"That's the difference between having control and having choices." Love this so much, Amy! When my husband had his motorcycle accident, I lost all control of most things, but we never lost our choices. It's why I made jokes in the Emergency Room, named the little alligators that my husband hallucinated in his hospital room, encouraged my daughter to call his trach voice his "duck voice". We can't stop tragedy, but we can choose not to be tragic. It may be the only control we have. As always, thank you for sharing. 💓
Thank you Jess! I love the stories about your family. I was a little afraid it might come across as “silver lining” thinking, but it’s really about trying to get a sense of agency within a situation you couldn’t control. Just remembering that we have choices feels like a lifeline in the midst of tragedy. XO 🥰
I appreciate you letting me tell them! Part of my own healing journey. And I didn't get that vibe at all. There is nothing Pollyanna about surviving the shit life throws at us. Choices are a lifeline, and even now, it's helpful to me to be reminded of that small but critical agency.
This spring, after I skidded off an icy road over the edge of a 500’ drop off, landed hard against the only tree before a 200’ vertical drop into a whitewater river and survived without a single scratch or bruise even though the car was crushed, I decided to go in the next morning to debrief with my counselor. I know how these things go if I let them run their course in my head. I have images of the what ifs running nonstop through my mind day and night. The anxiety is nonstop.
Her advice? Ignore the what ifs and focus on the what is. Now when I drive past where the event happened, I feel deep gratitude to that tree and whatever caused it to grow strong enough on that near vertical mountainside to save my life.
Wow, this is so incredibly wise and beautiful. Thank you for sharing your story with me. Your commitment to your healing process in the face of trauma and loss is truly inspiring. ❤️🩹🥰🙏
Switter, your story stopped me in my tracks. What you experienced could easily have consumed you with “what ifs,” but the way you’ve shifted to “what is” shows such clarity and strength. That tree, standing firm in such an unlikely place, becomes a symbol of something so much bigger—a quiet, steady presence that saved you in a moment of chaos.
Your counselor’s advice resonates deeply. I’ve learned how easily the mind can spiral into those endless loops of what could have been, and it takes real effort to bring focus back to the here and now. Your gratitude for that tree and the life you still have is such a powerful reminder to ground ourselves in what is real and present.
Thank you for sharing this—it’s a reflection I’ll carry forward, especially in moments when “what ifs” try to take hold.
I climbed down to that tree a couple of times since the accident, with trash bags to remove the debris, but mostly to sit next to the tree and let myself feel deep gratitude.
Thank you for responding. These connections we make when we push the send button are what makes telling our stories so worth the effort.
I love this quote: "grief is love that has nowhere to go." I think of grieving as a non-linear process. You never stop grieving, you simply adapt to having it there. You feel better over time not because the grief goes away, but because you mold yourself around it.
That "what if game," as I like to call it, keeps you spinning in your head, without actually landing in your body or feelings. Pausing, breathing, and feeling is what I have found to be the only way through.
Wise words Janine! I agree 100% that grief is non-linear. Unlike a scraped knee, it doesn't heal with time. I like to say that I am "healing" but I don't think I will ever be healed from my grief and trauma. That doesn't mean I don't feel joy, I just feel it in equal measure with sorrow. I like what you said about adapting to holding grief. There are so many ways we can support ourselves in grief, (talk therapy, somatic practices, mindfulness, community with other grievers) but it all takes time. Grief work is slow work - one of the most truthful things I've ever said.
Amy, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m a little farther out from my husband’s death, almost 5 years. I went through many of the same feelings you have had. I think you make excellent observations and recommendations.
There is life after a loss, but only if you go after it and wrestle with grief. I went through a period of profound sadness, followed by anger, not only for the doctors who felt mismanaged my husband’s care, but with myself, that I couldn’t do more to help him. I did phone counseling with the organization that arranged my husband’s stem cell transplant, I joined a group of grievers and I talked to everyone who would listen to me (I don’t have many friends, no parents or siblings and only one adult child, who still won’t talk much about the whole experience). I started writing down how I felt, and for the first time in my life I wrote poetry. I visited the cemetery and had discussions with myself (and him) on how I was coping. On the first anniversary of his passing, I had a day of gratitude for everyone who had helped me deal with grief over the last year. I still miss my husband, but after being with him 39 years, I feel that he had such an influence on me, that he’s not really gone.
