A couple of weeks ago, I was watching the movie You Gotta Believe with Luke Wilson. It’s a story about a group of boys who are underdogs but end up making it to the Little League World Series. One of the boys’ fathers gets diagnosed with a brain tumor. He’s a nice guy, loves to coach the team, and the team honors him by putting his name on their hats. They work hard and … well, I won’t spoil it for you. It’s a really good movie—a true story, which makes it even better in my books. The boys and their baseball journey are just one part of the story, though. The other part, the one that really stuck with me, was the dad dying. I found myself focusing on that.
Given the recent passing of my daughter, it doesn’t surprise me that this part of the story resonated more deeply. What I kept thinking about was how lucky his family was to know. To know there was a plan, even if it wasn’t the plan they wanted. That probably doesn’t sound nice, but in the first six months after my daughter died, I felt grateful. Grateful that she wasn’t raped and murdered and left at the side of the road. Grateful that she hadn’t just gone missing. Grateful that she died with good people in a place she loved. But now, as time goes on, I find myself feeling differently about it.
Watching the movie, I noticed how Luke Wilson’s on-screen wife loved him, cherished just being in his presence. That’s something I didn’t get to do with my daughter. But then, on the other hand, I didn’t have to watch her endure chemo and treatments or the pain and agony that comes with that. There are always pros and cons to everything. It depends on how you look at it. Right now, this is where I am: torn, reflecting, and searching for meaning. My next impulse is to say I’m at the bottom. I don’t know why I feel that way, but I do. Maybe because being honest about how I feel makes me feel bad. I want to be better. I strive to be better. But sometimes, I just can’t. Sometimes it just is what it is.
Since losing my daughter, I’ve thought a lot about death. A million ways to die? Definitely not. But I’ve become acutely aware of it. People often talk about how they’d like to die, but those conversations are always about the person dying, not about the people left behind. It’s interesting, isn’t it? As human beings, we’re selfish. It’s in our nature. Think about it.
Grief has forced me to confront not just the loss of my daughter but also my perspectives on life and death. I’ve realized that grief is an ongoing process for those who survive. It evolves and changes over time. At first, I felt grateful for the circumstances of her passing, but now I feel the absence in new and different ways. It’s not what I expected. Not that I expected anything specific—it’s just not how I thought it would be.
Am I okay? I am okay. But I’m also not okay. And I think being okay with not being okay is one of the hardest things to accept. It’s like one of those complicated Facebook relationship statuses. The way I see the world has changed, and it makes me wonder how many other people who’ve experienced loss feel like this. Grief is so overwhelming. There are days I wake up and just cry. I can’t even explain it. Sometimes I can’t stop it. It consumes me. It makes me sad, it makes me tired, and it makes me think about something a former co-worker used to say: Feelings need to be felt.
Yes, they do. If they’re there, acknowledge them. Open the door. Let them in. You don’t have to invite them to stay forever, but you need to let them take their place. The pain and sadness—as much as they hurt—are part of what makes us human.
So, this is where I am. Reflecting on life, death, and the spaces in between. Navigating the layers of grief, trying to understand it, and sometimes just surviving it. It’s messy, it’s complicated, but it’s real. And maybe that’s enough for now. I don’t know. I’m not sure. Ironic how there is so much unknown and uncharted in something this this.
I hope if you are reading this, that wherever you are, and whatever has happened you know you can be okay. All decisions start with you. One foot after the other. Keep it simple.
This is a poem I found in my daughter’s things. She had written it out and it now lives on my fridge:
May the stars carry your sadness away
May the flowers fill your heart with beauty
May hope forever wipe away your tears
And above all,
May silence make you strong.
-Chief Dan George
