“Even when we fall, we will rise again. Be a little smarter, a little brave, and a better story.” ~Jessica W. Bowman
The phone arrived like a quiet explosion, crushing regular ham on Tuesday morning. My uncle suddenly disappeared unexpectedly. After a few months, my mother continued, even when the raw edge of that loss began to soften. Her passing felt like a cruel echo, tearing the barely open wound that began to form a scab.
I remember the month as the black clothes, quiet voices and painful emptiness that permeated every corner of my life. My sadness settled on me like a choking blanket, heavy and constant. It wasn’t just the pain of losing them. It was a sudden change in my whole world landscape.
My cousin, my uncle’s only child, was only 23 years old. He came to live with me and drifted completely. He had no idea about household management, budgeting, or even basic self-care. In the mist of my own sadness, I have found myself leading him to the ordinary work of an adult, a daily lesson in how to simply exist when your world collapses.
Their early days were proof of moving forward with autopilots. Each step felt like walking through thick mud. There was a moment when it seemed like all the weight of it was insurmountable. My heart was constant pain and my laughter felt like betrayal.
Then the losses continued. Several other loving families left within a few months, each handing fresh cuts to their already wounded souls. It felt like the universe was testing my ability to break up, pushing me to the absolute edge of what I believed I could endure. I was convinced that happiness, true, unburdened joy was no longer available to me.
For a long time I lived in that broken space. My days were functional, but my mind felt dormant like a hibernation animal.
I went through movement, took care of my cousins and managed responsibility, but internally I was convinced that my ability to enjoyment had been irreparably damaged. The idea of embracing happiness made me feel dishonest to those I have lost.
One morning, standing by my kitchen window, I noticed how the light hits the dew of a spider web. It was a fleeting, inconspicuous moment, but for a moment, the small flicker of something similar to peace was upset within me. It surprised me, as if I was catching my reflection in a dark room. The flicker was a subtle reminder that even the deepest shadows there was still light.
This was neither a sudden epiphany nor a miraculous treatment. It was a slow and intentional craving from the emotional deep bys. I began to realize that healing is not about eliminating pain, but about learning to carry it differently. It was to allow sadness to the space, while at the same time creating a new space for life to reblot new spaces for life.
The first step was simply to admit the darkness without making me consume.
When they came, I stopped fighting the waves of sadness and made it possible for them to wash me, knowing that they would eventually retreat. This acceptance was extremely important. It turned my internal struggle from a fight into a painful, but necessary process.
He also learned the deep power of small, intentional acts. This is not about the grand gestures of self-care. It was to consciously notice the warmth of morning coffee, the texture of a soft blanket, and the simple comfort of familiar songs. These small moments woven into the fabrics of everyday life began to accumulate like individual threads that formed stronger tapestry.
Another important insight was the importance of letting go of the “shoulder.” There is no right or wrong way to sadness, and there is no healing timeline. I stopped judging my feelings and stopped comparing my progress to imaginary standards. This release from voluntary pressure created a room for authentic recovery and allowed me to exist precisely where I was on my journey.
I began actively looking for moments of connection. This meant leaning against the friends and the rest of the family who provided support, even if they felt too tired to go back and forth. It was about sharing stories, but sometimes shed tears and sometimes unexpectedly funny.
Accepting vulnerabilities has become a strength. Paradoxically, I felt more grounded, as I could see in my broken state when I was struggling. It revealed the immense ability for compassion that exists in others and myself. This openness fostered deeper connections, which became an important anchor in my recovery.
The concept of “joy” has also changed. It wasn’t about constant happiness, but about finding satisfaction, peace, and even occasional laughter in lingering sadness.
It was more about the existence of life, not about the lack of pain, but in all its complex beauty. I have learned that joy is not the betrayal of sorrow, but a testament to the lasting power of the human spirit.
Ultimately, my journey taught me that resilience is not difficult or that it won’t fall. It is that you feel good, brave enough to keep searching for the light, and courageous enough to return even when every fiber of your existence wants to stay below. It’s about gathering fragments of your broken heart and finding a way to make it beat again.
I am now standing in a place where I truly believe that I am stronger and happier than ever before. Despite the pain, he taught me for a deep lesson.
Every challenging step, every tear shed, every quiet moment of discovery contributed to the person I am today.
My hope is that anyone facing similar darkness knows that a path to joy is always possible, and that your story also has immeasurable power and purpose.
