What a beautiful piece, Jason. I sent this along to my son-in-law who had the terrible experience of being on the scene at my son’s suicide and attempting to revive him.
I so wish I could have spared him that experience.
Thank you for your work in this area of deep trauma and our journey toward finding wholeness.
Ugh, Eric I'm so sorry for you and your son-in-law. I wish I could spare every parent from going through this but it also helps knowing we aren't the only ones, too.
My partner lost his wife to cancer. She was diagnosed 1 year into their 14 year marriage. Her daughter was in her tweens when they married and he was her beloved dad. He was depressed and isolated himself for many years before reengaging with life. I went through a horrible divorce and then a severe illness and isolated myself for many years before saying yes to life. 11 years ago we met at a jam session. We’ve been making beautiful music together ever since. His beloved daughter never recovered from the grief of her mother’s passing. She died 7 years ago from slow intentional suicide by alcohol 9 days before her 40th birthday. We think of her often and miss her deeply. Life, loss, and love has given us the gift of each other and a depth of togetherness that we will carry into our aging life together. My wish for you is to rediscover someone to hold dear and grow old together.
This broke me open. Not just because of what you lived through, but because of how you stayed with it. You didn’t shove the memory down or numb it—you met it. That’s rare. That’s brave.
The peace didn’t come from forgetting. It came from facing it, again and again, until it lost its grip. That’s what healing actually looks like.
Thank you for not sugarcoating any of it. You’re showing other men that real strength isn’t silence—it’s presence.
Thank you for sharing this. It’s the advice I need, but wouldn’t have been able to process after my son died until I did my own somatic work. It’s going to help people.
Wow! This piece is stunning. Thank you Jason for your courage and vulnerability. I've passed this on to my sister who woke up one morning back in 2008 to find that my sweet niece had died in her bed over night. She was 15. My sister spiraled down a dark hole for many years and has only now come up for air. Grief can be paralyzing like that. And sadness can grip the heart like nothing else. Thank you for shining a light for those who need it most
This one really hit home. You wrote it more gracefully than I could have.
The only thing more terrifying than walking into that room was walking out, knowing it was the last time I would ever see the boy I gave birth to in physical form. I relive that day often. And weirdly, I chose to take photos of him. Every so often, I scroll past them in my phone and it knocks the air out of me all over again.
What a beautiful piece, Jason. I sent this along to my son-in-law who had the terrible experience of being on the scene at my son’s suicide and attempting to revive him.
I so wish I could have spared him that experience.
Thank you for your work in this area of deep trauma and our journey toward finding wholeness.
Ugh, Eric I'm so sorry for you and your son-in-law. I wish I could spare every parent from going through this but it also helps knowing we aren't the only ones, too.
This is so so powerful
My partner lost his wife to cancer. She was diagnosed 1 year into their 14 year marriage. Her daughter was in her tweens when they married and he was her beloved dad. He was depressed and isolated himself for many years before reengaging with life. I went through a horrible divorce and then a severe illness and isolated myself for many years before saying yes to life. 11 years ago we met at a jam session. We’ve been making beautiful music together ever since. His beloved daughter never recovered from the grief of her mother’s passing. She died 7 years ago from slow intentional suicide by alcohol 9 days before her 40th birthday. We think of her often and miss her deeply. Life, loss, and love has given us the gift of each other and a depth of togetherness that we will carry into our aging life together. My wish for you is to rediscover someone to hold dear and grow old together.
This broke me open. Not just because of what you lived through, but because of how you stayed with it. You didn’t shove the memory down or numb it—you met it. That’s rare. That’s brave.
The peace didn’t come from forgetting. It came from facing it, again and again, until it lost its grip. That’s what healing actually looks like.
Thank you for not sugarcoating any of it. You’re showing other men that real strength isn’t silence—it’s presence.
Thank you for sharing this. It’s the advice I need, but wouldn’t have been able to process after my son died until I did my own somatic work. It’s going to help people.
I feel your heart here and those memories we don’t choose to remember can really lay us low when they hit.
For me, I find my peace in Jesus love and presence alone. May you find strength and healing as you walk this path.
Wow! This piece is stunning. Thank you Jason for your courage and vulnerability. I've passed this on to my sister who woke up one morning back in 2008 to find that my sweet niece had died in her bed over night. She was 15. My sister spiraled down a dark hole for many years and has only now come up for air. Grief can be paralyzing like that. And sadness can grip the heart like nothing else. Thank you for shining a light for those who need it most
This hit home. The images associated with loss (both real and imagined) can be so vivid, intrusive, and jarring. Thank you for writing.
Thank you for writing this, Jason. I think you are very brave to so. And condolences for the loss of your daughter. 🙏
This one really hit home. You wrote it more gracefully than I could have.
The only thing more terrifying than walking into that room was walking out, knowing it was the last time I would ever see the boy I gave birth to in physical form. I relive that day often. And weirdly, I chose to take photos of him. Every so often, I scroll past them in my phone and it knocks the air out of me all over again.