Everything Is Going to Be OK

I need to repeat this sentiment because I feel it profoundly, and I need you to feel it too: Everything is going to be OK. It’s so difficult to see and feel that early on when faced with grief, but the fog will lift, the pain will diminish, and you will make it through to the other side of the rest of your life.

It’s amazing that we can go on without a part of us. It’s like the “phantom limb” syndrome, when people who have lost an arm or a leg continue to feel that their lost limbs are still attached. That’s the way I feel about my son, Rob. I’m still very much attached.

And yet, in many ways, I have let go. I’ve let go of denial. I’ve let go of guilt. I’ve let go of anger. I’ve let go of fear. I’ve let go of sadness. Maybe that’s why the grief beast became less scary and pretty much let go of me. The worst thing in the world has happened, the dust has settled, and I’m still standing in the rubble with the spirit of Rob by my side.

You are still standing, too, and you will ultimately find your way through. How you get there will be different from how I got there and how others get there, but once you get there, you’ll find that you’re not the same person that you were before. We’ll never be the same, just like we were never the same after our child was born. Grief reshapes you into a better version of yourself. That’s how we transform from ordinary to extraordinary parents. It’s impossible to see yourself in that light now, but after you’ve begun to heal, I feel certain that you will.

It will take time—and patience—because we are all on our own personal grief clock. It took me about two years to make a kind of peace with losing Rob, and it will take you however long it takes you. Grief is cyclical. It often feels like you’re stuck in an endless loop, telling yourself the same stories over and over again.

Grief lasts until the day we die, and so does our love for our lost child. The heartache becomes a part of us that we incorporate into our lives. It’s hard work, and you’ll have to make two important decisions along the way, which is no easy task when you’re in such a fragile state and your grief prevents you from seeing straight. The first begins with a question: Are you willing to face your pain and move through it to get to the other side? If your answer is yes, the second decision comes a little further down the grief road when you recognize that you can choose how to move forward, reengaging with the world, taking better care of yourself, and enjoying your life.

I remember having this epiphany right after the first anniversary of Rob’s death, thinking that’s what he would want me to do. I was looking at a photo of his smiling face, and I somehow interpreted it as a ray of hope. Hope is the light at the end of the grief tunnel. It may be just a flicker now, but it will shine brightly again.

You will laugh again. Food will taste delicious again. Music will sound wonderful again. You will find joy again. It will feel good to be alive again. You’ll cherish and be grateful for the time you have left because you’ve learned that every day is a precious gift.

That’s what I was thinking just the other day when I was walking on the beach, listening to Kanye West’s “24,” a gospel-tinged tune dedicated to Kobe Bryant that always tugs at my heart. I took a moment to look at the sky and saw a large cloud formation that resembled a giant smiling rabbit. There’s a refrain in the song where Kanye and a choir sing, “We gonna be okay,” over and over again, and I started to sing along, and—I realize how incredibly corny this sounds—that’s when I imagined the rabbit in the sky was Rob smiling down on me.

So, corny or not, I’ll repeat it one more time: We gonna be OK.