Ryan O’Neal, creator of Sleeping at Last, composes astoundingly beautiful melodies with profoundly deep lyrics and is thus one of my favorite artists. His ballad Saturn hosts the aforementioned lyrics. O’Neal pens reflective songs portraying the ornate nature of life, drawing imagery from astronomy, personality, faith, and earth.
Lately, I’ve been pondering about life’s beauty and tragedy. Too often we hear the derogatory phrases about our existence; “Well, that’s life,” as if the universe demands we be disappointed, “Life sucks,” “Life is hard,” and a deluge of other cliches with similar messages. We create an undertone of disaster and negativity with these phrases, yet they simultaneously minimize the struggle. “That’s life [so stop complaining].” “Life sucks [so move on].” “Life is hard [so stop expecting anything different].”
One of my greatest passions is normalizing the depth of the human experience through delineating natural emotions, and I’m an immense proponent in admitting how painful life can be, but I’m drawn to the simple truth of O’Neal’s words. How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.
We teach one another that growing up is painful, but we say it as if that’s “just the way it is.” Life isn’t painful because God or the universe or some force is out to get us — life is painful because other human beings hurt us and because we often hurt ourselves, too.
Life is not bad, life is not hard. People’s choices are bad and they make it hard. Sometimes our choices are bad, and it makes life hard, too. But life at its core is not hard — life is a gift.
Life is precious. We see this in the beauty of new life, we see this in the dignity of a life well lived, we experience this in the relationships that give us life. Life is not to be condemned but to be loved, shared, explored, and freed.
I reject the concept that life is hard. Yes, so many things in our lives produce unfathomable amounts of pain that we will carry with us forever, but that truth does not negate that life is a gift.
In this life, we have ample opportunity to heal, to change, to love, to grow, and to enjoy this one beautiful gift that we have. It is our responsibility to ourselves and to one another to tend to our lives. In taking care of ourselves, in knowing what we want and need from life and acting on that, we transform our lives and undoubtedly positively impact the lives of those around us.
Life is hard because people make it hard. Life is hard because people hurt us, neglect us, betray us, and wound us. Life is hard because we ourselves, too, make choices that hurt ourselves, neglect ourselves, betray ourselves, and wound ourselves. May we remember that our lives, each, are gifts to ourselves and to one another.
We have got to stop talking about how life is terrible and how life is tragic and how Life/God/The Universe exists to make us miserable. That narrative is killing us. Life is not about suffering. The purpose of life is not in suffering. Loss and hurt and wounds are powerful and they drastically impact our lives, but life is so much more than our heartbreaks.
May we engage in life’s beauty, tragedy, and lightheartedness. May we enjoy what life has offered us and the goodness that life brings us. May you heal from the people who hurt you and may you heal from the ways you have hurt yourself.
Your life is precious, your days are your opportunities to change your world. Life is not out to get you. God is not punishing you. The universe is not hurting you. People hurt you, you hurt you, but that is not the final say in your story.
Your life is beautiful and your ability to change your world will change the world for the better, if you let it.
May we remember how rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.
She had such audacious dreams. She had grandiose visions of how she wanted to change the world and who she wanted to be… oh how she longed for a different world. A world of light and joy and happiness. She wanted a world of resilience and kindness and respect. She wanted to see her children and grandchildren change the world, but now she’ll never get to see that.
She won’t get to see her grandchildren grow up and become extraordinary adults, at least not in a way we can comprehend.
My mom [and dad] overcame incommunicable challenges and created a loving home for her children. Motherhood came naturally to her… sometimes difficult origin families make it blatantly obvious of what not to perpetuate in the family one creates, and so she used the judgement and neglect she felt from her childhood to ensure her children would be nurtured and protected. But, of course, just because one doesn’t want to be like his or her parents’ doesn’t mean that one will break all of the cycles.
Post-traumatic growth and healing can only heal as much as one is willing to acknowledge, work though, and admit pain to empathetic witnesses. That which is dismissed, ignored, rejected, and hidden festers into gaping wounds that even stitches can hardly mitigate.
