CHAPTER 8
Rebuilding Your Life
For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.
—JAMES BALDWIN,
“Nothing Personal”
I REMEMBER A DISCUSSION AFTER 9/11 about the word closure, and how ambiguous the term seemed to me. Some mental health professionals were criticized for urging the survivors—and the whole country, for that matter—to achieve closure before people had a chance to process the enormity of what had transpired that fateful September day. A traumatic event may be long over, but that doesn’t mean we’re finished with its effects.
I’ve discovered there is no blueprint for healing. I think closure is a meaningless term. I can’t—I won’t—forget what happened and all those we lost in the Oklahoma City bombing. It’s been important for me to work on the memorial and to revisit it each anniversary. It’s part of my healing. I did an interview with a lady who is writing a book about the death penalty and she wondered if I felt closure after Timothy McVeigh [one of the bombers] was executed. I told her that I—and many others I know close to trauma—really have a problem with that term. Media, experts, our friends, and even some family members want to put time frames on grief. There is no such thing as closure, in my opinion, when it comes to trauma and loss. What matters is how you deal with that loss or grief.
It’s been forty years since Michael served in Vietnam, and I know its impact will always be with us. Granted, the effects of that war do not have us in the stranglehold they once did, but Michael’s experiences are a part of who we are—individually and as partners. Each time we meet one more traumatized person, each time we see images of war, we are poignantly brought back to our own journeys of trauma and healing, which helps us build a bridge of compassion and more genuinely support others who suffer deep loss. As a wise person said, “Trauma may always be with you, but you can carry it differently.”
Trauma continues to inform our lives, and we can grow from its lessons.
I may reject the concept of closure when it comes to trauma, but I can embrace the importance of acknowledgment. Someone said that experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want. No one wants trauma. I will never be thankful that trauma injured our lives, yet I acknowledge that it did and that I am powerless to undo what has already happened. “You can’t change the wind, but you can adjust the sails” is a saying heard often in recovery groups. Acknowledging the depth of change in my life that resulted from Michael’s trauma is a way to adjust my sails to accommodate the presence of trauma, and chart a new course. This frees me to go on living—and loving—my life, though I will never get over what we’ve experienced. I’m not expecting closure.
The opposite of acknowledgment is denial—that seductive “Pollyanna” mindset where we try to convince ourselves and others that everything is just fine, even though our lives say otherwise. Beware of slipping from acknowledgment to denial by putting a time frame on your own or your loved one’s healing. We might impede recovery or be less able to handle triggers if we tell ourselves we are or should be over the effects of trauma.
I saw a friend recently who is still abusing alcohol and unable to work because of PTSD. When I asked her how she was, she quickly responded, “I’m great. I’m done with all of that.” When we deny the ongoing reality of trauma, we discount or invalidate our own or another’s experience. Acknowledgment is not resignation or something we do once and then are done. As with most things human, dealing with trauma is a fluid practice. It involves both the process of acknowledgment gained through a deep exploration of the trauma experience and its shock wave effects, and the practice of stitching it into the larger tapestry of our lives. With time and continued effort, trauma’s effects can become more manageable, and acknowledgment can become the foundation for growth and action. For me, this means that while trauma does not define me, it is a part of me.
We’re living in a different state now and making new friends. I don’t need to be fawned over and I don’t want sympathy, but a part of me does need people to know that my husband is a trauma survivor and realize this was a life-changing event. It’s a part of who I am now.
Healing from trauma’s effects is a process of reclaiming and mending—and ultimately rebuilding—the lives of trauma survivors and those who love them. Reclaim means to retrieve something that has been taken away or temporarily given to someone or something else, and mend means to improve something or make it more tolerable.
I will always cherish a comment made by a friend who watched me walk with what felt like excruciating slowness when I was released from the hospital and was still physically very weak. It is lovely, she said, to see you carry yourself with such reverence. This is perhaps one of the best therapeutic “reframings” I have experienced. I believe this reframing is a powerful and evolving process in the healing of trauma.
