I’M NOT ALONE

I’m not alone in this pain, in this grief. And yet, that’s the cruelest part. The hardest thing I have ever done, the hardest mission I’ve had in this life, was to come home and tell my beautiful, perfect, happy boys that their dad had passed away.

Oh boy, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. To break your children’s hearts into pieces, to watch the light in their eyes dim, to see their brightness go out in a single moment, that is devastating beyond words.

And that was only the beginning. Because then comes the impossible work: gathering those broken pieces, finding ways to bring back their smiles, helping them feel safe again. Trying to remind them of joy when their hero, their best friend, their person—their safe place—was suddenly gone.

What people don’t see is what happens at night in this house. It isn’t only my grief; it’s theirs too. Two smart, brave, resilient boys who, at just five and eleven, had to face life in its harshest, most painful form.

Sean used to put them to bed every single night. He’d read to them, watch a little sports, and say: “Good night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite and if they do, bite them back.”

Then he’d come into our room, kiss me, and say: “Mi amor, I love our boys too much. They’re so awesome. I hope they know.”

And the pain keeps unfolding. Even days after Sean’s passing, Kate would search people’s eyes, as if trying to find him there. Now she recognizes him in photos and videos. I know her time of grief will come too.

Writing this is more painful than you can imagine. But it is also sanador—healing. This is what I call healing out loud.