Presencing Missing Children

Main image by Antonio Piña on Unsplash

7th November 2024

There are differing scales of momentousness—if that is even a word. There is the kind that reverberates across the planet, affecting all species, all generations, present and future (think: the outcome of a recent presidential election). And then there is the kind that ripples out from one life, one conversation, one moment of truth.

I don’t claim to grasp the enormity of the former, but I’ve spent my recent life attuned to the latter.

This kind of momentousness—intimate, personal, human—is the terrain of my writing and my grief. It’s in the way presence and truth can transform a fleeting encounter into something unforgettable.

This week, on the morning of the U.S. elections, I felt the weight of planetary-scale momentousness pressing in on me. But what stays with me are the ripples of a small, intimate moment.

At 6h30, I was at the pool, as I usually am, even when the seasonal darkness makes it hard to get out of bed. The pool was almost empty—just a few of us doing our morning laps. Our new-this-year trainer, kind and attentive, wandered over as I was stretching out my lower back, holding on to the handles of the starting block. We began to chat.

I talked about how stretching had never been part of my sports routines as a kid and how that had changed for my children. When he asked about their ages, I hesitated, as I always do at this familiar fork in the road.

Time seemed to slow as I weighed up my choices: Do I shield him from the truth or let it rise, bare and unvarnished?

“Twenty-five, twenty-three, and…dead,” I said.

For once, it didn’t stop the conversation.

He knelt by the starting block as I continued to stretch, listening with genuine presence. I shared a fragment of my daughter’s story. He responded with compassion, adding a bit about his own “adolescence compliquée.” And then, after a few more moments, I swam off.

No drama. No awkwardness. Just an ordinary human moment, held with care. It struck me, as it often does, how these seemingly small moments carry a choice: to show up fully, or to hold back. What allows us to choose the more vulnerable path? Is it trust in the other person? Or perhaps trust in ourselves, in our ability to let the truth land without fear of it breaking someone?

Yesterday evening, after the momentous news rippling across the planet, I joined a Zoom call with eight strangers, all of whom are exploring psychedelics for healing and growth. We meditated, shared openly, and listened deeply. Toward the end, the last person to share, a woman spoke of her daughter’s death, two years ago. The space held her grief tenderly, without rushing to fill it.

Then we shifted to the “resonance” part of our gathering—where we reflect back on what has touched us in other people’s shares. A man, even though he’d had his turn before, shared the loss of his adult daughter. More spaciousness. More breath.

I had already spoken too but felt moved to share that I too had lost a daughter. I found myself reflecting and sharing on how, once, I would have led with my grief. It would have been the first thing out of my mouth. I would have spilled out every loss, needing to lay it all out there – most definitely in this kind of gathering space. But now, it lingers in the background—somewhat tamed. Still present, always there, but less insistent.

Maybe it’s the passage of time.

Maybe it’s the work I’ve done with psychedelics.

Maybe it’s both.

What struck me most was the recognition that, in this random gathering of strangers, three of us had lost a daughter. All of them sudden deaths. Grief feels so very isolating, estranging. You are alone and bearing the unbearable. And yet, sometimes, in well-held spaces like this—spaces of presence, recognition, and good holding—we can find one another. We witness the gaping holes in our lives, and in doing so, they feel less wild.

Connection doesn’t have to be grand or dramatic to matter. It doesn’t even need to be with those we know well. A single moment of presence—a look, a breath, a shared truth—can ripple outward, softening grief and making the unbearable a little more bearable.

I think back to that morning at the pool, the soothing support of the water, the kind attentiveness of a relative stranger. And to the Zoom call, where silence and breath became a kind of balm. All of it among strangers. And yet the connection so precious.

Grief will always be with me, as it is with so many of us. It’s a constant, like breath, weaving in and out of my minutes, hours, and days. But in the presence of others—whether kneeling by a starting block or sitting in a Zoom room—it becomes something softer. Something I know I can carry, alone-not alone.

Good enough.

Image by Christian Holzinger on Unsplash