Different, and Still Somehow Beautiful

Brokenness as a moment in time, rather than as the rest of time.

Note: Grief is a profoundly personal experience. My goal is not to judge anyone else’s journey nor is it to suggest what anyone should do or not do. You have the right to look at your experience however makes sense to you. By sharing my experience, I hope to provide a perspective that may, in some small way, offer you a new insight or comfort as you navigate your own.

There is no version of broken I’ve experienced as profound as the loss of my child. Life as I’ve known it has been irretrievably shattered. The future I imagined is gone, with every new path ahead leading straight to hell. And I rewrite even the best moments of the past into a horrific narrative that leads to my child’s grave.

Since Chloe’s death, I’ve heard from hundreds of parents who’ve lost a child. The most common word they’ve used to describe themselves is broken. The devastating complexity of loss, pain, and disintegration somehow captured in one simple word.

Shards of Grief

What once seemed whole is fragmented down to my soul. My emotional experience becomes an enemy I’m forced to carry with me. Any glimmer of hope or happiness turns to anger, guilt, or sadness. Or anger, guilt AND sadness at the same time. Or just inconsolable mental anguish.

I can’t concentrate, can’t remember, and can’t think. On top of losing my child, I wonder if I’m losing my mind. Conversations become exercises in trying not to cry. The fog in my head is a stifling, poison blanket that strangles the life out of my ability to see the sunlight. Or maybe the fog in my head is me trying to smoke the pain away.

Many of my friends, lost for words and actions, seem like strangers now.. I feel like an animal caged in a zoo, with my friends staring silently at me through the glass. People I thought would lift me up, let me down. Well-meaning, kind, and caring people mumble platitudes that make me want to scream.

The past, present, and future are no longer a continuum that makes any sense. My life has become a Jenga puzzle that’s been violently kicked over. Even if I could try to put it back together, there will always be pieces missing. So why fucking bother? I fixate on the past as a way of avoiding the future I no longer want.

My fundamental assumptions are destroyed. Parents are supposed to die before their kids, right? Wrong, you fucking asshole. I was a parent of two kids; now what am I? A parent of one? A parent of two with one in heaven? Or maybe a parent of two with the youngest somehow becoming the oldest.

If all that doesn’t describe broken, I don’t know what does. And yet I never looked at myself that way. And I never will.

I Understand and I Choose Differently

I understand how people feel broken beyond repair, how the idea of healing from a child’s death would seem laughable if not for the unstoppable I understand too, how the pain becomes the thread that keeps them connected to their child. Healing gives rise to guilt, which in turn reinforces the sense of brokenness.

The power to choose how we look at things is inherent in our humanity. Our lives unfold as a tapestry of subjective experiences. We make sense of those experiences by telling ourselves stories about what they mean. By consciously choosing the stories we tell, we change our perceptions of our experiences and ourselves.

The words, language and metaphors we use don’t describe our reality, they define it. They can help liberate us from our suffering or imprison us in our pain. We decide our future by forcefully speaking into existence. Being irreparably broken starts and ends with believing and describing yourself as irreparably broken.

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”
― Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning

With that in mind, I’m not broken. I’ve been deeply hurt by the loss of my beautiful daughter. And I’m healing and will continue to. Regardless of how the rest of my life unfolds, one thing is certain; I’ll never the be the person I once was. In my mind, that’s neither good nor bad. It just… is. Everything else is a story I get to choose.

I’ve likened my healing process to a wound that, once healed, leaves behind a scar. I resonated with that metaphor because, to me, it depicted resilience in the face of pain. It represented my ability to heal into a whole, yet different version of myself. It made me feel strong and unbreakable. I needed that. Until I didn’t.

Positive Imagery, Positive Action

I started wondering if the story I was telling myself and others was limiting me. I have been wounded but do I need to carry these wounds as permanent scars? The concept of a scar began to represent a natural, albeit largely passive, process of healing, one in which I seem to have minimal influence over its formation and lasting presence.

I chose to search for a new story to tell; one that was both empowering and that called me to purposeful action to create a new future with Chloe. Positive images of the future have a remarkable tendency to inspire positive action in the present.

As I ruminated, I remembered learning about the Japanese art of kintsugi. It’s the craft of repairing what’s been broken in a way that enhances its beauty. It’s more than just a method of repair; it is a profound metaphor for healing and renewal. It teaches that breakage and repair are natural parts of an object's history and that these should be embraced rather than hidden or discarded. The golden seams of a kintsugi piece symbolize resilience, transformation, and the beauty of embracing flaws.

Framing my experience this way gives me hope and a sense of optimism. It helps me remember that life, while forever different, can still be beautiful. It reminds me that while healing is a journey, it’s also a set of skills that must be practiced over and over and over again. The process of repair takes patience, dedication and a willingness to accept that what was will never be.

I know I’ll find myself again like I did last week; in the basement, clutching Chloe’s urn and sobbing uncontrollably. I’ll wonder how in God’s name it’s possible that all that remains of my little girl is a collection of ashes stuffed into a container. I’ll experience grief so severe I can barely breathe.

When I do, I’ll accept it. I’ll experience it fully. And I won’t try to change it. I know it’s part of the process. I understand that it hurts so badly because I love her so much. I’ll remind myself that even though I’ve lost her, she’s still with me.

Most importantly of all, I’ll remember that this is the process of healing. I can’t bring Chloe back, but I can carry her forward. I didn’t shatter the vase, but I can repair it. I can lovingly and painstakingly rejoin the pieces with gold. I can create something different, and still beautiful.

Beauty doesn’t lie in the result. It lies in the process. There will be times it’s almost impossible to see. But I’ll keep looking and I will find it, again and again. I will build on it until the end of my days. As I look towards the future, I am forever changed but never broken.

I wish you peace and healing friend.