At a year, I decided I didn’t like being alone, so put myself out there and went on a couple of dating services. The first relationship was a disaster, with someone who turned out to have a personality disorder, but I didn’t give up—the next real relationship has been going three years, and it’s good. He is much different from my late husband, but he cares for me, is always there for me, and he makes me laugh a lot. Plus, he is a prolific poet!
It is good to try those other doors after a loss. Sometimes what is on the other side is scary or sad, but many times you discover new things about yourself and find fulfillment and life after loss. I can see you are on that path. Grief leaves scars that don’t go away, but they fade and become less noticeable with time.
Hi Carole, thank you so much for telling me your story. You are a remarkable person, more than most people can imagine. Your strength and courage to keep going in the face of such extreme heartbreak is truly inspiring.
I too had a terrible experience with my first “relationship” after my husband died. That ended almost 2 years ago and I haven’t dated since. I am grateful you told me you found an amazing person (a poet!) because part of me feels resigned to being alone the rest of my life.
I don’t think I am meant to be alone, but my confidence took a big hit after I chose to give my heart to someone who didn’t want me. You give me hope to try again, what a gift. You’ve recreated a beautiful life for yourself, and I couldn’t be happier for you 🥰❤️
Amy, what you’re doing here on Substack is therapeutic and healing for you and for many others. I wish I had known about this site earlier. I also highly recommend the Megan Divine book, but the most important thing about grief is to let it out in as many ways as you can. When you internalize it, grief becomes a chronic illness.
My first “relationship” (and I’m glad to see you used quotes with that word, because some encounters are nightmares and not relationships) as a widow was with a man who was a poster child for narcissistic personality disorder, unbeknownst to me at the time of our encounter. Had I not consulted the literature and other websites (Quora actually has some great ones), I would still be thinking that I was the problem. People like him are charming and love-bombing at first, yet so awful later, and they are incapable of real love. As it turns out, my current partner and love of my life also experienced a similar situation with a woman and had concluded that being alone was better. I’m not sure how we both decided to try one more time and happened to coincide, but stranger things have happened. All the best to you, and I’ll be following your journey.
Carole, your reflection shows such depth and courage in navigating your grief and finding meaning beyond it. What stood out to me is the way you approached your journey—not by trying to erase the pain, but by engaging with it in ways that honored both your loss and your continued life.
The choices you made—seeking support, writing, having those conversations with yourself and your husband, and even stepping into new relationships—show a commitment to your own well-being while holding space for the love and connection you shared with your husband. That balance is so important, and it’s clear you’ve embodied it with care.
What you said about grief leaving scars feels especially resonant. Scars are part of the body’s way of healing, not signs of failure or weakness. They remind us of what we’ve endured and, as you so beautifully described, how we grow around our losses. Your story offers not just hope but a practical roadmap for exploring those other doors, even when they feel uncertain. Thank you for sharing such an authentic and thoughtful perspective.
Find the fellow grievers!! Yessss. This is so incredibly helpful. When I lost my love and best friend, social media did not exist, my bubble was very small and no one I knew had experienced the loss I was going through. It took me many years and a lot of therapy before I could allow myself to grieve fully.
Thank you for this entire piece my friend. Love you!! Xoxo
Thank you Mesa for connecting so deeply with this story. This is something I hear regularly from young people who have lost their partners - no one in their peer group has gone through anything like this and they instantly feel like outsiders. I'm a little older (a lot older than you were), but still young enough that partner loss is not common in among my peers. I am so grateful for the internet and widow groups. I'm so happy you made it through those dark times, but I know how much you suffered (from your writing). You inspire me so much Mesa, you truly do.
It's been many years since I lost my parents. I still wonder what if for both of them l, like I could save them.
My husband was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease and the course of the disease is unknown. It could attack is internal organs or could stay localized and he could go into remission. It's a scary and helpless feeling. My son is having health issues too and my sister a non smoker alway has progressive lung disease. Sorry for venting. I feel like I don't know what to do anymore
This is a lot for one person to handle. I don't see this as a vent, it's pain that needs to be witnessed, and I'm here for it. Please be gentle with yourself if you can. I try to imagine I'm talking to a fellow widow, who I treat more compassionately that I do myself.
I just want to validate how hard it is to live in the unknown of someone that you love's diagnosis (or lack thereof). This type of trauma is slow burning because you get little hits of it periodically rather than one major traumatic event.
