This past summer, I took my two kids to their first concert. Our little trio navigated the traffic jams into New York City, hopped on the subway to Brooklyn, and stood in long lines for entry, merchandise, and restrooms, all to see a popular opening act and headliner dominating the charts. The artists, both in their twenties, shared songs about love and heartbreak, encouraging the audience to embrace life and come back stronger after facing challenges. The crowd, filled with teens and their parents, cheered enthusiastically, drawn in by the promise of brighter days ahead after hardship.
Not so long ago, I might have joined in the applause. But this time, I couldn’t. I found myself rolling my eyes and mentally tagging their remarks with a sarcastic #things21yearoldssay. Perhaps I’ve grown cynical. As a 36-year-old widow raising two children alone, I consider it reasonable to harbor a bit of bitterness now and then, perhaps even regularly.
However, I don’t want to let cynicism and bitterness define my life after loss; that’s not how I approached life before tragedy struck. I used to believe in the universe’s fairness and simple truths like happily ever after. But after watching glioblastoma ravage my husband—taking him from me piece by piece—how could I still hold onto that belief? Instead, I strive to navigate a middle ground between hope and despair, a space where the glass isn’t half-full or half-empty but simply exists as it is. In one light, it may appear murky, while in another, it can reflect rainbows.
Confronting Uplifting Messages
What troubled me about the artists’ uplifting messages? It’s not just my cynicism; it’s the reality that they were mistaken. Coming back stronger after hardship isn’t a given. Looking at my family of three, which just a year before had been four, I certainly didn’t feel stronger. My world had been shattered, and there was no bright side waiting for me. Perhaps some might say I was failing, but I didn’t feel like a failure. I managed to get my kids to a concert, enduring the weight of an absence that felt insurmountable. For over a year, I’ve grappled with the void my husband left behind, and while I was still living, I wasn’t stronger. I was something different.
The harsh truth is that some experiences break you. When your world collapses in devastating ways, it can just hurt—no light at the end of the tunnel, no lessons learned. You might shatter into countless pieces, unable to gather them together to create something “stronger.” Yet, as I’ve come to realize, the truth is more intricate. Despite feeling fragmented and lost, you will persist in breathing. This breath isn’t strength; it’s instinct. It’s survival.
Building Anew
With each breath, days turn into weeks, and you might find that this simple act allows you to collect some of the pieces and build anew from the remnants. The result may not be perfect, but it won’t be entirely wrong either. Some aspects may become more resilient, bound together by your spirit and shards of hope, while others may remain broken, warped, or missing. You will question how you continue to stand and live amidst all these damaged pieces, but you do. And you will.
What I would tell those young performers is this: sometimes, the idea of being “stronger” can set an unfair standard that you may not meet. But you can emerge as something else—something that occupies that uncharted space between hope and despair, an imperfect yet beautiful version of yourself. You can be the you that you’ve rebuilt through instinct and survival, the you that is enduring and even thriving, casting rainbows against the walls.
Simply put: you may not be stronger, but you will be. And that is enough.
Further Reading
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Summary
This article reflects on the journey of a 36-year-old widow who grapples with the notion that loss makes you stronger. Through the lens of attending a concert with her children, she critiques the simplistic belief that hardship inherently leads to strength. Instead, she embraces the complexity of surviving and rebuilding after tragedy, suggesting that while one may not emerge stronger, they can still find a way to exist beautifully amidst the brokenness.