Again, one’s suicide is no other’s fault: another’s actions undoubtedly wound us, but it’s one’s inability to tend to his or her wounds that poisons them and leads to mental sepsis.
My mother made strides in breaking the cycles her origin family perpetuates, but she created a world of love shrouded in subliminal messages longing for death. She bought into Christian escapism — the unhealthy longing for a better world that influences one to dread the beauty of his or her one life. Again, I remind that Jesus came to heal. He came to heal, that people would continue healing and teaching people to heal one another. The New Testament word “salvation,” means healing… imagine a world where “go and make disciples… teaching them to observe everything [Jesus] commanded” meant go, love others and provide healing to the orphan, widow, alien, and hurting instead of propagating shame, judgement, and an unobtainable afterlife. How different this would be if we simply saw each other and supported one another in our pain and suffering.
With love, she healed much. She instilled safety, security, and as much stability as was within her power into her family’s life despite the model she revived from her family and despite her youth. My siblings and I did not, have not, and do not question our parents’ love for us and their awe-inspiring ability to raise a family rooted in fierce love for one another. They modeled this in their marriage and in how they valued our family. Mom contributed to grand things, but the avoidance of her own pain harmed her and harmed each of us in return.
Unhealed trauma always creates casualties. Friendly fire still wounds. It’s our responsibility to heal from our wounds both for our own healing, vitality, and happiness, and so that we do not perpetuate pain to those around us.
My parents worked so, so, so hard for my siblings and I to have a better childhood than theirs. They partnered and built a marriage of love, trust, and kindness that we admired our whole lives. They built a tight-knit family — even when trauma and brokenness and hardship entered our home, we rally together with love and support for one another. Our family has been our biggest strength, challenge, disappointment, and comfort.
Mom could have lived another 45 years, nearly doubling her lifetime. In that timespan, she had the potential to witness six generations of healing and growth that she started. Instead, she succumbed to her unhealed wounds.
Her tragic ending inflicted obvious trauma, but it does not negate the positive changes she made for our lives. I am committed to healing and to demonstrating what healthy grief looks like because of the work that my mother began and because of the her unfinished work.
I am committed to treating others with kindness, to enforcing boundaries, to caring for and protecting myself and my family because of how she did and didn’t do these things.
I am committed to my family because she was deeply committed to us, and she loved us deeply despite of the many demons she faced.
She was beautiful in every way. She should have stayed, healed, and witnessed the growth of the beautiful family she created. Her life had so much potential — our lives had so much potential. Her dazzling dreams could have come true, and some of them will still come true, but she will no longer be part of those dreams maturing.
I wish she could have lived to see her efforts bloom into glorious realities. She would have loved that.
What a disastrous fallout plagued us since then, as my sweet “Auntie” wrote:
❤️🩹 We were just going through a normal day… and then everything changed in an instant.
Nothing prepares you for how quickly life can shift.
This hurts more than words can say. Missing her.
It was a normal day. A normal summer day with brilliant blue skies and tropical Florida heat. Scott and I went to the pool that day and enjoyed our new pool floaties… it was a glorious afternoon.
Until it wasn’t.
Now, we bear the fallout. This hell she condemned us to because she couldn’t speak of the hell that was within her mind. How tragic, to be trapped in a mental delusion of hopelessness. How cruel, to deny the expression of that hopelessness into words. How ghastly, to use hopelessness as a weapon. How dismal, to survive the consequence of another’s hopelessness.
Being alive means having hope. Being alive means having opportunity. Being alive means change is possible. Death, now death robs everyone of that possibility.
We weren’t meant to live our lives out of hopelessness. God didn’t create man simply to die, and Jesus didn’t come to earth to show us death is better than life — It was we forlorn and lost creatures that killed him.
Interestingly enough, the biblical [Greek] word for “salvation” [sozo] is the same word for “healing.” Think of it this way: instead of Christ coming to “seek and save the lost,” think about him coming to “seek and heal the lost” (Luke 19:10).
What if this life is about so much more than salvation? What if it’s really about healing? What if God really did come to earth, filled with compassion, to heal the broken hearted and bind up their wounds?