Trauma takes things from us—among them, time, security, trust, certainty, and a sense of self—and leaves in its place doubt, fear, loss, and confusion, and new responsibilities. But we’re still standing—even if we might feel a little wobbly. As you educate yourself about trauma and its effects, mourn your losses, and learn new skills, I hope you’re getting braver, more confident, and more comfortable in your own skin.
I’ve been lucky to have the guidance of a great therapist. He is so caring, and he’s helped me be more caring toward myself. I remember what he said after the first time I told him a really painful story. He said, “We need to go back and unpack your story with great compassion. We need to slow it down and focus on the emotional connections. When you had that shattering experience as a young girl, your whole world shattered.” Over time, I learned to slow down the video version of my stories and see how they were interconnected with my past and much more complex than I realized.
Again, the process is the same for the loved ones of a trauma survivor. We are the authors of our own story. With the appropriate help and guidance, we can come to a fuller understanding of our loved one’s trauma and its impact on us. After much slow and thoughtful work, we can deconstruct our story and try to integrate it into the larger story of our lives.
Taking a Risk
When we bring compassion to our own story, we can change our perspective of it, and we can also change the way we view and live in the present. Healing grows as we learn to respect and live with the pain of the past and simultaneously embrace and celebrate the joy life still holds. It is a slow and deliberate process. We need to come out of our caves slowly, squint at the light, and risk opening ourselves to others, to new experiences, and to moving forward. By itself, the word risk might sound scary or negative. But if you take the word letter by letter and make an acronym out of it, RISK becomes a positive call to action:
- R—Relax and enjoy the adventure
- I—Imagine the possibilities
- S—Surrender the need to control
- K—Know that you are not alone
When I had been in therapy for a while and was feeling a little more confident and less consumed with worry about Michael, I rented a cello. I was in my fifties and hadn’t taken a music lesson since the fourth grade, when I played viola one summer. I found a teacher and once a week I screeched out songs like Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Go Tell Aunt Rhody. I was terrible at it, but I was gleeful—doing something I had always wanted to do. I even got brave enough to play my simple tunes for friends. I was, at last, making room for new experiences. I was finally starting to reconnect to myself and to the world around me.
Risk-taking need not be something huge like bungee jumping. It can be as small as contacting a friend from whom you distanced yourself when you and your loved one needed time and space to do the hard work you have been doing. Think about what little action you want to take today, then take a deep breath and go for it. Take a risk.
Practicing Self-Gratitude
In the early stages of dealing with the effects of a loved one’s post-traumatic symptoms, the world and its stressors are very much with us. Our focus is necessarily external—directed toward the trauma and our loved ones. When we begin to move toward self-care, we turn inward. This internal work is just as necessary, and it is ongoing. As we grow stronger in our recovery and healthier about balance and boundaries, there comes a time when we feel ready to reenter the world. We take time off from trauma and attempt to find a healthy balance between internal and external.
It’s easy to lose sight of who we were (and who we were becoming) before trauma invaded our lives and we stepped forward to support our loved ones on their trauma journey. I remember being so enmeshed in Michael’s life and problems after his PTSD diagnosis that if someone asked how I was, I would reply by telling them how he was doing or how we were handling his PTSD. The truth is, I didn’t know how I was—or, for that matter, who I was outside of trauma.
Looking back, I think I had difficulty defining or describing myself because profound experiences like trauma require us to use resources we didn’t know we had. I was in the midst of an evolutionary process—me at the core, but becoming a changed me.
Who are you now? The fact that you are reading this book means you are a curious and compassionate person. I urge you to embrace yourself with that same tenderness and, when the time is right and you are feeling ready, allow yourself to consider how you’ve changed. Set aside your humility for a moment and give yourself credit for all the things you’ve done that you didn’t think you could do or had never done before.
