We walk through the world every day, passing dozens: maybe hundreds: of people. We see them at the grocery store, at the gym, or sitting across from us in a waiting room. Most of the time, we see the surface. It’s easy to look around and feel like everyone else has it figured out, yet the truth is far more complex.
The reality is that we all have a story. And often, those stories are etched with the lines of loss, survival, and a quiet resilience that the casual observer never sees.
The Small Talk Minefield
When you’ve experienced a significant loss, social “small talk” changes. It’s no longer just a way to pass the time; it’s a decision-making process. For me, that moment often comes with a very simple, common question: “How many kids do you have?”
On the surface, it’s an easy icebreaker. Yet for anyone who has lost a child, it’s a fork in the road. Do I give the “easy” answer to keep the mood light? Or do I tell the truth? If I say I have a son, I feel like I’m betraying Alaina. If I say I had two, yet one is no longer with us, the room often goes quiet. People don’t always know what to do with that kind of honesty.
The New Friend and the Power of Truth
Not long ago, I found myself in this exact situation with an new acquaintance. We were recently introduced through a common friend just chatting, and the “how many kids” question came up. I had a choice. I could have just said “two” and moved on with the appointment, yet I decided to be authentic. I told her I had two children, but that we lost our daughter, Alaina.
The energy in the room shifted instantly. It wasn’t awkward, though. Instead, his eyes softened. He stopped what he was doing and shared his own story of loss. We weren’t just two people in a social setting; we were two human beings acknowledging a shared, painful reality.
By being willing to share my story, I gave him the permission to share his. We found a bridge of empathy that wouldn’t have existed if we had both stuck to the script of “fine.”
Two Different Versions of the Same Story
My wife, Hannah, and I speak a lot on the detail of these answers to others when they ask. If there is time (not in an elevator), and someone asks she says, “we had two children, our son is 22”. I on the other hand respond with, “we had two children, our son is 22, yet we lost our daughter in a mass shooting.”
This is a lot for people and often why Hannah doesn’t get this specific, yet for me, the intent is to humanize what is real in our country.
While our story of how we lost Alaina is extreme, the thought of being the only people to lose a child is not real. I’ve met so many others that have come forward and told me their story of loss. I appreciate every moment of those truths.
You Are Not Alone in Your Story
It is easy to feel like an island when you are grieving. You see people laughing in parks or posting “perfect” lives on social media, and it feels like you’re the only one with a broken heart. Yet I promise you, you aren’t.
Every person you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Some are grieving a person, some a dream, some their health, and some a version of themselves they’ve lost. When we open up: even just a little bit: we create a space for others to breathe. We find solidarity in the shared experience of being human.
Sharing our stories is the most powerful tool we have for creating empathy. It’s how we move from being strangers to being a community. If you’re struggling today, remember that your story matters, and there is someone out there who needs to hear it to know they aren’t alone either.
Check out my podcasts, contact information and other blogs at arikhousley.com. Or you can get a copy of my bestselling book Always November: Lessons in Loss, Love and Resilience.