The Geometry of Absence
reflections on the first wave of grief
“Congratulations, Adam. You made America’s hat spend days getting yelled at about your rather dramatic Yelp review.” —the beloved
1If you’ve spent any time on Twitter recently, you’ve heard about the passing of Adam Burgoyne, known there as @big_figgot. Adam was one of my dearest friends. I’ve written a eulogy for him, which you can find here:
I’m still in a haze, and I’ll admit my thoughts feel scattered. But writing has always been how I make sense of things. How I find clarity in the fog. Many of you have reached out with kind messages, asking how I’m doing or wanting to know more about Adam. It means a lot to me.
This might not be perfect—grief never is—but I’m sharing it because he deserves to be remembered, and because connection, even when things sucked, is something he valued deeply.
Earlier today, the reader count on his eulogy here surpassed the reader count on his recent guest post, “On American Patriotism, by a Based Canuck.” I don’t usually pay much attention to metrics unless I have a specific reason, but I’d been in the habit of checking that one. In the first few days, I updated Adam every couple of hours, and after that, every few days.
Something in me dreaded this moment—the moment his eulogy would overtake it—because it felt like a line I didn’t want to cross, as if it would make his death more real. Grief has a way of twisting logic, doesn’t it? None of it makes sense.
And yet, even within the absurdity of it all, Adam managed to turn his final days into something profoundly impactful. If you’ve been on Twitter—or followed Newsweek or just about any Canadian media—you already know: true to his character, Adam’s last act made all of Twitter, and much of the news media, stop and focus on things that truly matter.
The leading tweet in his final thread has over 21 million views as I write this. I can just imagine him laughing at that—really laughing, the kind of laugh that made you feel like the most hilarious person on Earth just for witnessing it. That’s who he was: someone who could find joy, even in the most serious moments, and share it so effortlessly with everyone around him.
What Stands Out
Most of this week is a blur; Monday, when I learned about Adam’s death, feels like both yesterday and a year ago.
But a few moments stand out. Adam’s fiancé, A.J., was a goddamn hero. He managed to keep the news off social media for five days, shielding Adam’s parents and siblings from the inevitable frenzy for as long as possible. Yet, in the midst of his own grief, he knew that Adam’s two most-mentioned friends—me and
—needed to know.I will always be grateful to A.J. for telling me himself. I have therapy on weekends, a commitment Adam deeply respected, and he always gave me space for processing. Sometimes, he’d send a simple heart emoji on Discord, just to let me know he was thinking of me. Our unspoken ritual was to catch up on Mondays, and when I didn’t hear from him—a message went unanswered for hours, very unlike him—my unease grew. Because I knew he’d been ill, by mid-afternoon Tuesday, I’d have been in a full-blown panic.
When A.J. and I hung up, I called Josh. Josh and I have a mutual understanding: if something is urgent, we’ll keep calling. If we ever need each other, it won’t be one missed call. That gives us the freedom to neither impose nor feel imposed upon, but to still call when we feel like it.
I’ve never had to invoke that rule before, but this time, I knew I would. I was prepared for Josh to have seventeen missed calls and hoped he wasn’t asleep. Thankfully, Josh answered on the first try.
“Josh, Adam died,” I said, ripping the band-aid off before dissolving into uncontrollable wailing.
After we talked for a long time, I called the rest of my inner circle—except for one friend who both hates the phone and was also sick. I’m glad I did. I tend to get something backward in moments like this. One of my unhealthy patterns is to focus and ruminate on small things while handling the big things alone. But for once, I didn’t isolate myself.
And then there were the moments of gratitude:
For the time and love of the magnificent friend who painstakingly edited Adam’s eulogy with me, transforming it from the fragmented draft I’d written between sobbing fits into something almost worthy of him.
For Josh, who grounded me in small but meaningful ways—like asking me to pick what he would cook and we would eat when we spent Tuesday mourning together, a quiet reminder to connect with my body and feelings.
For Josh walking me to my car when it was time to go, hugging me hard while I cried, and waiting for me to let go first.
For the still-sick friend who responded to my voice-dictated texts as I drove home crying on slippery roads.
And then, of course, there were the moments when the finality of Adam’s absence hit me like a tidal wave:
When I unpinned our text thread. That knocked the breath out of me until I remembered I could pin my conversation with A.J. in its place—a small solace in the emptiness.