I've found that trauma has a cumulative effect and it's not one of those things that gets better with time, like a scraped knee. Therapy, EMDR, community (Substack), and somatic practices have all helped me, but I still have a lot of anxiety and triggers. I would like to do more mindfulness training because it is a good way to ground ourselves into the present, AND I know that a lot of my trauma has been encoded into my body where my mind cannot reason it away.
What helped me when my fiancé Tim died suddenly was Megan Devine's book "It's OK That You're Not OK" and her website refugeingrief.com. It will be 10 years on November 5th. He lives in and through me, if that makes sense. Nothing Compares To You.
Marilyn, thank you for telling me some of your story. That he lives through you and your memory of him makes 100% sense to me. Megan Divine is amazing and her book had helped so many grievers, including me. We live in a culture that tells us to suck it up and just get on with life, but I haven’t found this to be helpful. I hope we are moving towards more openness to share when we are “not okay” well as our triumphs and successes. Growth happens in fits and starts, what a gift to be able to say, “No, I’m not okay.” I find my mood is much improved when I’m not trying to silently hold it together all the time.
Amy, it's brave of you to share your journey so openly. You're right, we often cling to the illusion of control, even when life's harsh realities shatter it. But you've found a profound truth: we may not control what happens, but we absolutely control how we respond.
Thank you Emilio, I appreciate you restacking this post too! I wouldn’t say I’ve moved on, more like moving forward with grief. It doesn’t have to be either or, in fact it’s usually both at the same time.
I think there's much truth to this, and I also think it's, to some degree, a matter of perspective. We have to keep reminding ourselves of the Serenity Prayer. We have to let go the things we can't control and focus on the things that we can. I fully realize that's easy to say and not easy to accept for someone who has lost the most important thing to them for reasons beyond their control. How do we spend what you rightly describe as our most precious nonrenewable resource, time? By focusing on what we can control. What other choice is there?
I think we all get stuck sometimes in moments when the weight of the world feels so heavy on our shoulders. When we feel beaten down it’s easy to forget that we have the ability to change our perspective, even if we cannot change the circumstances. Even knowing that we are choosing to feel victimized is better than just taking it as a given that we are a victim. One thing I still have trouble with is resting. I often feel afraid that if I don’t continue “moving forward” in some way, producing stories or photos, or even just the day to day laundry and grocery shopping, that I will remain stuck feeling sorry for myself. Resting is underrated, and I definitely could use more of it now. I can also be very hard on myself, which I know is counter-productive. I always tell others, “No one was ever motivated by a bully.” So, I’m trying to be kinder to myself. August is hard. I cannot believe that on the 25th Steven will have been gone for 3 years. How can that be? I miss him more now than ever.
Thank you Rona! Yes, once we are full with the knowledge, encoded in our brains and bodies, that bad things can happen, we are too big to fit into our old lives. I so admire your work - I appreciate your comment. 🥰🙏
hihi ur writing is so beautiful . ughhh i haven’t written here in ages but if u can will u let me know ur thoughts on my upload from today🩷🩷❤️❤️also want to make connections in writers community
Amy, reading your essay, I felt a profound connection to your words about control and choice. I’ve faced 28 life-altering events without the support of an empathic witness, each leaving its mark on my life. Like you, I’ve come to understand that control was never an option in those moments. There was nothing I could have done to change the course of those experiences.
What you wrote about choice resonates with me deeply. After four years of self-reflection, I’ve learned that while I had no control over becoming a victim of those events, my power lies in how I move forward now. I choose whether to let those moments dictate my life or to reclaim it in my way, not theirs.
Your honesty about grief and healing feels so grounding. It’s a reminder that while time doesn’t erase wounds, it offers us opportunities to decide how we live with them. Your piece captures the courage it takes to step into that unknown, holding both fear and possibility. Thank you for sharing your story—it shows how choice can coexist with pain in such a meaningful way.
I’d say we have zero ability “to control…” there’s a psychological shift when understand that being “in charge” is empowering.. efforts to be “in control” give power away and accomplish little more then ultimate frustration…
"That's the difference between having control and having choices." Love this so much, Amy! When my husband had his motorcycle accident, I lost all control of most things, but we never lost our choices. It's why I made jokes in the Emergency Room, named the little alligators that my husband hallucinated in his hospital room, encouraged my daughter to call his trach voice his "duck voice". We can't stop tragedy, but we can choose not to be tragic. It may be the only control we have. As always, thank you for sharing. 💓
Thank you Jess! I love the stories about your family. I was a little afraid it might come across as “silver lining” thinking, but it’s really about trying to get a sense of agency within a situation you couldn’t control. Just remembering that we have choices feels like a lifeline in the midst of tragedy. XO 🥰
I appreciate you letting me tell them! Part of my own healing journey. And I didn't get that vibe at all. There is nothing Pollyanna about surviving the shit life throws at us. Choices are a lifeline, and even now, it's helpful to me to be reminded of that small but critical agency.