What if salvation actually doesn’t have anything to do with death?
Jesus’ earthly wounds didn’t disappear after he died (John 20). Perhaps our lives are far more significant than we realize, not because we have to earn our ways into “heaven” (which, by the way, literally translates to “the skies, the expanse”) and to stay out of “hell” (translates “the land of the dead” and, metaphorically, “Gehenna,” which was an actual literal place onearth).
Maybe God came to heal us, and maybe that should be our focus.
We all have our defining moments; these ominous moments of our lives marked with so much pain that they pinpoint and define the rest of our lives. We’ve all been to Gehenna, and the only way out of it is through it.
“Even when I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil for you are with me…
… Only goodness and faithful love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord as long as I live. Psalms 23:6
Being alive is never hopeless. Having a hard life isn’t hopeless.
Now is the time to mourn, to heal, to change. The time to plant seeds of sorrow and anguish and healing, and these seeds will bring new life. Hope will guard them and guide them as they grow into the most beautifully wild flowers.
Abundance may come after decimation, but it may only come after healing.
I’ve always loved Valentine’s Day, and I attribute most of that to my parents. They celebrated one another and each of us kids: Mom gave gifts to the boys, and Dad gave a gift to me every Valentine’s Day until I got married. When I lived with them, Dad would leave a gift outside my bedroom door to greet me in the morning. It’s a great way to raise one’s kids because it made the holiday special from the beginning. I never minded being single on Valentine’s Day. I love getting to celebrate love, whether my own or someone else’s. I love the hearts and the pink and red and the genuine giddiness and galentines, too! Sure, hallmark and corporations push the holiday but hey, I love any excuse to celebrate Scott. I love opportunities to do something special for my love, and Valentine’s Day provides just that!
Buuuut… Losing my mother to suicide changes everything I knew about love. Abandoned by my mother, rejected by her family, shunned by the majority of her church leadership, and my parents’ marriage nullified by her death— four institutions that were once steady in my life, irrevocably destroyed. Three groups that made the contentious decision to harm me via violent action and lethal passivity, and one marriage that created a family obliterated.
What is love, if not something that shatters you?
As I’ve written before, you can’t feel a mother’s love from the grave.
The last fabrics of security slowly tear from me. It’s fortunate I married before Mom died — I’m not sure I would believe in anything concrete enough to marry after she passed, and I’m quite thankful for my husband.
Like any couple, Scott I do our best to create and build our own love, and I try my hardest not to fear the possibility of every form of love slipping from my fingers.
There’s a pendulum in my mind that swings between the people I never thought I’d lose and the people I am amazed showed up.
Those who know deep pain speak a language entirely foreign to those who don’t lean in. Empathetic witnesses can learn this language with study and exposure, though they speak it with a distant accent.
Not everyone can show up, and that’s okay. Everyone can show love. Love marks people: it can heal them and brighten them, unrequited love can mar them, the absence of love can destroy them.
My father and my surviving two brothers remain a chain of unbroken and unwavering dedication towards each other, for now. I will always fear another suicide in our family — odds for repeated suicide increase dramatically after one suicide in the nuclear family. With two in mine, we survivors are 600% more likely to end our lives — but, we four survivors have been incredibly supportive towards one another.
Aside from these four, I remind myself that it’s the people who have chosen to show up time and time again that have aided in my support and healing. It’s the “aunt” and “uncle” I didn’t realize weren’t related to us that have become more family to me that my genetic relatives. It’s the friends that have shown up when siblings have checked out. It’s the Christian [and non-Christian] community disconnected from any one church that came together when my [past two] churches stigmatized us. It’s the people that weren’t necessarily“supposed to” be there who have shown up the most in my life, and this isn’t an uncommon phenomenon. We all know the saying “Friends are the family you choose.”
