The Sun is Emerging from Behind the Clouds

Healing is possible. Even when believing it seems impossible.

It’s been eight hundred sixty-three days since my daughter Chloe died in a horrific car accident. One for which she bears sole responsibility.

I’ve written endlessly about the journey between then and now. It’s been painful, exhausting and life-altering in ways I only imagined in my nightmares. At times I worried I was losing my mind. I’ve wrestled with intense guilt for failing to save my daughter (and my wife). And I’ve wondered if the world’s colours would ever be anything but grey again.

On my hands and knees after learning of her death a fleeting thought pierced the agony, if only for a moment. “I don’t know how, I don’t know when but I know this will make me grow as a person.”

I’ve replayed that thought countless times over the last few years. I’ve always believed healing is possible. I’ve believed it when I’ve clutched Chloe’s urn to my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. I’ve believed it when I’ve been pot smoking myself into oblivion. I knew, to my core, that believing healing is possible is what makes healing possible.

I’ve never described myself as permanently broken, as I’ve heard so many parents say. I refuse to moan about life being unfair or lament about how “no parent should ever have to lose a child.” The words we use don’t describe our reality: they define it. I do my best to be intentional about the reality I speak into existence.

I’ve always been committed to turning over every stone on the path to healing. I’ve had incredible, guided psychedelic experiences from the jungles of Costa Rica to a local basement. I’ve written and talked about grief to the point where I’ve gotten sick of myself. I’ve seen talk therapists and still see a Somatic Experiencing therapist. I’ve stopped smoking pot and recently quit caffeine as well.

None of this is to make me sound like some kind of hero. I’m not. Over the past few years, I’ve wrestled with addictions I thought I’d left behind forever. I was forced to buy new clothes because of the fast food I used to cope with the misery of losing my girl. I’ve isolated myself and felt apathetic about everything and almost everyone. Every decision and action that was misaligned with my values turned understandable pain into self-imposed suffering.

Even in my darkest moments, I knew I was healing. But two and a half years is a long damn time. When pain is your ever present companion it feels like an eternity. Taking a step forward inevitably exposes another raw nerve I have to deal with. There always seems to be another mountain to climb. And when I’m so exhausted I can barely stand, even a molehill is enough for me to lock myself in a dark basement alone.

I’ve had moments of laughter and happiness over the past few years. But they weren’t the same. They were muted and carried the crushing weight of unresolved grief. When I was gifted a respite from the misery of such a devastating loss, I knew another wave of pain and sadness was right around the corner. It’s hard to enjoy a birthday party when the next event in your calendar is a funeral.

Recently though, I’ve felt something shift. I’m learning to be more present and connected to what’s happening in my body instead of being driven mad by it. I’ve felt a lightness that’s been missing from my life for a long time. The incessant hum of anxiety has been replaced by a welcome sense of calm. My laughter is genuine rather than feeling like a devastated person wearing a clown mask.

I know there will be many more moments of pain, sadness and longing for my girl. I will carry the grief of Chloe’s death for the rest of my life. But I won’t feel ripped off because I didn’t get seventy years on this earth with her. I’ll feel grateful I got nineteen because that’s a hell of a lot better than zero.

If I could snap my fingers and have her back I would do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t. I don’t know why I was given this cross to bear. Ultimately it doesn’t much matter. I was given it and I will bear it. I’ll continue to move forward with my head held high, a heart full of love while trying to make a difference in this world. And when I do have to take a knee, I’ll get back up. Every single time.

To anyone reading this who is in the aftermath of a devastating loss…you can heal. You won’t ever be the same, but you can heal. I think the most important thing you can do is to believe it’s possible. Even when believing it seems impossible.

And Chloe - I love and miss you little buddy and I always will. ♥️♥️