This spring, after I skidded off an icy road over the edge of a 500’ drop off, landed hard against the only tree before a 200’ vertical drop into a whitewater river and survived without a single scratch or bruise even though the car was crushed, I decided to go in the next morning to debrief with my counselor. I know how these things go if I let them run their course in my head. I have images of the what ifs running nonstop through my mind day and night. The anxiety is nonstop.
Her advice? Ignore the what ifs and focus on the what is. Now when I drive past where the event happened, I feel deep gratitude to that tree and whatever caused it to grow strong enough on that near vertical mountainside to save my life.
Not what if, but what is.
Wow, this is so incredibly wise and beautiful. Thank you for sharing your story with me. Your commitment to your healing process in the face of trauma and loss is truly inspiring. ❤️🩹🥰🙏
Switter, your story stopped me in my tracks. What you experienced could easily have consumed you with “what ifs,” but the way you’ve shifted to “what is” shows such clarity and strength. That tree, standing firm in such an unlikely place, becomes a symbol of something so much bigger—a quiet, steady presence that saved you in a moment of chaos.
Your counselor’s advice resonates deeply. I’ve learned how easily the mind can spiral into those endless loops of what could have been, and it takes real effort to bring focus back to the here and now. Your gratitude for that tree and the life you still have is such a powerful reminder to ground ourselves in what is real and present.
Thank you for sharing this—it’s a reflection I’ll carry forward, especially in moments when “what ifs” try to take hold.
I climbed down to that tree a couple of times since the accident, with trash bags to remove the debris, but mostly to sit next to the tree and let myself feel deep gratitude.
Thank you for responding. These connections we make when we push the send button are what makes telling our stories so worth the effort.
🥰❤️🙌🙏
I love this quote: "grief is love that has nowhere to go." I think of grieving as a non-linear process. You never stop grieving, you simply adapt to having it there. You feel better over time not because the grief goes away, but because you mold yourself around it.
That "what if game," as I like to call it, keeps you spinning in your head, without actually landing in your body or feelings. Pausing, breathing, and feeling is what I have found to be the only way through.
Wise words Janine! I agree 100% that grief is non-linear. Unlike a scraped knee, it doesn't heal with time. I like to say that I am "healing" but I don't think I will ever be healed from my grief and trauma. That doesn't mean I don't feel joy, I just feel it in equal measure with sorrow. I like what you said about adapting to holding grief. There are so many ways we can support ourselves in grief, (talk therapy, somatic practices, mindfulness, community with other grievers) but it all takes time. Grief work is slow work - one of the most truthful things I've ever said.
Amy, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m a little farther out from my husband’s death, almost 5 years. I went through many of the same feelings you have had. I think you make excellent observations and recommendations.
There is life after a loss, but only if you go after it and wrestle with grief. I went through a period of profound sadness, followed by anger, not only for the doctors who felt mismanaged my husband’s care, but with myself, that I couldn’t do more to help him. I did phone counseling with the organization that arranged my husband’s stem cell transplant, I joined a group of grievers and I talked to everyone who would listen to me (I don’t have many friends, no parents or siblings and only one adult child, who still won’t talk much about the whole experience). I started writing down how I felt, and for the first time in my life I wrote poetry. I visited the cemetery and had discussions with myself (and him) on how I was coping. On the first anniversary of his passing, I had a day of gratitude for everyone who had helped me deal with grief over the last year. I still miss my husband, but after being with him 39 years, I feel that he had such an influence on me, that he’s not really gone.
At a year, I decided I didn’t like being alone, so put myself out there and went on a couple of dating services. The first relationship was a disaster, with someone who turned out to have a personality disorder, but I didn’t give up—the next real relationship has been going three years, and it’s good. He is much different from my late husband, but he cares for me, is always there for me, and he makes me laugh a lot. Plus, he is a prolific poet!
