Darkness & Light

Trigger Warning: Death. Memories. Pensive contemplation. Words.

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I don’t remember the last time I had to communicate truly hard news to anyone. The kind where you want to give them a minute, let them know the context is heavy, ask if they’re really ready, if they’re sitting down. Maybe back when my parents first split up? But that’s from a different time, and has a different context. Nothing really prepares you for this.

“Ok so… um, yeah, Dan Beil is dead.”

It sounded so strange, the heavy words dumping inelegantly out of my mouth into a pile on the floor for the other person to gape at, again and again. But all the euphemisms, the “passing away”s and “no longer with us”s were too featherweight, too soft, too meaningless. It was right there, just a big giant unavoidable fact.

In honesty, they were words I had fully resigned myself to say, sooner than later. I felt like I had already gone through the stages of grief, back when things had ended, when I saw where things were headed, when things were too painful for me to keep going. And though I heard echoes of sadness within my resignation, they mostly reverberated around empathy for his family, for ANY family, going through the unimaginable… how it must feel to witness his downturn, discover what had happened, pick up the pieces afterward. I had been involved in messages the last few days, heard indirectly how it played out. Never asked precisely what happened… my mind painted its own picture, the actual details didn’t matter, the truth was already there.

Still, there is a realness to saying a thing out loud.

I don’t have a lot of experience with death, which I suppose I should be thankful for. And for a person that was no longer in your life, but who was in your life so instrumentally for a significant period of time, what does death even mean? The end of a relationship is like its own mini death, but yet the person is still around, knowing the same people, living in the same city, breathing the same air. The strange finality of death is knowing that, even though you’ve already witnessed the end of a chapter, this is the end of the story. It won’t be them you randomly see on the street, or hear about from a friend. No new memories could ever be created again, with me or anyone else.

It’s funny what moments stick in your head when a person is gone. They’re usually very small and specific moments, a tiny shared emotion that catches at the edges of your memory, and for me they play out in a strange sequence, out of order and out of context, like a freeform slideshow, like an art movie flashback scene with no plot.

Drinks on a freezing cold NYC rooftop. Battling Pokemon at the neighborhood fire station. Sweaty gardening in the backyard. Homemade saccharine sweet cocktails with girly names. Plucking hair from the shedding dogs and watching it tumble into drifts in the backyard. Late night conversations on the porch under the string lights. Cracking up over the oddities of goat’s eyes with the car salesman. Emotionally half carrying him out of a bar at our shared birthday as he once again let himself get too drunk. Crying on the couch alone after a fight. Begging him to just eat a few pizza rolls, so all his calories weren’t just from alcohol. Joy from the look of caring softness in his eyes, and despair when I knew those eyes weren’t really seeing me.

They say that we all contain darkness and light. The existence of our darkness does not invalidate the beauty of the light, but in some of us there is darkness that even bright light cannot touch. I imagined all of these darknesses and lights could be woven together like a tapestry of our lives, and what beautiful and terrible patterns would have emerged in this one. Even in the three years we were together, there was so much joy and anger and laughter and sadness and love and pain. I wondered if those years would look any different than the rest if you could see it all sewn together.

I made the choice long ago to remember the ways a person has shaped who I am, even if we have parted ways. Every person you let into your life is a mirror you can hold up to yourself, their darkness and light reflecting different parts of you. The more deeply you see someone else, the more deeply you are also able to see who you are.

I remember falling in love with this city as I was falling in love with him, every day feeling like a new discovery of myself within the exploration of this new, incredible place, resonating with me on a deeply personal level I wasn’t expecting. I chose my new home here because of him.

I remember traveling the country together, speaking on stages, cheering the other person on, socializing at the after-parties, sharing drinks and stories and laughter and feeling like we could take on the world, providing after-care when the other person over-indulged. I crafted my on-stage personality and built my professional community network alongside him.

I remember working at home together, endless discussion of code and community, looking over his shoulder at reviews and dissecting company policy and conversation, asking questions and learning and growing, talking him down off another ledge of professional confrontation. I became the frontend developer and technical leader I am because of him.

I remember the hours cuddling on the couch together, being forced to watch Parks & Rec until the show transformed from annoying characters to beloved friends, following the drama and intensity of Game of Thrones, watching cartoon dragons and ponies and cats and lemurs. I experienced so many moments of quiet contentment and giggly joy with him.

I remember the agony of trying to craft a life together, alongside a person who was in so much pain, feeling, sharing, over-intaking the intensity of those emotions while still trying to sort out my own, and ultimately having to sever those ties. I learned so much about autonomy, boundaries, and the strength and limitations of love through my time with him.

