of my aimless bookstore visits, I stumbled upon The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. The title intrigued me, the premise didn’t. But something compelled me to buy it.
What I didn’t realize then was that it wasn’t me finding the book — it was the book finding me.
A Journey Within
As Santiago, the protagonist of The Alchemist, sought treasure in far-off lands, I began to uncover truths buried within me.
“When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too.”
The words stung. I had spent so long blaming myself for what happened that I forgot grief wasn’t a punishment — it was a reminder of love. Every regret I held, every memory I clung to, was proof of how deeply I cared for my brother.
Through Santiago’s journey, I learned to forgive myself for the messages left unread, the calls unanswered, and the nights spent apart. Grief wasn’t my enemy. It was my teacher.
One Step Forward
The day I finished The Alchemist, I did something I hadn’t done since my brother passed — I went outside, sat under the stars, and talked. I talked to him. I shared my regrets, my dreams, and my apologies. I didn’t hold back.
And for the first time in months, the weight on my chest lightened.
The Treasure We Forget
Paulo Coelho didn’t just write a story about finding treasure; he wrote about finding ourselves. My grief no longer feels like a burden — it’s a part of who I am. It’s the evidence of love that still lingers, even when the person is gone.
If I could have one more late-night talk with my brother, I’d tell him I’m sorry. But I’d also tell him I’m grateful. Grateful for every starry night, every laugh, and even every regret. Because without them, I wouldn’t be who I am today.
“The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and to get up eight.”
And I’d remind him of what The Alchemist taught me:
Grief may knock us down, but love — and life — always helps us rise again.