It is good to try those other doors after a loss. Sometimes what is on the other side is scary or sad, but many times you discover new things about yourself and find fulfillment and life after loss. I can see you are on that path. Grief leaves scars that don’t go away, but they fade and become less noticeable with time.
Hi Carole, thank you so much for telling me your story. You are a remarkable person, more than most people can imagine. Your strength and courage to keep going in the face of such extreme heartbreak is truly inspiring.
I too had a terrible experience with my first “relationship” after my husband died. That ended almost 2 years ago and I haven’t dated since. I am grateful you told me you found an amazing person (a poet!) because part of me feels resigned to being alone the rest of my life.
I don’t think I am meant to be alone, but my confidence took a big hit after I chose to give my heart to someone who didn’t want me. You give me hope to try again, what a gift. You’ve recreated a beautiful life for yourself, and I couldn’t be happier for you 🥰❤️
Amy, what you’re doing here on Substack is therapeutic and healing for you and for many others. I wish I had known about this site earlier. I also highly recommend the Megan Divine book, but the most important thing about grief is to let it out in as many ways as you can. When you internalize it, grief becomes a chronic illness.
My first “relationship” (and I’m glad to see you used quotes with that word, because some encounters are nightmares and not relationships) as a widow was with a man who was a poster child for narcissistic personality disorder, unbeknownst to me at the time of our encounter. Had I not consulted the literature and other websites (Quora actually has some great ones), I would still be thinking that I was the problem. People like him are charming and love-bombing at first, yet so awful later, and they are incapable of real love. As it turns out, my current partner and love of my life also experienced a similar situation with a woman and had concluded that being alone was better. I’m not sure how we both decided to try one more time and happened to coincide, but stranger things have happened. All the best to you, and I’ll be following your journey.
Carole, your reflection shows such depth and courage in navigating your grief and finding meaning beyond it. What stood out to me is the way you approached your journey—not by trying to erase the pain, but by engaging with it in ways that honored both your loss and your continued life.
The choices you made—seeking support, writing, having those conversations with yourself and your husband, and even stepping into new relationships—show a commitment to your own well-being while holding space for the love and connection you shared with your husband. That balance is so important, and it’s clear you’ve embodied it with care.
What you said about grief leaving scars feels especially resonant. Scars are part of the body’s way of healing, not signs of failure or weakness. They remind us of what we’ve endured and, as you so beautifully described, how we grow around our losses. Your story offers not just hope but a practical roadmap for exploring those other doors, even when they feel uncertain. Thank you for sharing such an authentic and thoughtful perspective.
You’re welcome! ❤️
Find the fellow grievers!! Yessss. This is so incredibly helpful. When I lost my love and best friend, social media did not exist, my bubble was very small and no one I knew had experienced the loss I was going through. It took me many years and a lot of therapy before I could allow myself to grieve fully.
Thank you for this entire piece my friend. Love you!! Xoxo
Thank you Mesa for connecting so deeply with this story. This is something I hear regularly from young people who have lost their partners - no one in their peer group has gone through anything like this and they instantly feel like outsiders. I'm a little older (a lot older than you were), but still young enough that partner loss is not common in among my peers. I am so grateful for the internet and widow groups. I'm so happy you made it through those dark times, but I know how much you suffered (from your writing). You inspire me so much Mesa, you truly do.
It's been many years since I lost my parents. I still wonder what if for both of them l, like I could save them.
My husband was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease and the course of the disease is unknown. It could attack is internal organs or could stay localized and he could go into remission. It's a scary and helpless feeling. My son is having health issues too and my sister a non smoker alway has progressive lung disease. Sorry for venting. I feel like I don't know what to do anymore
Hi Jane,
This is a lot for one person to handle. I don't see this as a vent, it's pain that needs to be witnessed, and I'm here for it. Please be gentle with yourself if you can. I try to imagine I'm talking to a fellow widow, who I treat more compassionately that I do myself.
I just want to validate how hard it is to live in the unknown of someone that you love's diagnosis (or lack thereof). This type of trauma is slow burning because you get little hits of it periodically rather than one major traumatic event.
I've found that trauma has a cumulative effect and it's not one of those things that gets better with time, like a scraped knee. Therapy, EMDR, community (Substack), and somatic practices have all helped me, but I still have a lot of anxiety and triggers. I would like to do more mindfulness training because it is a good way to ground ourselves into the present, AND I know that a lot of my trauma has been encoded into my body where my mind cannot reason it away.