My brother has blown me away. He’s always been such a chauvinist—expecting his wife to handle all household responsibilities, even after they retired. One of his favorite sayings was, “Things are equal around here. She cooks the food and I eat it.” But since the accident and her permanent disability, he’s really stepped up to the plate. He schedules and gets her to appointments and keeps all her meds straight. He keeps their house and finances in order. And he doesn’t seem resentful—just grateful she’s alive. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?
This is not to suggest that living with a loved one’s trauma makes us eligible for sainthood. I still have crabby days when I feel put out or put upon by something related to Michael’s PTSD or the war, and my behavior becomes less than noble. It’s easy at those times to blow up at Michael and slip into “you” language, blaming him or Vietnam for my misery. When those moments eventually pass, though, I am getting better at taking responsibility for my reactions and figuring out why I had those intense feelings.
Sometimes I even discover that my crabbiness had less to do with trauma and more to do with some other stressor or the simple fact that I had too much coffee and not enough sleep. And if my feelings are trauma-related, I’ll suggest we talk about that so we can work through it together. In the past, I could too easily slip from a bad mood to anger, depression, or self-loathing when such moments arose. Now I try to remind myself—once again—that this journey is about progress, not perfection; it’s about communication, not blame or stuffing your emotions.
I still think trauma is too high a price to pay for any lessons it teaches or strengths we muster because of it. I do get great satisfaction, however, from knowing we can—and do—grow in spite of its presence. Growing stronger in the midst of trauma is like giving it the finger: saying “I hate you and what you’ve done to my family, but I’m determined you won’t get the better of me.” There’s power in that.
Reconnecting with Others
One of Michael’s most important tasks in therapy was to do less and be more; to unhook from compulsive busyness and slow down so he could—at last—face and understand the role trauma played in his life and in our relationship. His life got simpler and slower as he did the hard work his intense therapy required, and my life slowed down and simplified too. It’s been good for both of us. We grew closer and emerged from the experience better able to make healthy choices about how we want to spend our time together and apart, and how much of that time we want to devote to our family (of relatives and of friends). This sifting and shifting of priorities while recovering from trauma is not unique to us.
So many of the remarkable people I’ve encountered in writing this book describe how their priorities have changed in the aftermath of trauma. As trauma survivors and those who love them adjust their already busy lives to deal with the effects of trauma, they get better at sorting out what and who are most important.
My son was killed in a fight at an off-campus party six years ago, and I’m still in grief therapy. Losing a child brought life’s precariousness and briefness more into my awareness. I believe the trauma affected my desire to work full time—I realized there is so much more in life besides work. The tragedy hit my dad hard, too, but brought us closer. I’m also closer with my two adult children and my ex-wife now.
Trauma can change the lens through which we view relationships—especially when it comes to families. As we get healthier, we can better define what a healthy family looks like. This redefinition frees us to deepen or improve our relationship with our family of origin if that is what we choose, or invest more energy in our family of friends if that is the less toxic and more nurturing choice.
Learning about the roots and effects of trauma after my wife’s memories started to surface and she was diagnosed with PTSD has helped us see just how unhealthy her family environment is. We’ve decided it’s not good for us—and it’s especially bad for our children—to be around them very much. There are some relatives we intentionally avoid altogether now. We still put in an occasional appearance at big family gatherings and we’re all quite civil, but we consider our circle of close friends our truer family.
Our definition of family changes as our circumstances change. Parents die, children grow up and relocate. Part of rebuilding our life after trauma is deciding who we want to embrace as family. We can reclaim the word family and shape it to fit our life, our relationships, and our reality. Today, I consider my family to be those friends and relatives who share a bond of mutual support and unconditional love—a bond that transcends biology or marriage. They provide a safe place in which to feel and express a range of diverse thoughts and feelings. They are a team that values all members who care for each other in good times and bad.
