21 Aug July 14th, 2017
When our nine-year old son, Michael, developed serious emotional problems, the trajectory of my life changed dramatically. The sudden onset of his depression and refusal to cooperate confounded my husband and me. I might have ended up a shallow shopaholic had I not come against this impenetrable wall of pain. Growing up, I had the notion that problems only happened to other people. Like many in my immediate circle, I lived life on the surface, content with my lucky status. I assumed that if I played by the rules and met realistic standards, I could control my destiny. Later, being consumed with the simple goal of making it through the day, all easy assumptions and trivial concerns fell away.
Michael’s condition opened my eyes to the innocent suffering at the center of the universe. An anguish that might have destroyed me became a portal into a realm with the only voice capable of stilling it. Understanding the sacred meaning of sorrow—in its drama and redemption—enabled me to let go of pessimism and enjoy a life tempered with gratitude.