Thanks so much, Amy
What helped me when my fiancé Tim died suddenly was Megan Devine's book "It's OK That You're Not OK" and her website refugeingrief.com. It will be 10 years on November 5th. He lives in and through me, if that makes sense. Nothing Compares To You.
Marilyn, thank you for telling me some of your story. That he lives through you and your memory of him makes 100% sense to me. Megan Divine is amazing and her book had helped so many grievers, including me. We live in a culture that tells us to suck it up and just get on with life, but I haven’t found this to be helpful. I hope we are moving towards more openness to share when we are “not okay” well as our triumphs and successes. Growth happens in fits and starts, what a gift to be able to say, “No, I’m not okay.” I find my mood is much improved when I’m not trying to silently hold it together all the time.
YES you said it perfectly. Thank you, you are a wise soul and so inspiring.
Amy, it's brave of you to share your journey so openly. You're right, we often cling to the illusion of control, even when life's harsh realities shatter it. But you've found a profound truth: we may not control what happens, but we absolutely control how we respond.
Thank you for this beautiful reflection Mo. I’m so happy my story resonated with you. 🙏🥰
My condolences it's really inspiring that you can talk about this and move on with your life
Thank you Emilio, I appreciate you restacking this post too! I wouldn’t say I’ve moved on, more like moving forward with grief. It doesn’t have to be either or, in fact it’s usually both at the same time.
You're welcome always God bless you and your family
I think there's much truth to this, and I also think it's, to some degree, a matter of perspective. We have to keep reminding ourselves of the Serenity Prayer. We have to let go the things we can't control and focus on the things that we can. I fully realize that's easy to say and not easy to accept for someone who has lost the most important thing to them for reasons beyond their control. How do we spend what you rightly describe as our most precious nonrenewable resource, time? By focusing on what we can control. What other choice is there?
I think we all get stuck sometimes in moments when the weight of the world feels so heavy on our shoulders. When we feel beaten down it’s easy to forget that we have the ability to change our perspective, even if we cannot change the circumstances. Even knowing that we are choosing to feel victimized is better than just taking it as a given that we are a victim. One thing I still have trouble with is resting. I often feel afraid that if I don’t continue “moving forward” in some way, producing stories or photos, or even just the day to day laundry and grocery shopping, that I will remain stuck feeling sorry for myself. Resting is underrated, and I definitely could use more of it now. I can also be very hard on myself, which I know is counter-productive. I always tell others, “No one was ever motivated by a bully.” So, I’m trying to be kinder to myself. August is hard. I cannot believe that on the 25th Steven will have been gone for 3 years. How can that be? I miss him more now than ever.
This: “…even if the door opens, you are like Alice in Wonderland now, too big to fit through the doorway.” A perceptive, eye-opening post.
Thank you Rona! Yes, once we are full with the knowledge, encoded in our brains and bodies, that bad things can happen, we are too big to fit into our old lives. I so admire your work - I appreciate your comment. 🥰🙏
hihi ur writing is so beautiful . ughhh i haven’t written here in ages but if u can will u let me know ur thoughts on my upload from today🩷🩷❤️❤️also want to make connections in writers community
Thanks for a deeply insightful and authentic post.
Beautiful reflections on grief and finding a way to move forward, Amy. I always appreciate your honesty & compassion.
Thank you so much Amy! I really appreciate all your supportive comments. XO 🥰❤️
Amy, reading your essay, I felt a profound connection to your words about control and choice. I’ve faced 28 life-altering events without the support of an empathic witness, each leaving its mark on my life. Like you, I’ve come to understand that control was never an option in those moments. There was nothing I could have done to change the course of those experiences.
What you wrote about choice resonates with me deeply. After four years of self-reflection, I’ve learned that while I had no control over becoming a victim of those events, my power lies in how I move forward now. I choose whether to let those moments dictate my life or to reclaim it in my way, not theirs.
Your honesty about grief and healing feels so grounding. It’s a reminder that while time doesn’t erase wounds, it offers us opportunities to decide how we live with them. Your piece captures the courage it takes to step into that unknown, holding both fear and possibility. Thank you for sharing your story—it shows how choice can coexist with pain in such a meaningful way.
Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment Jay. I'm grateful for your friendship.
I’d say we have zero ability “to control…” there’s a psychological shift when understand that being “in charge” is empowering.. efforts to be “in control” give power away and accomplish little more then ultimate frustration…
Thank you Dr. Moore! 🙏🥰