I was single with no girlfriend when I was randomly shot. My parents lived 1,300 miles away, but I had really close friends. One arranged meals to be delivered to me for four straight weeks since I couldn’t stand long enough to cook. My best friend came over and hung out with me numerous times. He just let me vent. He had never been through anything like this, so it was hard on him. But he hung with me. Since he knew me from before, he also pushed me to break the bad cycles and get back to my good life. He helped me progress when I felt all I’d been doing was going backwards.
Who do you include in your family? Who nurtures you, and who do you nurture? Who keeps you going forward as you continue to heal from the shock wave effects from trauma?
Human beings are social creatures who thrive on interaction. Caring for your loved one, your family, your job, yourself, and your many other responsibilities takes enormous time and energy, and it is understandable if you’ve been a little removed from the social scene. I know I was. Eventually, I felt like I wanted and needed to reconnect with friends.
Worthwhile friendships also take time, but it is time well spent. In fact, studies have shown that older people with a large circle of friends live longer than those with fewer friends. The most successful friendships tend to be the most adaptable and balanced ones. My friends are islands of sanctuary and distraction. I can talk about trauma when I need to, and, at other times, we can just hang out. And when they have something serious they want to discuss, I can now be more present with them.
In large part, our close friends and family members got Michael and me through the darkest hours when we felt our lives were spinning out of control. They were—and they continue to be—our lifelines. We discovered for ourselves what Judith Lewis Herman described in her book Trauma and Recovery:
Those who have survived [trauma] learn that their sense of self, of worth, of humanity, depends upon a feeling of connection to others. The solidarity of a group provides the strongest protection against terror and despair, and the strongest antidote to traumatic experience. …
Repeatedly in the testimony of survivors there comes a moment when a sense of connection is restored by another person’s unaffected display of generosity. Something in herself that the victim believes to be irretrievably destroyed—faith, decency, courage—is reawakened by an example of common altruism. Mirrored in the actions of others, the survivor recognizes and reclaims a lost part of herself.
When a long-time and well-loved friend was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, her large community of friends and neighbors reeled from, then rallied around, the trauma. The guy she had “gone steady” with for forty-two years proposed, and in just weeks we put on a wedding for 250 people. Her exercise group became the decorating committee. Area musicians in the small town in which they lived gathered to play at the ceremony and reception. Local farmers cooked and catered, and city friends made a gorgeous cake. Bouquets were assembled, tables were decorated, lights were strung, and the wedding tent looked magical. White-haired friends from our hippie days became groomsmen, and with little notice, her bridesmaids combed their closets for dresses. Tears flowed, but the bride beamed, as we sang the couple down the aisle to her requested song, Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.
This celebration felt like a barn raising—we were building a shelter for our friend big enough to hold the pain and fear of trauma alongside the joy and love of community. This experience was also a gift to Michael and me. It felt so good to be strong enough in our own journey of healing that we could reach out to help other loved ones who struggled with their own trauma. Trauma no longer dominates my life, thoughts, or discussions with friends, but I think that dealing with trauma has helped me be a better friend.
Navigating Trauma Anniversaries and Holidays
Some trauma survivors are particularly susceptible to time cues that trigger memories or a reexperiencing of the trauma. Sometimes, they may not consciously connect the day or season to their trauma until after symptoms appear. They might be moody and withdrawn or overly anxious and weepy without knowing why at first. Then they might realize it is the anniversary of the rape, the accident, the shooting, the death, or the battle.
Depending on how they’re handled, trauma anniversaries can be cause for tension and fear, or an occasion for meaning and connection. Survivors who don’t take the time to connect their reactions to an anniversary may hurry to numb or escape their feelings and memories. They might turn to alcohol or other drugs, explode with an anger you hadn’t seen in months, or become withdrawn again.