I don’t write any of this to bash my mother’s family or her church, and I don’t want people to weaponize my words against either party. There has been enough hurt, and it’s 2026: people have nearly unlimited resources, cell phones, and endless ways to reach out to one another. If they wanted to fix things, they would. It’s been eight months since my mom died — they don’t want to fix things, and additional [well-meaning] people getting involved will not change that. Sometimes the most loving thing one can do is let go. So, I let go of them. I release any hope of healing or restoration. Maybe it happens, maybe it doesn’t, but realistically I haven’t needed them to come this far.
Sometimes we are forced to create meaningful and beautiful lives without the people that were supposed to be there for all of it, and sometimes it’s because of death while other times it’s because pain separates the living.
To those who have shown up, thank you. I see you, I love you 💙. To those who can’t show up or chose not to show up, I love you, too. Take care, be well. Pursue healing and love.
The point is — this is what it’s like to survive suicide. A whole world erodes, and the roots left turn out to be beautiful and complex and mangled in grief.
The best people come to tend to and to water these roots, and one day new life and new dreams will bloom from what they have cared for. Above all, love each other deeply. Love heals a multitude of sorrows.
It’s been 231 days since my Mother ended her life. She was 51. I was 27.
It’s been 2,468 days since my brother’s suicide was discovered. He was 28. I was 21.
It’s been 2,836 days since my close friend drowned. He was 25. I was 20.
I could list a few more death dates, but these three have been the most sudden and traumatic. They are the most obvious and the most public form of trauma that I have endured.
* * * *
When I was a preteen and teenager, I couldn’t wait for my twenties. I couldn’t wait for the freedom that comes with growing up — being able to drive, choose a place to live, and figuring out what I wanted from life. I longed for the independence and relished the idea of being free and fun and maybe beautiful.
I started college at age 16 and was well on my track for freedom and independence — kind of. I had the most supportive parents in the world: they agreed to let me use Dad’s GI Bill and at 17 I “moved out” into a college dorm.
Dinner before Mom and Dad dropped me off at UniversityEach of my Sibling’s Favorite Bible Verses. Notes from my parents and brothers on the back of each letter. They made it as a gift for my first dorm.
In college… well, I was just about the most boring human you’d ever meet, ha. You can ask my good friends Brittany and Becca to verify — we called ourselves the “Grandma Group” because we woke up early and studied all the time. They’re actually the friends that pushed me to start this blog nearly 10 years ago (read my bio for more info on that).
I wasn’t fun. I don’t think I’ve ever really been fun, but I did love the freedom. Turns out, all I really wanted freedom to do was read books and drink coffee peacefully. There’s not a whole lot of peace in a houseful of teenage brothers 🙂 but there is a whole lot of love.
My sweet friend drowned mere weeks from my graduation… suddenly my exciting twenties sank into the vast ocean of grief. As JK Rowling imaginatively defines it, there really are two types of people in the world: those who see thestrals and those who don’t. Brittany and Becca lovingly cleaned my apartment when I went home for my friend’s funeral, and they left flowers to welcome me when I returned. Professors extended capstone deadlines, and Lauren even helped me write some of my final papers.
Brittany and Becca left this when they cleaned my apartment 💙
My parents moved the day I graduated college, and I wasn’t sure where I’d live anymore. I was searing from a world stripped of all confidence and hope. My friend Rachel took me under her wing and let me stay with her while I tried to figure out my next move.
Sweet Rachel 🩷
366 days later, my brother Patrick went AWOL. I spent the night with him the evening before our friend’s one year death-anniversary. The morning of the one year, Patrick gave me a book, he told me he loved me, and I never heard from him again. I haven’t brought myself to read that book. Those same sweet friends showed up then too, and a few more. 💙
💙There’s so much shock in initial grief — you’re just so happy to see the people who are alive 💙
11 months after that, I left Virginia to join my parents for a month before I moved to Florida. I only told two people what day I would leave Virginia… I didn’t even tell my now husband, despite his pleadings to let him know when I would be gone. I think hurt a lot of people doing that, but shame kept me from allowing people to say goodbye — I didn’t think I deserved it. I thought people wishing me well would be lying… I wasn’t much of a good friend back then. My theme song was The Prince of Spain’s “Rising Sun,” and so I went just like the lyrics.
