“Owning our stories and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing we’ll ever do.” — Brene Brown

As I stood in the beach parking lot, on a beautiful sunny July day, I tried to make sense of a world I did not want to be a part of. A world I thought I would never be a part of. A world I had pushed from my mind each time he went to work. A world that those who love pilots try to pretend doesn’t exist.

When I met and married Chris, I knew that, in theory, his career choice came with certain risks, but I did not ever expect myself to be where I was in that moment. Perhaps that was naive of me. I had always told myself that life comes with risk. And Chris loves the sky. So, I pushed those worries from my mind, and moved forward, creating a life with the man I loved. 

Unprepared for what was going to happen. Not ready for the vast expansive darkness that trauma opened up under us. Not knowing the insidious nature in which it creeps into lives, taking more than it should. Not understanding all it would steal from us. Not knowing all the ways that trauma destroys. I knew immediately that our lives would be forever changed, but I did not know the fundamental and significant nature of that change.

As though I am looking at a picture, or watching a movie, I remember clearly the first time I saw Chris in the hospital. The sounds remain with me. The faces and the people who filled that space with us are etched in the memories of those days we spent within those walls. The feelings that filled my body, as we existed within those first few hours, when things were uncertain. When promises could not be made. It all still lives in this body. Reminding, just how fragile life can be.

Hope is what held us together. Even on the darkest of days, hope. The hope of a future. The hope of a life lived together, watching our children grow. Hope and a stubborn refusal to stop. The promise that we would keep putting one foot in front of the other, though those feet often felt encased in stone. There were days when we were certain we would not make it, but the faces of our little ones pushed us to keep on moving. Forward against the storms and the harsh conditions that engulfed our lives. Forward into the world in which we now live.

Ten years on, things have shifted in ways I would never have imagined they would. In many ways, I do not recognize the woman I have become. In some ways I am much stronger, but in other ways, I am more aware of my weaknesses. I have fears I would likely never have had, and an awareness of resiliency that I would have never known had I never gotten that call. Had things been different on that day.

I have watched Chris grow into a man I love more with each passing day. And though he sometimes still drives me crazy, as all loved ones do, I would choose no other road than the one I am on with him each day. I have watched my babies grow into kind, resilient and caring people, and I know I am the luckiest to call them mine. The accident has impacted them in ways I wish I could protect them from, but I also know they are who they are in part because of it. 

And then there is me. Going through the last ten years, I have learned so much about myself. I have watched myself grow, learning to accept the realities of being me. And though I have often felt weaker than I would want to be. Wishing for more grace, and agility to manage the obstacles put before us. Wishing I was a superhero, unyielding and full of only strength. Beginning to understand that no such person really ever exists. We are all impacted by the traumas that make up our lives, and we all deal with them in the ways we each know how. 

If someone was to ask me how to survive the tsunami that follows in trauma’s wake, I would say, honestly, that I have no more wisdom than I did on that day at the beach, with my children playing around me, phone to my ear. I don’t know. How do you survive in a wave that wants to drown you? How do you stand steady on a ground that wants to shake you apart? How do you survive in a darkness that makes it difficult to see the light? 

My only real piece of advice to offer is this. Hold on. Hold on to who you are as long as you can, understanding that by the time the storm is over, most of you won’t exist anymore. Realize that no matter who is in that wave with you, it is you who must find the will to swim. That only you can find the pieces of yourself that shattered in the shockwave. Only you can find your way back to the light. 

While there may be times when the hands of others who have gone before guide your path. Where the arms of loved ones and strangers offer you a place to rest. Only you can find your way to the other side of it. Only you can put in the time it takes to heal. Only you can survive what at times feels unsurvivable. Only you can take the steps each day. 

Try to remember though, these are the spaces we get to know ourselves in. The times when we learn to accept who we are. Learn of our strengths and weaknesses. Become humbled. Over and over. Learning what it means to be truly human. Understanding that being human is not something we should apologize for. Feel shame about. Instead, our humanity should be celebrated. Because it is in the human moments that we learn the most. Live the most. And love the most. It is in those imperfect moments that we can find ourselves and each other. Learning that our imperfections only add to our beauty. Telling the tale of our lives lived on this earth.

Ten years is a long time, and though the accident sometimes feels like it happened only yesterday, so many moments have passed us by. So much life has been lived in these gifted minutes. We have existed in these last ten years as authentically and honestly as we could manage. And though our path through the wilderness has not always been walked with perfection, we have tried our best to show gratitude for the lives we continue to live. Time changes nothing and everything. Something I am so very aware of on a day like today.