Ask your loved one what would be most helpful. Some trauma survivors may want to do something special to honor the day and the fact that they survived the event. Some may want to spend it in the company of other survivors or go to a recovery meeting if they suffer from dual disorders. Others may not want to think about the trauma and may opt for distraction instead. Some survivors may want to take a quiet walk or a long bath. Survivors of disasters like Katrina or terrorist attacks like 9/11 or the Oklahoma City bombing may want to participate in a public ceremony, visit a memorial, or work on some social service project related to the incident.
Take your own feelings and needs into consideration, too, on trauma anniversaries, since you have also been living with—and reliving—the trauma. Ideally, such times can be opportunities for healthy communication.
Our lives changed on October 16—the day my wife got attacked—and even though it’s been five years, we both get so sad around that time. Now we’re more intentional about it and use the day to celebrate the fact that we’re together, we’re in love, and we’re both healing. I try to remember to get her flowers or something she’ll enjoy, and we reserve the day just for us—doing something fun and distracting. Sometimes we’ll go see a comedy and out for dinner. One year we went bowling with friends.
• • •
My nephews were preteens when their big brother died of cancer, and my sister was very conscious of how left out they probably felt during his illness when he was—understandably—the focus of attention. On the first anniversary of his death, she asked the boys if they wanted to help spread his ashes. The whole family brainstormed about all his favorite places, then they took a drive to visit all those places. Afterwards, each got to choose one special activity for himself and the family did that. Now it’s become a tradition. They talk about their brother, but it is also a day on which they get extra TLC and attention.
There is no specific anniversary of Michael’s trauma, since his PTSD is related to several events during his tour of duty. But Veterans Day is a difficult day for him because of the public focus on war. We begin the day softly with hugs, and sometimes tears, then he goes to a quiet ceremony with his Vets for Peace group during which they ring a bell to remember and honor those who gave—and give—their lives to war and to meditate on peace. He always invites me to go with, and some years I do, but there are years when war is too much with me, and I need to do something totally unrelated to it. At those times, we talk about how each of us is feeling, and we respect each other’s needs and decisions without defensiveness or guilt. Being intentional about Veterans Day gives us a way to check in with each other—to measure and celebrate just how far we’ve come in our respective journeys of healing.
We found that approaching the holidays with this same intentionality can nip a lot of problems in the bud. Holidays like Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year’s, or Thanksgiving can be filled with stress and powerful emotions for any of us who celebrate them, but they can be minefields for trauma survivors. I suspect it’s difficult to feel warm and fuzzy around a decorated tree that reminds you of how your father got drunk every Christmas Eve and usually came home to beat your mother. I imagine it’s painful to watch all the television ads in which happy children are showered with expensive toys and tables are set for feasts when you’ve lost your job and can’t pay this month’s mortgage, let alone buy holiday gifts or treats.
Trauma survivors can get nervous or depressed in the midst of crowds or at lively parties where they are expected to be jolly and carefree. If Michael doesn’t want to go to a holiday party, I’m getting better at going alone or with a friend, or we’ll develop an escape plan ahead of time if either of us is uncertain about going.
It’s easy to be filled with apprehension and dread about visiting families during holidays. (Maybe this year we’ll get through a family meal without fighting. Maybe this year Uncle Ted won’t get drunk. Maybe this year Mom won’t pressure me to eat and eat and eat.) Meanwhile, networks broadcast idealistic portraits of happy and harmonious families gathered together in the spirit of love and charity. We forget that these are actors who get paid well to emulate domestic tranquility. When our experience doesn’t match their portrayal, we risk feeling let down, anxious, depressed, or lonely. Worse yet, we might be tempted to take a drink, medicate our worries, overeat, or engage in some other unhealthy behavior to dull our misery or emptiness.
As lovely as some traditions may be, we don’t have to be held captive by unhealthy holiday routines that make us miserable or threaten to trigger post-traumatic symptoms. If you or your loved one dread holidays, consider trying out new traditions. You may want to serve meals for the homeless on Christmas or host an alcohol-free party. You may opt out of a tension-filled family gathering and choose to meet with friends instead. One year, our group of friends decided to reduce the pressure of gift exchanges agreeing that no one could spend more than five dollars on a gift and that the gift had to come from a second-hand store. We’ve also chosen to donate money to a charity instead of giving expensive gifts to each other.