At 22, my dog Nala and I travelled across the country to start our new lives in Sunny Florida. I’d accepted a great job in a town I’d never heard of, my friend Tori gifted me Nala, and we were off to create a new and exciting life. And it was new and exciting! I had a beautiful apartment and I had hopes and dreams once more. I had a safe place where I could read in peace once again. It was such a turning point for me, a clear mark of sunshine and healing.
Mine and Nala’s first stop on our move.
My parents and brother Sawyer joined me not long after. Life was beautiful for me. Simple. Healing. Years of healing and new life. I pursued EMDR — a specialized trauma therapy — my second year in Florida and it changed my life.
My parents buying me things for my first solo apartment 💙So much growth and healing in this sweet space.
I learned about my own attachment style and how to navigate various attachment styles, and I learned how to better love and accept love. Much to my surprise, I reconnected with Scott and our friendship bloomed into a loving marriage when I turned 25. I remember thinking at the beginning of our relationship that Scott had seen me at my worst and he still loved me — he still showed up, especially in times where I couldn’t show up for myself, much less anyone else.
The night that changed everything 🤍
You can do so much healing on your own, but there are some forms of healing that can’t be done outside of relationships; relationships, especially marriage, expose insecurities and triggers people typically can’t realize they have on their own. Trust issues rooted in past relationships surface even in the most trustworthy of partners. So many triggers and arguments have so little to do with the person in front of you. We had fun in our first year of marriage, but a lot of trauma resurfaced. Moving was a huge adjustment for Scott and I tended to take that personally — as if him missing home meant he didn’t love me or our life together.
Our second year, though, brought a new golden age. I dared to hope. I dared to dream. It was beautiful and it was sweet and it was fun. We explored everywhere together… and then we’d bring my parents back the next week :). We did almost everything with them. It was idyllic. Our lives were measured with so much love, support, and hope.
Then bullets pierced the contentment we shared as murder and suicide ricocheted through our lives.
Some of those same friends, Brittany and Ean and Lauren came back for the third time. They did everything for me… when I have done so little for them. They cared for my home, they cared for my family, they cared for me. So many more friends joined along the way — other friends in multitudes of states sent their support or show up, friends in Florida came to our aid as well.
* * * *
I had been looking forward to my thirties, begging to leave behind my twenties. If I’m honest, most days I really don’t want to be alive. I don’t want to do the basics of going to work, making dinner, keeping up with a home, and socializing. It’s not that I want to die, I just don’t want to live through this and through whatever else is next.
I thought in my early twenties that I’d made it through the worst of life, but it just keeps getting worse and the losses keep getting more painful. I’m the youngest in my family — I always assumed I’d be the last to die, but I didn’t think I’d lose so many so early and to such violent ends.
This week I’ve given up hope that my thirties will be any better than my twenties.
I don’t believe that life is good, but I’m starting to believe that it isn’t necessarily bad. There are many, many, many things and events in life that are bad, but that doesn’t mean life as a whole is bad. It’s not even neutral: life is beautiful, and it is a gift.
Despite everything, as I type these tragedies, I see the beauty of the friends who have shown up again and again and again. I haven’t been able to be that person to them, but they’ve been that to me. They have lived and loved and given and given — they have made the worst of my life live-able and bearable and beautiful. These and so many other friends… They have made life kind. They have brought healing.
When I see the beauty around me — in friendships, in nature, in kindness — it reminds me how much of a gift this life truly is. Awe prompts me to think of all Patrick and Mom gave up and all they’re missing out on.
While I may not have the energy or motivation to engage in basic life tasks, these things ground me. Maybe tragedy will continue to define each decade of my one wild and beautiful life, but as long as I’m living I know that more people will come alongside and join me in these tragedies, and that is a very beautiful thing.
I was never Mom’s “mini-me” and I wonder if she resented that.
Sure, I look like her… but we’re definitely not twins.
After three boys, maybe she wanted a daughter just like her… but I wasn’t.
On my birthdays, she used to tell me that when she found out I was a girl she hoped I would have blue eyes. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it wasn’t.
