There's a hole in our hearts.

Last week, us TEFL volunteers who got here in March had out first ever vacation. Myself and 5 other friends decided to get a BnB in Tbilisi, Georgia for the week and explore that beautiful city.

The week started out fantastic. While Armenia and Georgia are very similar in a lot of ways, they are also drastically different. Georgia has had a lot more opportunity for economic development than Armenia, and sadly, it shows. For vacation though, this meant comforts from home. I ate nothing but multiple Subway sandwiches for 36 hours. We had some drip coffee from Dunkin Donuts, and some frostys from Wendy's.

We also got to see a lot of beautiful architecture and some touristy sites in Georgia. The vacation started wonderfully, and then we got a phone call.

Wednesday morning we woke up to horrible news. The day before, one of the  volunteers in our group, Hanna Huntley, died in a car accident. Hanna was a Community and Youth Development volunteer. We all arrived together, trained together, laughed, cried, celebrated together.

I didn't know Hanna like I wanted to. I wasn't one of her closest friends, and we had just gotten to have some one-on-one conversations at our most recent training three weeks ago. I've found myself trying to justify my grief over this loss and worrying about how my grief might appear to others. That doesn't make it hurt any less though. That doesn't make this any easier to process.

Hanna was one of us. She was doing so much here. She was part of something important. I don't have the words for how it feels to have that cut short. I can't imagine what her family must be feeling, and all I can do is send every sympathetic and comforting thought I can muster in the universe to them.

Tuesday night, we had planned a large day of exploring Georgia. Wednesday morning, it just didn't seem possible. We sank into our comfy pjs and our couches, and we just sat. For awhile, none of us did anything. The 5 of us had a variety of emotions and reactions, but the one that was most prevalent was pure shock.

There's still so much of that shock. We made it back to Yerevan in time for the memorial service for Hanna on Saturday. I can't properly describe the light and creativity and warmth that was Hanna. I can't do it justice, and it just feels so wrong that the world has lost that. Hanna was undoubtedly a phenomenal volunteer. She was everything you would hope a PCV to be and more, and I believe she truly represented the best of America. The memorial service echoed that and the shared grief and vulnerability of all the PCVs, staff, and Armenians there was overwhelming.

Sunday I came back to my site, and many others went back to theirs. I didn't know how to do what came next. How do we just keep doing what we were doing when everything feels so incredibly futile and so much more important at the same time? I went back to work on Tuesday. Jumping back in felt overwhelming. The roller-coaster of emotions has been unreal, but we all made it through the week in one way or another.

For me, kids are fantastic in these moments with their innocence, naivety of the worst emotions, and simple joy. I've also found Armenians to have expressions of grief and an openness of pain and sorrow that I think I actually prefer to home. In America, we have sympathy and condolences, and of course those are appreciated to the utmost. Here, there are two phrases I've heard quite a bit. Ցավում եմ քեզ հետ․ (Tsavum em kez het.) Համբերություն․ (Hamberutyoon.) The first literally means, I hurt with you. It is the Armenian way of condolences and sympathy, but in my experience, it has been said with tears in the eyes of whoever said it. It is normal to show raw emotion here, even if that emotion is on behalf of someone else. If you need to cry, cry. No one will bug you, and it's okay.

The second word simply means "patience". I particularly have become attached to this phrase. How else does grief become more bearable? For all of the things we try to do and say to ease someone's pain in times of grief, usually the only effective thing is time. In recognition of that, Armenians simply remind us to have patience when we are grieving. This has particularly kept me going and been a constant reminder of my mental health mantra - "This is temporary."

For now, we are all just marching on. Many have reminded us that Hanna would want nothing more than for us to continue to give our best selves in our service to Peace Corps and Armenia. So that is the plan. Here's to you, Hanna. Your impact will live on through each and every one of us. Rest easy.