Grief interrupted is part of trauma. I was reminded of that this week when a national trauma grabbed attention when all I wanted to do was remember my son. Like it or not, sometimes traumas are not singular. And sometimes the ugliness of others behavior triggers and hijacks, putting our needs on pause. But a break in the action to be mad at something else, doesn’t erase other grief.

Part of our identity is ripped away with trauma. Am I still a mom after my child dies? Am I still a strong, confident woman if my partner deceived me throughout our relationship? Regardless of the trauma, the question, “who am I now?” must be answered. You can choose, or the trauma will choose for you.

Trauma isn’t what changes us. It’s the question we must ask and answer afterward.

What is the line between private matters and public matters when women are being abused? How many around Epstein, Wexner, Chopra, Gates, Swalwell, Gonzales, etc, etc, etc. had knowledge of ugliness yet stayed quiet? Ignoring the NDA issue for a moment, it’s impossible to believe horrendous behavior was completely hidden from view.

When do open secrets become our responsibility to address? We are failing women. And we all have hard questions to ask.

There are times when harsh moments nudge us into new, important, and necessary change.

This article is a reflection back on a scene from my memoir at a time when the experience was too raw to appreciate its significance.

This is a scene I didn’t include in my memoir but can’t let go of. It occurred during Family Week at my former husband’s rehab center. It stays close because I can’t explain my choice to stay silent. It felt like a failure then and feels like one still. It occurred during Family Week at my former husband’s rehab center. And my silence in that glaring pain still haunts me. I’d like to think it’s a sign that I would never be silent now.

Some of us freeze simply because we’re caught off-guard by the ask and fear fumbling the answer. Or we don’t yet know how we feel about the subject at hand, so we mumble something inane or shrug, hoping to avoid the subject.

But I want to talk about another kind of silence, vulnerability silence. Trauma silence.

I have a story about a lizard and a cardinal but of course it’s about more than that.

A new trauma has struck, requiring a new version of silence and a new way to find my voice. Can I balance the part of silence that my grief requires against my need to not deny my voice? Only time will show me if I’ve learned.

I set myself aside I now realize years later. Shouldn’t our psyche’s be conscious of the moment we lost ourselves? Why did I fail me in the process?

Why didn’t I name my husband in my memoir? “Are you protecting him? Why not just make-up a name? Call him Bob or something?” No, protection has nothing to do with it.

There are no politics in addiction.

Kids living in an alcoholic family. Can they be spared the damage?

Dry January: Did You Know?

I Don’t Know Who I Used to Be

Shadow. The life of a woman.

Are we different people after life shreads us?