When I finally showered, standing on the purple bath mat he insisted on buying during his last visit because my old one was “kind of grubby,” and he thought this particular shade of purple would well-match my forest green shower curtain.
When I scrolled past the June 2022 playlist on my phone. He’d asked me to make it for his visit, fascinated by how I experience music through my hearing tech. We played each song together, dissecting the lyrics and melodies, and he was delighted whenever one of my favorites happened to be one of his, too.
It’s these flashes of memory—his thoughtfulness, his laughter, the tiny ways he brightened my life—that keep circling back. Grief sharpens them like shards of glass, but it also reminds me of the joy of knowing him.
Even in these raw, unmoored moments, I feel lucky to have been part of his story.
So, so lucky.
The George Bailey of Twitter
Adam’s death has made the news, both in his native Canada, in the National Post, and on Newsweek, as well as other places I haven’t had the heart to look up.
He would’ve laughed at all of that, shaking his head, but he would’ve been really tickled to see Zuby and Elon Musk acknowledge his passing:
Those who knew Adam, whether in real life or online, have been devastated by his loss. And there have been far more of them than I ever realized—but I’m not surprised. Adam had an incredible gift for helping people, and the stories keep pouring in: he helped this person through a breakup, that person through grief; he guided someone in their job hunt, answered another’s kid’s French homework question. He touched lives in countless ways, big and small.
Amidst the overwhelming outpouring of grief and condolences, there was, of course, the predictable social media ugliness—those who lash out simply because they cannot bear that someone else mattered more than they do, could, or ever will.
Pro-Palestinian activists, demonstrating the moral inversion of their cause—which holds Israel responsible for risking its own children to protect the children of those who would happily plan and execute another October 7—vandalized Adam’s public obituary so viciously it had to be taken offline.
A stellar human being died suddenly and far too young. The world responded with an outpouring of grief befitting such a loss. The backlash? It’s nothing but noise emanating from people who are—and inside, they know this—unworthy to clean dirt from Adam’s shoes.
My DMs are full of people telling me wonderful stories about Adam inspiring them, expressing their shock and pain at his loss. He touched so many lives in so many ways. Every message is a reminder of how deeply he connected with people, how his kindness and humor left an indelible mark.
In their words, I see the Adam I knew but also discover new facets of the person he was to others. As we navigate this loss, I hope we can honor his memory by following his example—by showing kindness, spreading joy, and making others feel seen and valued, just as he always did.
Going Forward
On his December 15 episode,
is going to do a special segment on his show.Drawing on his own experience—Josh survived a heart attack fourteen years ago at just 36—he’ll use his knowledge of cardiac symptoms to help viewers recognize the warning signs and advocate for themselves in the ER. It feels like exactly the kind of practical, impactful thing Adam would have wanted.
I’m staying in touch with A.J., who is somehow doing better than anyone could expect. He has every bit as much character, grace, and wisdom as Adam always said he did, and I feel lucky to have him in my life.
A.J., Josh, and I have plans to honor Adam in the future. Whether or not I write about them when the time comes, I know they’ll reflect the love and admiration we all shared for him.
For now, I’m focusing on the things Adam valued most: connection, care, and making a difference in the lives of others. That means taking care of me, too, which I am doing with the help of my friends.
Adam was someone who made the world brighter, not just for those who knew him but for anyone fortunate enough to cross his path. Honoring him means carrying that light forward, even in the shadow of his absence. And that’s what I’ll try to do.
I will miss him forever, and it’s never going to be okay that he’s gone.
But I will integrate everything I learned from him—the kindness he showed, the strength he embodied, the acceptance he modeled—and use it to guide me.
In doing so, I’ll keep a part of him alive.
It’s not enough, but it’s something.
Adam adored Gator and would’ve laughed his ass off at this.
As with Adam's very moving eulogy, I find myself once again at a loss as to how to adequately respond. Each piece you've shared about Adam - someone I never knew but oh-how-I-wish I had been so blessed - reminds me that there are some truly amazing, beautiful souls who walk for a time among us and whose light far outshines and overcomes the darkness that so many others exude. I am so very sorry, Holly, for you and all those who actually knew and fiercely loved Adam but now have only his memories instead of his presence.
I didn't know Adam and I'm truly sorry for everyone who has lost him too soon. Thank you for sharing the eulogy and these stories. I don't have sufficient words to sympathize but just thanks.