You may want to engage in some respectful negotiation if there are some traditions you and your children wish to continue but your loved one finds too painful or likely to trigger post-traumatic symptoms. You may love how your father always strung lights on your house and rigged up outdoor speakers that played holiday music. Your loved one, however, might struggle with hypervigilance, and view a brightly lit house and music as a dangerous target. A compromise might be to let go of your need to decorate your own house and, instead, set aside a night on which you and the kids take a special drive to view holiday lights and decorations on other houses.
Holidays offer many opportunities to practice self-care skills. When we rebuild our lives after a loved one’s trauma, we recognize we can make healthier choices—not just during the holidays but also throughout each day of every year.
Into the Light
The quote from James Baldwin at the beginning of this chapter reminds me of the abstract painting over our fireplace mantel titled “Coming Into the Light.” A dear cousin of Michael’s called it her grief piece when she painted it after her son’s tragic death. Steve, twenty-eight years old and ten months sober, was riding with friends in his AA motorcycle group when a truck driver, blinded by the light of the February sun, collided with his bike. Steve died the next morning.
Without our faith in God, our love for each other, and people around us, my husband and I surely would have folded. We had recently enjoyed the musical Les Misérables, and we played the song “Bring Him Home” every evening as we sat watching the lights dance on the lake outside our home. The most soothing thing we did, besides holding each other in embrace, was listening to that song while the pain flowed like a river down our faces. Steve’s ashes were in the lake and we were sure that he was already over the dam and into the ocean. He was not to be contained. For months and even a year after his death, we often saw different young women—Steve’s friends—by the lake, floating a single flower.
The predominant dark blue, tornado-like spirals in the painting remind me of a tumultuous ocean. For me, the calmer pastel swirls that emerge from the darkness toward a small piece of white light represent determined movement through despair into hope and possibility. It is the journey from trauma to healing. It is the journey from acknowledgement to action.
As rabbi and author Harold S. Kushner proclaims, “bad things happen to good people.” Trauma happens because this world is unpredictable and imperfect. No matter how strong the levees, hurricanes rage and floods come. No matter how strong the family, trauma can still strike. We can mourn, but we cannot change the reality of trauma. Yet we still have choices about how we interpret experiences, and how we integrate them into our current reality.
Viktor E. Frankl, M.D., Ph.D., was an Austrian neurologist, psychiatrist, and survivor of the Nazi death camps during World War II. In his book Man’s Search for Meaning, Frankl concluded that everything can be taken from us except one thing: “the last of human freedoms—to choose one’s own attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”
Frankl noted that the prisoners most likely to survive were those who had a vivid sense of purpose in life. Even in the humiliation of the camps, prisoners still had choices about how to act. Some betrayed their fellow inmates and secretly allied with German guards. Others committed acts of daily heroism, everything from sharing a last crust of bread to caring for the sick.
Ultimately, courage is about this willingness and capacity to choose. And even in the most arduous circumstances, two choices are almost always available to us: where to place our attention and what action to take next.
Most times these actions are small, deliberate, and slow, and that’s just fine because they still indicate movement. This movement isn’t usually linear; it’s often more of a spiral that circles forward as we progress on the path of healing.
We may encounter momentary setbacks when our loved one’s symptoms are triggered or we face an unforeseen challenge, but the more we practice good self-care, the more manageable those setbacks might be. It is a slow, deliberate, and ongoing process. As we move from shadows to glimmers of light, even baby steps count. Even the smallest successes deserve to be noted and celebrated—as they are at the Web site www.ptsdforum.org, where there is a place for trauma survivors and those who care for them to record even little victories, which are applauded by other contributors:
I am proud of my husband for getting out of bed each morning just so he can be a part of my life. I am proud of myself for not being afraid to ask for help when I don’t know what to do to.
