Broken Open

Sometimes a feeling creeps up and takes hold. It grips tightly—an open hand around the throat. It washes over in melancholy waves. It presses on the chest, forcing shallow sips of breath.

For days, this nameless weight sat heavy within me. Then, while driving, a voice on the radio mentioned "broken home" in reference to children. The term caught me off-guard—a relic from my 1980s childhood suddenly alive again. Once I heard it, my ears tuned to its frequency; it echoed everywhere, unchanged from decades past.

But for me, the meaning has transformed completely.

What Breaks

Truthfully, things have broken. Something in me has splintered. I sense it in my teenage sons too, though they guard these wounds from their mother's gaze. The safety of our unit—shattered. The vision of our future—collapsed. What I once projected forward exists no more.

Fractures to the family unit disrupt everything, however imbalanced or unhealthy that unit might have been. Eventually grief pours into these cracks, filling every chasm, replacing all other feeling.

Grief is not linear.

After more than four and a half years, I still get blindsided by tidal waves of emotion: instability, dread, regret. They crash without warning, dragging me under.

My home broke.

What Grows

But perhaps it has broken open—creating space where new life might take root...

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk without having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared.
—Tupac Shakur

I don't think about repair anymore. I think about new growth.

Yet I still cry—sometimes sob—seemingly from nowhere. Enormous pangs strike when I confront how my expectations have evaporated. I thought my family would look different. I imagined experiences together as a unit. None of it materialized as planned.

Some days I feel utterly depleted—emotionally bankrupted by the constant heavy lifting required to keep things merely "okay." This exhaustion leaves precious little room for joy.

The Path Forward

Finding that joy matters profoundly. But honoring the pain matters equally—the sorrow, the regret, the grief, the loss. Leaning into these feelings is how I move beyond fear. I can handle all the sorrows life delivers.

I refuse to live afraid.

Be that rose.