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Some folks were able to build a new life after tragedy, though they never would’ve believed it at first, not when the horror of loss first blasted them. When someone close to you was murdered or died by suicide, rather than carry your pain, you became your pain. But eventually it turned into a wound that pulled when you stretched too far, and then that wound became a scar, which became one more ache you carried, sharper and larger than most, but still.
The difference was that those who were 119eventually able to separate their identity from their loss—through luck or hard work or bewildering courage—were the ones who stayed connected to others, to trust that the devastating tragedy that had just befallen them wouldn’t happen again, not right away at least, if they continued to love.
We walked into grief alone; the only way out was together.
It was a fool’s errand that had sent me here, a fool’s errand encased in a veneer of immature hope that my Family would be different from how I remembered them.
I am safe. I am grown. I am free.
I am safe. I am grown. I am free.
