Am I An Island?
Why I wrote "Holding Onto the Light: A Father's Journey Through Loss and Healing"
It’s the loneliness they don’t tell you about after you lose a child that truly alters your entire perspective on life.
Yes, there are other moments that shatter your world — the initial shock, the endless tears, the unbearable stillness of a hospital room where your child’s first cries should be echoing. The silence where joy should have lived. The absence of congratulations, replaced instead by solemn looks and well-meaning words that never quite reach the ache inside your chest.
But for me, it was what came after that changed me most — the days following discharge, when the world expected me to return to “normal.” It was in the long, empty hours that stretched endlessly between exhaustion and grief, in the tears that refused to relent, and in the numbness that came when I wanted nothing more than to feel something again.
People showed up with food, gifts, and comfort — small lights in the darkness. But even then, it was the loneliest time of my life.
If you’ve been around my page for a while, you’ll know that my wife and I have experienced two unimaginable losses — our sons, Davian and Jadon.
Before losing our boys, I never imagined I would live this reality once, let alone twice. And yet here I am — writing these words with a heavy heart as the holidays approach — thinking of the fathers out there walking through the same quiet grief, the same unspoken ache.
As a loss dad, one of the hardest realizations I faced was how few resources exist for fathers of loss — especially here in America. After we lost Davian, I searched for something, anything, that could help guide me through my pain. I wanted words that spoke to the deepest, most broken parts of my heart. But I couldn’t find them.
I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember, and in my grief, I turned back to what felt familiar — to words. To story. To healing through creation. I wrote Dino Davian — a short story inspired by a small weighted dinosaur gifted to us after we lost our first son. I meant to publish it, but I never did. Maybe I wasn’t ready yet.
When we lost Jadon, something in me reignited. The pain was unbearable, but it also stirred a purpose I thought I had lost. I began writing again — not just for myself this time, but for others like me.
The story that emerged follows a father named Myles, who retreats inward after the loss of his child. Within his mind, he meets an unlikely visitor and journeys through a surreal landscape of grief — encountering other fathers who share their stories, their wisdom, and the fragile hope that healing is possible.
I wrote it for dads — but what’s humbled me most is how the story has resonated with everyone. The messages, the shared tears, the quiet “thank yous” from those who’ve read it — they remind me that pain, while deeply personal, is also profoundly universal.
This isn’t about me, or even about my book. It’s about connection — the bridge that forms when one person dares to speak their pain aloud, and another whispers, me too.
So if you’re reading this — whether you’re a loss parent, a friend, a family member, or someone quietly standing in the aftermath of grief — know this: you are not alone.
You are not an island.
And sometimes, when the world grows too quiet, the simple act of sharing your story might just become the first light on someone else’s darkest night.
Final Note
If this piece or my story has resonated with you, I invite you to read my book:
Holding Onto the Light: A Father’s Journey Through Loss and Healing — available now on Amazon.
👉 https://bit.ly/3R0E33H
Your support means more than you know. If the story moved you in any way, please consider leaving a review — not just for me, but so other fathers and families searching for hope might find it, too.