I’ve always thought I was the perfect 50/50 blend of both my parents in both looks and personality. We talked about it a lot — me and my parents — I thought we all liked me that way. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she said it with resentment. I don’t know.
She loved doing makeup, I didn’t. She wanted me to have her curly hair too — she tried to make mine curl like hers, but it never really did. She’d often do my hair and makeup when I went to her house, even as an adult.
I think she wanted me to be just like her, and I wasn’t, and I think that hurt her.
That leaves me feeling… guilty? A little sick? Not great.
Sure, it’s all speculative thinking. Perhaps you’ll say I shouldn’t waste my time on thoughts like these, and maybe you’re right… but the thoughts still generate.
I’ve written over 60 posts since my Mom ended her life, and maybe a handful of them have alluded to other people. I try primarily to write about my own experience, but some dramas obviously include my husband, dad, and siblings. I work not to tell their stories, though our stories are intricately untwined, but their stories are their own. Their experiences are their own: their own stories to share, their own experiences to suffer, and it’s not my place to create memoirs of their lives.
However, today is different.
I dedicate today’s post to my Daddy 💙
My Daddy, who’s had to endure what no one should endure. My Daddy, who’s had to be too strong his entire life. My Daddy, whose life has never been easy. My Daddy, who’s lost a son. My Daddy, who’s lost his partner and best friend. My Daddy, who’s fought his whole life to create a better life for his family, but whose family betrayed this life.
This weekend is my parents’ anniversary. It was Wednesday this week before I realized just how much that fact stings me. I know it’s agonizing for my father.
I journaled a few weeks ago mourning the loss of both my parents. I miss when I had parents, now I just have a parent and my parent is having to reinvent himself because my mother left us without warning. I love my Daddy, I love every version of my Daddy, but I miss the version of my Dad that had my Mom.
I miss the security of having two parents who loved each other so deeply. I miss them randomly dancing with each other in the kitchen. I miss their adoring eyes. I miss their fun. I miss their smiles, I miss their joy together. I miss their partnership. I miss admiring them. They endured so much together — always together — they loved to be together. My Mom used to say that being apart for my dad for more than a couple days was agony, especially after my brother died. They helped each other. They loved each other. I mean, they really loved each other.
Together, holding hands, laughing, sharing, just being together. They could do anything together.
Together, they build a beautiful life. They raised a beautiful family. They helped us children through tragedy after tragedy. They cared for us during all seasons. I miss that, I miss them. They seemed to have every answer in the world — not proudly, not that they told us every answer in the world, but that they simply lived a life that testified that anything could be conquered and endured together.
But now here’s my Daddy, my wonderful Daddy, mourning his wife on the anniversary of their beginning. The anniversary when two names became one, and my mom was crowned with a new name and a new life.
They escaped the turmoil of their upbringing and built a beautiful life for each other and their children. A life built on love, centered around family, and upholding the strongest foundation any child could long for.
I love my Daddy.
I’m grateful for this life he curated for me and my siblings. My brothers have a strong and beautiful sense of family that we inherited from my Daddy. Family has always been the most important thing to my Daddy, he sacrificed so much for us.
He’s the best Dad in the world. He always has been. I’ve never seen someone so kind, tender, and loving to his wife like my dad was to my mom. I love spending time with him, I love living near him, I love working with him. I love that he’s my Daddy.
I love his depth, I love his beautiful mind. I love his realism and his commitment to continual growth. I love his vulnerability and honesty. I love him. I love him so much. I love that he always helps me, I love that he listens to me and speaks life and truth into me. I’m so grateful for my Daddy. He’s the best.
I’m so sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry you have to live through this, too. I know Momma loved you. I’m so sorry she left us when she was unwell. I know you would have done anything to prevent this. None of this is your fault, Daddy. I’m so sorry for all the hurt and pain and wrongfulness that has come since her death.
I love you, Daddy. I’m so sorry that every day without Mom sucks, and I’m sorry this weekend amplifies that pain.
I’m so proud of you, Daddy. I’m so proud of your battle to continue living each day. I’m so proud of you for doing the hard work of healing each day. I’m so proud of you for being my Daddy. I love you, always. I love every version of you, and I’ll always love you.
