It is indescribable when everything about the life you know is shattered by death. My mom had taught me that my life would not be defined by the number of times I was knocked down, but rather how and when I chose to stand back up. Back then, when the worst had happened, I honestly wasn’t sure if I would, could or even wanted to stand. And for awhile, the best I could do was crawl.
Somehow, carrying the love for those I’d lost along the way, beneath the leveled debris that was once my life, I managed to rebuild. Humbled by the fragility of life, my approach and perspective shifted.
The painful bitterness of losing someone you deeply love makes all of the things that used to gnaw at you seem trivial. A sweetness surrounds even the smallest of gestures. There’s a harsh realization that time isn’t infinite and a deep appreciation for moments in time emerges. Maybe these make it possible to carry the sadness of loss?
Somewhere along the way, the anger for what happened and despise for the unfairness were replaced by acceptance. I learned how to be okay with the fact that my life would be rebuilt, but it would just never look the same.
There is a constant battle that goes on inside me: the pride I carry for the new life I have built constantly opposed by my guilt because the people I love and lost are missing it all.
I once told someone, that I wished they knew the old me, the one without the broken heart and tragedy, but maybe I was wrong to think that way. Maybe they are lucky to know the me that understands how to appreciate the bittersweetness of life.