Letter Three-The Mirror

"Grief reshapes us — but it cannot erase us." 

From the series: Letters from the Wreckage

By: Amy Michelle Kennedy

Dear Fellow Survivors:

I stood in front of the mirror today and barely recognized the woman looking back at me. Her shoulders were slumped beneath an invisible weight, and the soft laughter lines that once graced her face have been replaced by deep worry lines. Her eyes were red and swollen, evidence of tears that seem to fall without warning.

I searched those eyes for a familiar sparkle—the little light that used to dance when she smiled—but it was nowhere to be found. In the harsh bathroom light, I realized that grief has carved itself into my reflection, painting a picture of exhaustion and heartache.

Ever since I lost my Dad to the terrible disease of depression , the mirror has become a window into the wreckage inside me. Each day I wake with a heaviness that sleep cannot shake, a bone-deep fatigue that goes beyond the physical.

My mind is overwhelmed by a constant noise—a storm of thoughts, regrets, and questions that have no answers.

Why?

What could I have done?

Why didn’t I see it?

These questions swirl in my head day and night, crashing like waves against the edge of my already-tired mind. There are no answers that could quiet them, no truths that can fill the gaping silence where my loved one’s voice used to be.

And so the noise persists.

A ceaseless hum in the background of every moment, even in sleep.

I wonder if you feel this too. Do you also stare into tired eyes and question who you’ve become? Do you feel that ache in your chest that never fully goes away—that quiet, throbbing reminder of what you lost?

I often drift through days in a fog, my body on autopilot while my heart lags somewhere behind, lost in yesterday. If you feel this too—the exhaustion that settles into your bones, the ache of longing for someone who is gone, the desperate craving for stillness amid the chaos—I want you to know you are not alone.

Sometimes I imagine all of us who have survived this kind of loss standing together in a silent circle. We may be strangers, but we recognize the vacant stares, the trembling hands, the forced half-smiles. We know the unspoken truth in each other’s eyes. We see how each of us carries the invisible weight of a world that collapsed.

In that circle, I reach out and hold your hand. In that shared silence, there is a gentle understanding: we have all been through the unthinkable, and we are all tired. So very tired.

My friend, I wish I could tell you that the answers will come—that the noise in our heads will fade, and the sparkle will return to our eyes tomorrow. I wish I could promise that soon we’ll recognize ourselves in the mirror again.

The truth is, I don’t have those answers.

This journey through the wreckage offers no map, no timetable. Grief follows its own clock and its own rules. It reshapes us.

I’m learning to accept that it’s okay if the person I am now is different from the one I used to be. It’s okay if all you did today was breathe and survive. Sometimes, that alone is an act of courage.

If you’re like me, you might also long for stillness—for just a moment of peace from the thoughts that chase you.

There are moments, however brief, when I find a bit of that stillness. In the early morning hours, when the world is dark and quiet, I sit with a cup of coffee and let the silence wash over me. In those fragile minutes, I can almost feel the presence of my Dad in the quiet. I remind myself that they would want me to find peace.

I hope you can find a moment like that too—perhaps in the hush of twilight, or under a gentle sky, or lying in bed before sleep, when everything is still. These moments of quiet are rare and fleeting, but they matter. They remind me that even in all this noise and pain, my heart is still capable of calm, if only for a little while.

I want you to remember this: the worn, weary person you see in the mirror is a testament to your love. You look this way because you have loved deeply and lost deeply. Those worry lines and tired eyes are marks of your courage—because every day, you wake up and carry on, even with that heaviness in your soul.

You may not recognize yourself now, and that’s okay.

One day—maybe when you least expect it—you’ll catch a glimmer of something familiar in your eyes. Maybe it will be when you remember a moment that made you laugh. Maybe it will be when you help someone else carry their load, and in doing so, you realize you’ve momentarily set your own burden down.

The sparkle will return in its own time, perhaps in a new form—one forged by everything you’ve endured.

Until that day comes, be gentle with yourself. Rest when you can. Cry when you need to. Scream into the pillows. Take long, quiet walks. Write down the tangled thoughts. Let the pressure out, even just a little.

We may never answer all the questions, but we can learn to live with them more kindly. And the stillness we crave is not out of reach. It’s hidden in small moments—in the spaces between breaths, in the quiet companionship of someone who understands.

This is not a road we ever asked to walk, and certainly not one we chose. But here we are—survivors in the wreckage—finding our way, one day at a time.

When you feel like you can’t recognize the person you’ve become, please know that I see you. I recognize you.

You are the brave soul carrying on out of love, out of necessity, out of a strength you might not even believe you have.

I see your slumped shoulders and know how heavy that burden is. I see your red, swollen eyes and the countless tears behind them. I see the worry lines, and I know each one carries a story of sleepless nights and unanswerable questions.

You are not alone in this.

As I write these words, I imagine they are a hand on your back, a soft voice saying, “I’m here with you.”

I cannot take away your pain, and you cannot take away mine. But we can carry it together in some small way. We can be witnesses to each other’s sorrow, reminders to one another to keep going.

On the days when the weight feels unbearable, think of me standing beside you, sharing the load even just a little. And on my hardest days, I will think of you—and all of us—and remember that I’m not alone either.

I don’t know when the person in the mirror will begin to look familiar again. But I hold onto hope that, little by little, we will see pieces of ourselves return—or perhaps, something new will take root.

Like wildflowers rising from ruins.

Until then, we will keep waking, keep breathing. And if all you can do is get through today, that will be enough.

Thank you for hearing my heart in these words. I hope you find pieces of your own story here—and in that recognition, feel less alone.

Take care of yourself, as well as you can. And if today all you can do is read this and breathe, that is more than enough.

With love,

Amy Michelle