She was beginning to age gracefully and beautifully. She had crow’s feet and smile lines, whiting hair and tired bones. I loved these little things, I loved her testaments of a life well lived. A life fought for and endured with laughter in good measure.
She was brilliant, too, you know: a delighted student and longing scholar.
But she fell victim to her mind, and murdered any chance at life and redemption.
She knew what it was like to be a survivor of suicide and still chose…
We just weren’t worth living for.
Because of my brother Patrick, we used to discuss how people who want to kill themselves typically won’t tell others they struggle with suicide — voicing it can feel like limiting the option. People who admit they’re ideating can receive support and, in some ways, accountability. We assumed then that was why Patrick didn’t tell us he wanted to end his life. I know now that’s why she was dishonest about her yearning for the grave.
I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again — Secrets kill people. Shame kills people.
If you’re ideating suicide (thinking of ways to make yourself die, fixating on death, contemplating self-harm), reach out while you’re still mentally healthy enough to do so. Care enough to reach out. We want to see you grow old, even if you don’t. Don’t leave us behind, wondering why you didn’t think we were worth it to enough for you to stay around.
Your life is important. Your life is a gift. You are a gift. Please, seek professional help if you notice yourself yearning for death. Small steps and changes can transform one’s life from miserable towards healing, growth, and beauty. Don’t let pain win.
Once upon a time, there lived a relatively happy family. They were a solemn family, where sorrow was ever before their doorstep, but happiness loomed at their threshold as well.
Their smiles were bright and welcoming, their tidings were of joy and compassion. They danced among a community of happy faces, committed to the cause of goodness and grace. Though they lived many states apart, they upheld that solemn unity that family and trauma require.
The mother, yes, she was the shining star. She was the jewel of the community, welcoming the shiny happy people — celebrated for her friendliness and hospitality, honored for her good nature. A shepherd to her community, a shepherd to her family. She boasted of her beloved family — children, the apples of her eyes, and her one beloved, her friend.
But, like all beautiful things, she died.
And what of her community? This shepherd did not pastor alone. No, she had several who could have looked after her flock. Only, they didn’t.
Her family was left to grovel, abandoned by the community that celebrated their wife and mother. Shunned by those whom called her a “co-laborer in Christ” and a friend. Exiled by the very community that spoke of her love and beauty at her funeral. Her family was judged and rejected, abandoned but not forgotten.
They thought of — and prayed for, of course — her family, they said, when five or six months passed and they finally decided to check in.
Five or six months of silence, of gossip, of abandonment from the very place their wife and mother once shined. She was the woman who really “saw” people, and they couldn’t see her survivors.
I’m sick of the veiled statements and the cryptic messages: I’m disappointed and hurt by how much my mother’s pastoral staff didn’t show up for us — after all she gave to them. She gave them her life, and they repaid her by shunning her family after her death.
But, as they read this, they’ll say “See! She’s angry at us,” and not “oh, we’ve hurt her.” It’s always the sufferer who must snuff her feelings, protecting the egos of those who did the hurting. Those who inflicted pain seldom care to take ownership of their wrongs, choosing rather to call the wounded impaired.
I’m sick of the injustice of it all, I’m sick of the gossip. I’m sick of the people who got my mother’s police report, made copies of it, and mailed and/or texted it out to people who had no right to her private information. I’m sickened by the people who continue to share it, choosing not to protect my mother nor my family from harm. I’m sick of being afraid to leave my house and wonder if somebody’s going to ask me about — someone I don’t know, saying things she would never tell them, looking to exploit answers from me. I’m sick of feeling so powerless, so voiceless, against those who have hurt and who keep hurting me and my family.
There were people who blamed my mom for my brother’s death, and those same people blame my family for her death. They were vile to her, sending nasty letters and saying wicked things.
They whisper and they lie, they spread misinformation in hopes of isolating us from our community. And guess what? It worked. Shunned. Isolated. Abandoned. All in the name of Jesus.
Exposed 