The Saturation of Sorrow: An Apprenticeship in Self-Reclamation

Sometimes I wonder if I am the person I was meant to be, or if the life I’ve lived is a distorted half-life, shaped by loss and abandonment, a journey in and out of numbness. My existence feels like a mosaic of survival strategies—cobbled together to withstand the saturation of sorrow that has defined my path for decades.

The day my father died, the child I was disappeared. In her place, a hardened version of me emerged—a version built to protect against the looming weight of sorrow, a shadow that would follow me up until I turned fifty. I crafted a persona: the nicest person on the planet, a conscious or unconscious strategy to keep rejection and abandonment at bay. Polished and poised, I exuded calmness, but beneath that facade, I simmered with unspoken rage and contempt, resentful of the perfect, accommodating shell I had become. This guise cost me dearly; it cut me off from genuine human connection and kept me in relationships where I was always “fixing,” always helping—unable to be vulnerable, always armoring up.

My most authentic self—the little girl and young adolescent within—remained unseen and unwitnessed. She carried me through, holding the weight of years, her essence suspended in a state of untouched sorrow, leaving me numb and alone. I see now that the only way out of this half-life is through grief, yet I have hesitated, fearing the risk of showing my raw self to those who cannot hold it. I have hidden my inner world, realizing now that those around me are only ancillary characters; the actual journey is my own.

This path toward healing has shown me that I must separate the childhood version of myself from the adult I am becoming. I am learning that it’s better to be an imperfect adult than to rely on the perfect, competent child I once was, who survived by interpreting everything as a threat to her fragile safety. Her tactics were fierce, always viewing the present through the lens of childhood trauma—abandonment, neglect, and loss. It has taken years to understand that those coping strategies, once essential, no longer serve me. I am slowly unlearning the mistrust she knew so well, learning to see situations as they are rather than as triggers echoing my past.

For so long, I guarded my interior world. It was tender, vulnerable, and deeply hidden, yet I have come to understand that this is the space I must now open. This threshold in time, this painful yet liberating season, has given me the chance to become my own caregiver to mother the child within. I am learning to hold her, to witness her, and tell her, I see you. I see all that you have carried. I understand now that these words, these affirmations, were the ones I craved from my father, my mother, and even my husband. But the truth is, I am the only one who can give them to myself. That is the healing; that is what matters.

Now, my tears feel holy. I am apprenticed to my sorrow, no longer fighting it but allowing it to be part of me. The way forward, I see, is to remain present, to let this sorrow breathe and move within me. This is the only way I can truly stay alive, embracing the discomfort of grief, loss, and abandonment without running from it or distracting myself. Only by embracing my hurt can I transcend it, rise above it, and create space for genuine healing.

This saturation of sorrow has become my salve, my means to finally connect the dots between my past and present. After years of resentment, I am letting the buried child within me rise, no longer compelled to flee, to hide, or to shield my heart. Writing my memoir, capturing my survival, and reconciling with myself—not for others—feels essential now. The endless cycles of family drama, both mine and my husband’s, no longer hold me captive. I am blowing my cover, inviting my sons to witness my healing journey. I want them to understand that true freedom comes from radical self-love, from nurturing a fierce love affair with oneself.

The most significant harm I could do to them or myself, would be to remain needy, clinging, a victim waiting for others to meet my needs. I am here to create a safe space for them, a refuge they can trust, untainted by my unresolved pain. I want them to grow, free from the burden of my unhealed wounds, unshackled from any duty to fill my voids.

This journey of self-reclamation is my own—a labor of rediscovering love, unlearning numbness, and embracing my authentic self. I now realize that the life I choose to build from here is no longer a survival strategy but an intentional act of love. I am moving forward with a heart that knows both the depths of sorrow and the heights of resilience, trusting that I am equipped to hold myself in both.

No longer will I settle for a half-life shaped by old wounds or fears of abandonment. Instead, I am stepping fully into who I am meant to be—whole, alive, and fiercely present. I am here to offer myself the love and acceptance I once sought from others, finding freedom in the knowledge that I am enough, that I am complete.

This is my legacy to my sons and to myself: the courage to live, unapologetically and with open-hearted resolve, a life that is entirely, unmistakably, my own.