I'm not good at goodbyes — Hannah Aubry

I'm not good at goodbyes<br>July 7, 2026A few weeks ago, a musician and artist that I admired — loved — passed away. He died in a helicopter crash. He was 32; he went by Oliver Tree.

(Stiff upper lip, Hannah. Cowboys don’t cry.)

My fiancé and I discovered Oliver Tree’s music soon after he started making it, not long before I went through the hardest time of my life. Just a short span of six excruciatingly long weeks. My now ex-fiancé and I ended our engagement, my family put our dog down, my cousin died violently by suicide, and then after a long fight, I lost my dear grandmother to dementia. When the final blow landed, I was so numb I couldn’t cry. I was utterly defeated, with what felt like no future, and without my best friends.

Oliver’s music is genre-bending; he was so creative. His well sprung from the same swirl of emotions that I was under: grief. And yet his playful melodies and videos, his costumes and commitment to the character… they were a lifeline to me. Grief can be a hole, or it can be a tunnel. Oliver made me believe that I would find my way back to myself, or better yet, that I could shed grief like a chrysalis and transform.

I am still screaming inside because Oliver’s death was unfair, a terrible accident, a wasteful cosmic fluke. It has induced fresh despair in me because it was tragic, and yet set against what’s going on these days… The intentional and negligent ego-driven destruction of people and land. Genocide. Ecocide. It feels too small to be sad about? But that’s not true, no life is too small to mourn its passing. And Oliver was massive. It’s too fucking cruel.

Saying goodbye to my ex was uniquely difficult in a cutting kind of way because he wasn’t truly gone like the others. The last time I saw my ex-fiancé in person was at an Oliver Tree show. I was still carrying a little flame for us, though I wouldn't admit that to myself at the time. I’m not mad about taking so long to let go. I was in the hole back then. The only light I could see was back where I’d been. I had to dig myself out to see the lights of where I’m meant to go.

I feel so indulgent writing this. Like I am justifying my right to feel sad that a person died. I’ll face it though — I am justifying it. He didn’t know me at all, and I didn’t really know him. He was a stranger. I am connected to what his words and tunes awakened in me, to the things and places they remind me of, to the feeling of being just a little bit ok when I was at the lowest point of my life. He moved so many people with his music; he moved me. Thank you, Oliver. We will never forget you. Thank you.

I am aching and I am tired. Not again. But yes, again. And again. Over, and over, until I am. Life goes on and on and on.

Why am I writing this?

Probably just to inscribe this apology to myself so I never forget it:

I am sorry Hannah, that I let them make you feel so small. They never deserved how sad you felt about them.

I forgive you; I love you.

Goodbye. Onward.