• • •
I can now sleep for more than three or four hours at a time! I am smiling more. Despite some depressive episodes, I am smiling and feeling happy more often.
• • •
My mother is completely bed and wheelchair bound. She is unable to stand and I am caring for her every need 24/7. I have been stressed to my limit and beyond and yet I am still standing. I am tired and completely exhausted, but I have not crumbled.
• • •
It’s been thirteen years, but I got up the courage to return to the scene of the crash with my wife and kids. There was no sign of what had happened, and I felt serene.
• • •
For the past two years, it has always been me who has had to take care of everything, as my husband hasn’t had the confidence to do this. But yesterday, my husband stood up for me!
• • •
I actually went out with friends last night—a big accomplishment for me. And I even sang two karaoke songs, even though I had anxiety. I couldn’t breathe very well, but I sang both songs all the way through.
Too often, we focus on what we haven’t done or couldn’t accomplish because we feel exhausted or overwhelmed by all the difficulties and responsibilities that arise in conjunction with our loved one’s trauma and post-traumatic symptoms. Instead of overlooking the little accomplishments you and your loved one have made so far, pause for a moment to acknowledge your progress. This is evidence of growth and healing.
When we are in the midst of dealing with the spillover effects of a loved one’s trauma, it is common to get engulfed in what a friend calls “heaviosity”—periods filled with dark and serious moments. This can feel like hibernation as we numb and isolate ourselves to the world outside our dark caves. But eventually we have the urge and energy to peek outside, where a bit of sun shines through the fog, reigniting our hope and curiosity.
Stronger in the Broken Places
It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox, full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools—friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty—and said, do the best you can with these, they will have to do. And mostly, against all odds, they’re enough.
—ANNE LAMOTT,
Traveling Mercies
I know my family’s story is not your story, and your path to healing may not parallel my own, but I’ve shared my rusty tools with you with the sincere hope that they give you some comfort and provide some ideas you may want to try in your own journey. While each path is different, those who have been touched by trauma do—at some level—travel together.
This book’s introduction mentioned the Ernest Hemingway quote, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places,” and it seems fitting to repeat it at its conclusion. When I think about growing stronger at the broken places, I think about the Survivor Tree we saw in Oklahoma City—that wonderful symbol of hope and endurance in the aftermath of trauma.
This American Elm, over 100 years old, was the only shade tree in the parking lot across the street from the Murrah Building. The force of the bomb blast ripped most of the branches. Glass and debris were embedded in its trunk, and fire from the cars parked beneath it blackened what was left of the tree. Most thought it wouldn’t survive, but almost a year after the bombing, when family members, survivors, and rescue workers gathered for a memorial ceremony under the tree, they noticed the old elm was beginning to bloom again.
Thanks to the tender care and attention it has received, the Survivor Tree now thrives, and each year hundreds of seeds are planted and nurtured into saplings that are now growing all over the United States. Saplings were sent to—among other places—Columbine High School after the shooting there, New York City after 9/11, and Virginia Tech after the campus killings.
When Jessica moved back to Minnesota with her beautiful little family, Michael and I sent them a sapling from the Survivor Tree to plant in the yard of their new home. It seemed to us to be the perfect symbol of resilience and hope—and a way for us to further acknowledge and honor the journey of healing we continue to experience. The shock wave effects from a long-ago trauma have scarred and changed us, but our family is rooted and strong—and growing stronger every day.
Please be tender with yourselves as you continue to heal from the shock wave effects from your loved one’s trauma. Seek the help you need. Rest, breathe, love, cry, and laugh, remembering we can be containers for all of it—all at the same time. And as you place one determined foot in front of the other on this journey through the shadows and challenges of trauma, take heart from the voices on these pages and know you do not walk alone.