I'm No Longer Scared

Making peace with the ghosts that once tormented me

It’s the pictures in our minds that keep us connected to the past. They give a texture and richness to our memories that helps keep them alive. They allow us to re-experience moments long since past. And they keep the grieving trapped in a living nightmare from which there seems no escape.

Picking up the pieces of a life shattered by devastating loss feels impossible. There’s a burning tear in your reality that can’t be repaired. You know you need to keep going—for yourself, your family, and everyone else left behind. But you don’t know how and even if you did, you don’t have the energy to even try. You’re more physically, emotionally and mentally exhausted than you knew was possible.

Then there are the images. The fucking images. It might be your child’s body, or your spouse connected to machines as they lay dying in the hospital or the look in your loved one’s eyes the last time you saw them alive. Somehow they’re more real than reality itself. They never arrive alone. They always bring pain to the party.

Like an unexpected, unwanted guest, they show up unannounced and feel impossible banish. They make the brutal days even harder. When you manage to find a moment of peace, they’re more than happy to steal that from you too. Screaming at them to leave you alone is pointless. There’s no distraction that makes them go away. It’s no wonder people drink and drug themselves into oblivion. Anything for a moment’s respite.

They’ll always be back. The question isn’t how to make them go away. It’s how to make peace with them so they loosen their grip on the life you’re trying so hard to rebuild.

The most painful moment of my life was seeing my daughter’s body lying on a table at the funeral home. I was so terrified, I found myself praying the head-on collision had left her too mangled to recognize. At least then, the choice would be taken away from me. When the coroner pronounced her “viewable”, the choice remained in my trembling hands.

It took everything I had to open the door and walk into that room. Chloe was on a table across the room, covered from the neck down in a blanket. After collapsing on the ground, I picked myself up and walked over to her.

I looked down at my baby girl’s lifeless body. Her fake eyelashes were still attached. I could make out the bruising around her broken neck. I tried not to picture what her autopsied body looked like under the blanket. It didn’t work.

I stumbled out of the room feeling barely alive. Grief has dragged me back there against my will countless times in the two and a half years since. Sometimes, it’s a replay of me looking down on her, just as it happened. Other times, it’s like a horror movie where I'm dragged kicking and screaming by an invisible, irresistible force. It’s been hell every single time.

A few nights ago, two and a half years later, it happened again. But this time was different. I was at a restorative yoga class with my wife. It’s a very calm, peaceful practice that creates a lot of space for my mind to wander while I’m failing to focus on my breathing and body.

During the class, with no warning, I was back in that infernal room. I was face to face with Chloe. Inches away. Our noses were almost touching. I was staring at her closed eyes willing them to open even if just for one last time.

The all-too-familiar and immensely uncomfortable charge gripped my body. It was like being shocked. There have been times in the past where I would have needed to walk out of the room. Not this time. I consciously chose to practice what I’ve been learning in somatic experiencing therapy. I noticed the sensations in my body, studied their contours in fine detail and the charge faded away.

When it did, the only thing left in its wake was a deep sense of peace and a profoundly important thought

“This memory will always be a part of me. But it no longer scares me.”

I felt… free, and it felt incredible.

This breakthrough didn’t happen in isolation. It was a culmination of countless choices leading up to it. The choice to walk this journey free of the coping mechanisms I’ve relied on in the past. The choice to seek help, even when it’s the last thing I want to do. The choice to talk about my experiences rather than locking them down.

I’ve always believed that healing is possible. Even on the hardest days. I’ve always been committed to exploring every option and doing the work to get there.

I know there are many hard days to come. There will some that bring me too my knees. My promise to myself, to my family and to my wife and daughter’s memories is that I will face them head on.

And if I can, you can too.

I’ll continue to write about grief for men, and the people who love them.

If you’ve lost someone you love dearly, I wish you only peace and healing.

If this was helpful or impactful to you, please consider sharing. It might help someone else who needs it.

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