I remember when the sun rose on the day my son died. The way the light cracked through the windows in jagged pieces as I covered my eyes and buried them in my hands. That old saying – something about the sun rising and setting in spite of whatever – echoing in the graveyard that was my mind, and I thought I would scream. How dare the sun rise as my son dies, as part of me dies too.
It was dawn for the other part of me, the one that survived, the side of me that is still here and the resilient spark of a phoenix that rose from the ashes of this dismal wasteland of grief. From this resiliency is where I speak now, standing on the other side of cripplingly utter despair, and watch the sun come up again. And then I think, well isn’t that funny. The sun and I are not so different. We go on rising and setting. But we still get up again. Day after day, in spite of whatever, even when our brilliance is hidden by clouds. We go on.
The day the sun rose when my son died, I wanted to die too. But then I survived another day. And another. And another. Until one day I realized I was not just surviving, but living, and not in darkness, but in light. And now with time and distance between me and that day, I have strung a hundred days where I am grateful the sun continued to rise, and I did too.
We can do this, one sunrise at a time.