I am still not sure how to deal with death, but those are questions for journaling and therapy. And I am still not sure where this all falls in my emotional range of grief, resignation, sadness, anger, neutrality. But I wanted to make sure that this was here, and that the darkness and light were remembered.

Dear Dan: You were a light to many people in many ways throughout your life. And you were in darkness and pain and loneliness in ways we maybe didn’t all understand. You were just so very human, as we all are. We managed to have our closure, a final visit over the summer, just to talk and eat and clear the air, and to see the state you were in even then made all of this even more true to me when it happened. All I can say is you will be missed, and I hope the end of your story brought you a measure of peace.

Linking to his obituary in the Star Tribune as well, for posterity.

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20 Responses to “Darkness & Light”

  1. Aaron

    Very sorry to hear this news. Sending comforting thoughts your way and hoping that Dan is now at peace.

    Reply
  2. Chris Lema

    Dan,
    You will be missed. You were funny. You were engaging. You loved to debate a topic – even past when anyone else did. You loved people – every different kind. And you loved those dogs. You even loved that horrible drink you gave me in your backyard after singing it’s praises for ten minutes straight. I will never love LaCroix, but I will never forget it either – because of you. I hope you find peace and you make her laugh!

    Reply
  3. Bridget Willard

    Oh Michelle. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m sorry to hear this news. He was one of my favorite people on Twitter.

    From someone who’s been there, there are no words, but I’m here on the other side if you ever would like to chat.

    Reply
  4. Carrie Dils

    So beautifully said, Michelle. My heart hurts for you, for him. ♥️

    Reply
  5. Kyle Unzicker

    The #b4d455 photo of Dan is iconic, and has long been my go-to mental picture of him! Looking at it now after hearing this news and reading your words – I see so much light.

    Sending you strength and peace, Michelle!

    Reply
  6. Mendel

    Dan, your welcoming nature, geeky repartee, and love of tacos defined our time together. You won’t be forgotten by me and those who spent time in your orbit. Rest peacefully.

    Reply
  7. Ben Lobaugh

    Wonderful tribute Michelle. Dan will be missed. Sending you mental hugs and good vibes.

    Reply
  8. Cathy Beil

    Adding my thanks here too. This made me cry, in a good way, if that makes sense. I feel like I can now confess that when you were together I’d sometimes tell my friends, “I’ll always love my brother, but I thinkn I might *like* his girlfriend [you] more.” I’m thankful for the time _I_ got to spend with you, and for the time you spent with my brother.

    I’ll never tire about hearing stories from those Dan connected with. He was so isolated at the end that it’s really good to be reminded that he did have positive connections with people.

    The family is still working on figuring out what types of memorials would be most meaningful to Dan, and to us. I’ll post here when I know more, and I’m very open to ideas from anyone who knew him.

    Thank you, all.

    Reply
  9. John Locke

    I didn’t know Dan as well as others. He seemed like a good guy to me. I am deeply saddened this happened like this. Feels like he deserved better than to go out so young. My sincere condolences for your loss of someone so integral to your life, and to his family and friends.

    Reply
  10. Adam

    So very sad to hear this news. My condolences to all.

    Reply
    • Karim Marucchi

      I’m so sorry, I loved this post, made me remember when you introduced us and that camps craziness… -Love

      Reply
  11. Katie Elenberger

    A very well written tribute, Michelle. I hope he is at peace and that you can find peace during your journey.

    Reply
  12. Jay Wood

    Wow this is a lot to take in. Thank you for putting this together Michelle, very beautiful.

    Dan, buddy, I’m gonna miss the dev conversations we had, you always had a ton to talk about. Rest in peace old friend.

    Reply
  13. Jennifer Bourn

    Oh, Michelle… I am so so sorry. Dan made laugh, asked the hard questions, pushed boundaries, and was welcoming and kind when we interacted. I’ll remember him that way ❤️

    Reply
  14. Amy Hall

    I’m so sorry to hear about Dan. I only knew him through Twitter but your tribute says a lot about who he was. My condolences for your loss.

    Reply
  15. Morgan Estes

    I’m so sorry. I often think back to the dinner and conversations we all shared at WordCamp US in Philly, and what a good time that was.

    I’ll remember Dan fondly, and keep you in my prayers.

    Reply
  16. Cathi Bosco

    Condolences to you Michelle and to all of Dan’s family and friends. Beautifully expressed. I am very sorry for your loss.

    Reply
  17. Greg Lyon

    I am really sorry to hear this news, Michelle. Thank you for sharing this tragic news about Dan in such a thoughtful and loving way.

    Reply
  18. Aaron Silver

    So sorry for your loss, Michelle.

    Reply