We Are Not the Worst Thing That’s Happened to Us

We are not our worst mistakes.

We try to teach this to our kids from the beginning. That messing up doesn’t mean they are messed up. That a bad choice doesn’t make them a bad person. That they’re still worthy of love, even in their most imperfect moments. Parenting expert Janet Lansbury, “There are no bad kids, just bad behavior.” And I believe that. I try to live by that. So why is it so hard to offer ourselves, or each other, that same grace?

Why is it that we can read 20 beautiful comments on a social media post, full of love, encouragement, support, and yet all we can think about is the one that stings? The one that judges or questions or pokes at our tenderest spots? Why do we hold on to the criticism and let it define the entire experience?

That same instinct shows up around grief and trauma too. When someone dies, especially in a tragic or sudden way, so many people try to make sense of it by zeroing in on that final moment. That one second. That one decision. It becomes the headline, the story, the identity. But a single moment cannot sum up a life. Or a parent. Or a child.

We are all more than the worst thing that has happened to us. We are more than the most painful chapter of our story.

After William died, I had a conversation with a mom who told me, “Well, maybe he was just too tired. That’s why he crashed.” I’ve thought about that moment a thousand times. I know she didn’t mean to be cruel. She just needed to believe that her child would be safe. That her decisions would never lead to tragedy. So she created a narrative where I must have done something wrong, because then she wouldn’t have to imagine herself in my shoes.

But in protecting herself, she unknowingly hurt me. She turned me into an “other.” Someone who made a mistake. Someone different. Someone whose child died because they did something wrong.

But I’m not other. I’m not reckless. I’m not negligent. I’m a mother who lost her son in a freak accident. And that’s it.

And the other bereaved parents I sit beside? They aren’t careless or cursed or to blame. They’re just humans, broken open by loss. Trying to survive something they never imagined surviving. Trying to piece together a life that no longer makes sense. Grief already isolates. Shame just deepens the loneliness.

The truth is, I’ve made all kinds of bad decisions in my life. We all have. But somehow, I escaped the worst consequences. And I don’t know why. None of us do. That’s the part no one wants to say out loud. Tragedy is unfair. Random. Chaotic. Sometimes, it finds people who’ve done everything “right.”

So instead of finger-pointing, instead of blame disguised as safety, what if we reached for love instead? What if we met grieving parents not with questions or judgment, but with understanding? What if we said: I see your pain. I’m not looking away. I’m staying.

We are not our worst mistakes. We are not our worst days. We are not the worst thing that ever happened to us.

We are mothers. Fathers. People who loved deeply and lost profoundly. People still standing in the wreckage, trying to live a life that honors what was lost.

Please, see us. Sit with us. Love us anyway.

William after he broke his Hand skateboarding.