There's Always Another Mountain to Climb

Facing the pain I thought I'd already conquered

Losing someone you love doesn’t just break your heart.

It destroys the world that made sense because they were in it.

Routines collapse. Identies shatter. The future you imagined disappears forever.

It replaces the comforting illusion of certainty with an intolerable existential chaos. An unpredictable world is a dangerous world.

We race to build new structures: patterns, explanations, rules. It doesn't matter if they're incomplete, desperate, or wrong. Any structure feels safer than none.

Some of these new beliefs help us survive and even heal. But others, especially the ones built from fear, guilt, or shame, can harden into cages.

At first they protect us. Before long, they shrink around us, keeping us trapped in a smaller, lonelier and more painful life.

Healing demands the courage to see the prison bars for what they are, and the strength to walk beyond them

It’s a staggering thing to realize that one of the most foundational truths you’ve clung to wasn’t true at all. The belief that once kept you upright becomes the lie you have to confront to move forward.

I know this because I’m living it.

Grief is an all-consuming journey. It fractures the mind, overwhelms the heart, and weighs on the body like a boat anchor around the neck.

And as devastating as it can be, there are countless ways to ratchet up the agony to even more intolerable levels.

One of the most common is one I thought I'd left behind. Guilt. The guilt of failing at my most sacred duty to my child. The duty to protect her.

I've been telling myself, and anyone who will listen, all the right things. I'd even convinced myself I believed them.

• "Being a great dad is the most important thing in the world to me."

• "I did my absolute best, and I'm at peace with that."

• "There are a million things out of my control that influenced the trajectory of Chloe's life."

• “Of course if I could back and do things differently I would. But I can’t so there’s no point in thinking about it.”

Amidst all the pain, I was grateful that I'd freed myself from the shackles of unresolved guilt. And I felt deep compassion and empathy for those who hadn't. I still do.

Then, as always, when I least expected it, I realized there is yet another mountain to climb.

During a recent Somatic Experiencing session, I was feeling a very acute sense of charge. My nervous system was lit up and my edginess made me want to crawl out of my own skin. The therapist guided me to connect with what was happening in my body. As he did, I dropped out of fight-or-flight and into a rare sense of calm. It's something I don’t experience often, usually only in sessions with him. My perpetual hyper-vigilance disappeared, and I was fully present. It’s in those moments where I tend to have the most profound insights.

This time, I felt a powerful wave of guilt for failing my daughter when she needed me most. I immediately started sobbing. I realized I don’t believe all the logical things I’ve been telling myself I believed. I’ve been reciting them like a mantra. They've been a subconscious attempt to manage the pain while I try to hold my life together. Realizing it’s all been a self-protective lie is as exhausting as it is empowering. The exhaustion comes from knowing there’s always another raw nerve to touch. Another truth I haven’t been ready to feel.

Shortly after this moment I was out for an evening walk with my beautiful wife. I felt crushed and defeated. How could I have been lying to myself for the last two years and not seen it? How am I supposed to find the strength to face the guilt that my healing requires.

I started to cry as we walked. There's always another fucking mountain to climb to get back to sea level. And somehow, it surprises me every time. But the mountains aren't new. They were always there. I just wasn't ready to see them yet.

But it’s empowering, too. Because the more I understand what’s really there, the more I can square my shoulders, stiffen my spine, and face it. No matter how much it hurts.

Later that evening, alone in the tub, the dam burst. I cried harder than I have in a long time The pain, a fusion of grief and guilt, was all consuming. Through the tears, I apologized to Chloe for failing her at least twenty-times. There are few things less satisfying than apologizing to a ghost.

There are also few things more healing than apologizing to a ghost you feel like you failed. As painful as the experience was, I faced it and survived. I got up off my knees, looked up at the peak of the next mountain and started climbing.

I'll get to the mountaintop. And the next one. And the one after that. I’ll have moments where it seems I can’t take another step. When that happens, I’ll rest. Then I’ll get back up and keep climbing.

I couldn't save Chloe. But I can honour her memory by continuing to heal.

If I can do it, you can too. ♥️