Listen
There's this hum, a low thrum beneath the surface of every conversation about loss or struggle, isn't there? The one that whispers, or sometimes shouts, 'everything happens for a reason.' Oh, that one. It's a warm blanket, a verbal pat on the head, isn't it? A quick balm for the jagged edges of existence. And for the longest time, I just let it wash over me, a societal mantra, something you just *said* when someone was hurting. Until, of course, the hurt became my own, a raw, exposed nerve, and suddenly that blanket felt like a smothering shroud, that pat a dismissal. It’s funny how a phrase, so seemingly innocuous, so deeply ingrained, can suddenly curdle in your mouth, tasting of saccharine falsity. It was in that moment, I think, that my internal 'unfact' detector truly whirred to life. Not that I was looking for it, mind you. Life just… presented the opportunity, in its usual, messy way.
I remember, vividly, the phone call. A sudden, jarring ring in the quiet of a Tuesday afternoon, shattering the mundane rhythm of my day. News that felt like a punch to the gut. The kind that makes the world tilt on its axis, leaving you grasping for something solid that isn't there anymore. And then, the aftermath. The well-meaning friends, family, colleagues, all offering their versions of solace. 'You'll see, it's all part of the plan.' 'This will make you stronger.' 'There's a reason for this, you just don't know it yet.' Each word, meant to comfort, landed like a small, blunt stone. A profound disconnect. Because in that moment, in the raw, aching reality of it all, there was no reason. There was just… brokenness. A senseless, arbitrary, crushing weight. To suggest a divine choreographer, a cosmic puppet master pulling strings for my 'benefit' or some grander design, felt not just unhelpful, but insulting. It trivialized the pain, the sheer, unadulterated randomness of things. It stripped away agency, too. If everything is pre-ordained, then what's the point of striving, of fighting, of making choices? It reduces us to actors in a play we didn't audition for, speaking lines we didn't write, all for a plot twist that, frankly, often seems poorly conceived. And what of the 'reason' for suffering? Is it to teach us resilience? To make us appreciate the good times? What a cruel, inefficient teacher. What a demanding, heartless lesson plan, if that were truly the case. No, I decided then, with a bitter clarity, some things just *are*. They happen. Not *for* a reason, but *because* they can. Because the universe, in its vast, indifferent glory, doesn't always care about our meticulously crafted narratives of cause and effect.
And from there, the thread of skepticism unspooled, leading me to another gem of comforting untruth: 'Time heals all wounds.' Ah, yes. The great panacea. Just wait it out, they say. Like a nasty cold or a scraped knee. Give it enough time, and poof! All better. Only, it doesn't quite work that way, does it? Time… well, time passes. It pushes you forward, whether you want to go or not. It piles new days on top of old ones, new experiences over the raw edges of memory. It doesn't heal, not in the sense of making things pristine again, of erasing the injury. It merely changes the nature of the wound. It forms scar tissue. Sometimes thick and knotty, sometimes thin and barely perceptible, but always there. A permanent alteration. And sometimes, the scar itself aches, a phantom limb of pain, years after the initial cut. The memory fades, yes, the sharp edges soften, but the *impact*? The profound, shape-shifting impact of significant events, particularly the traumatic ones, doesn't vanish. It integrates. It becomes part of the tapestry of who you are, coloring your perceptions, influencing your choices, shadowing your joys. It's not healing; it's assimilation. A different beast entirely.
Think about it. Has anyone truly 'healed' from a deep, profound loss? Or do they learn to live with it? Do they carry it with them, a new weight, a new dimension to their being? They adapt. They build new structures around the empty spaces. They find new pathways. But the old pathways, the ones that led to the person, the dream, the expectation that was lost – those don’t just get paved over and forgotten. They remain, ghost roads in the landscape of the mind. And sometimes, a certain smell, a stray song, a fleeting glimpse of something familiar will transport you right back, fresh as the day it happened. Is that healing? Or is it just the human capacity for extraordinary, resilient remembrance? I lean towards the latter. It’s a testament to our strength, not to the magical properties of chronological progression.
This isn't to say I'm some cynical nihilist, wandering around debunking every platitude that falls from human lips. Not at all. I understand the human need for comfort, for narrative, for a sense of order in a chaotic world. We crave meaning. We desperately want to believe that there's a reason for the senseless, a balm for the unhealable. These 'unfacts' serve a purpose, a vital one, in the collective human psyche. They're survival mechanisms, little verbal crutches we offer each other when words fail. But in acknowledging their purpose, I also recognize their limitation, their ultimate untruth. And perhaps, just perhaps, in acknowledging the untruth, we can find a deeper, more honest form of solace. A solace that doesn't rely on simplistic explanations or the mythical passage of time, but on the quiet, fierce strength of just *being* in the mess, of acknowledging the randomness, of sitting with the ache. Of understanding that some things don’t happen for a reason, they just happen. And that we don’t heal perfectly, we just carry on, forever changed, forever imprinted. And maybe, just maybe, that’s a more profound truth than any easy platitude could ever offer. It’s a harder truth, certainly, but then, most truths worth knowing usually are. It forces us to confront the beautiful, terrifying, illogical, utterly magnificent chaos of existence without the filter of convenient fables. And in that confrontation, there's a different kind of peace. A tougher, more real peace. An unflinching peace. That, I think, is a reason worth finding. Not in the event itself, but in the processing of its pure, unadulterated happening. Just a thought I've been wrestling with, late at night, when the silence stretches long and the world feels particularly unreasoned. And you know, it's okay for it to be unreasoned. More than okay. It just *is*. And that, paradoxically, is a kind of comfort all its own. A sturdy, unvarnished kind of comfort.