Your Unifier Allies

I grew up in a strict household, where boys were expected to be strong. Even when my beloved older brother died from an illness, I wasn’t allowed to cry. I took all of the pain and vulnerability inside of me and buried it deep within. I married at a young age to a kind, sensitive woman who took care of our home and gave me two sons. I provided for my family, but I was emotionally ignorant and constricted. There were times my wife would ask me if I was happy. Not knowing what to say, I’d tell her I was fine.

Until the day my first-born son died. My wife’s broken heart flowed like a river, while mine turned to ice. I wouldn’t allow his name to be spoken and forced my wife to get rid of anything that reminded me of our son. Then I became obsessed with things. My house. My money. My wife. My child. They were all mine. I forbade my wife and youngest son from leaving the house. If they showed signs of emotional weakness, I became cold or exploded with rage. At times I could barely breathe. I was engulfed by a fear so primal it pervaded every moment of every day. I hated that fear, and lashed out at anyone who reminded me of it. I was completely unreachable.

It wasn’t until I discovered that my wife had kept a picture of our first-born, and saw my son’s terror as I raised my hand to strike her, that I collapsed onto the floor, shaking like a leaf. Though I didn’t deserve it, my wife and son held me until my tears thawed out my heart. My breath deepened. My body gave way to the grief of my entire life. Finally, a love, lightness—and softness—came over me, my wife and son, that we had never known.

This was many years ago, but it marked the beginning of a blessed and joyous family life, filled with love poems, whirling dances and mystical celebrations. Look into my eyes, and you will feel the love that comes from accepting—and being accepted in—one’s darkest wounds.