I found out this week that I am not a unicorn. I am not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing yet because I am still stunned by it. I honestly walked around my world for the past year and a half believing I was an actual unicorn. No one else could ever truly know what I know, unsee what I have to unsee, mourn the way I mourn, and now live the way I live. 

Don’t get me wrong, I know there are many suicide survivors out in the world navigating their loss. But in my personal solar system, I have felt like a lone unicorn since Erik died. It is that subtle insecurity that blankets my shoulders in every space. 

I have a hard time introducing myself when people ask “tell us about yourself?” And I nervously laugh and can respond with, “Hello, I am Allison and I like movies and espresso martinis and everyone I love died and I have a Peloton.” It is both funny and weird as hell…two of my best attributes. And it is the reason I should steer clear of dating apps and all forms of “mingling.”

Something almost supernatural happened to me this week. I met someone with my story and I didn’t have to explain anything. He lost his wife to suicide and the experience we had on that horrible day is unbelievably sad and similar.

Down to the little details that when time stands still like that, you notice the way the air moves and your heart beats and the look on everyone’s faces. That slow motion sense of undoing is something I have not been able to accurately describe, let alone expect someone else to understand it. 

And now I know someone who has also seen the unthinkable and knows what it means to survive the bomb that went off inside his home. What a beautiful and tragic gift of shared humanity. I will cherish his introduction forever.

It validates for me why community is so important to our well being. We join teams, churches, book clubs, gyms, and more just to find those people in our orbit that we can relate to and embrace. 

Connection is healing when the isolation of deep grief feels like quick sand. Side note: If you were not alive yet in the 1980’s, quick sand used to be the thing that worried us kids the most. Could be around any corner of the forest we had to run through if being chased by a stranger and only Wonder Woman could get you out.

Losing a spouse can feel like you have not only lost your life’s witness, but you also lost your super hero who is supposed to pull you out of that quick sand. I often question if I will ever be truly known like that again. Now it feels more like a solid maybe! And that is a welcome sign of my healing. 

We are all uniquely living out our own journeys but we are not unicorns. There is likely someone beside you or ahead of you who will know of your pain, your joy, your worries, your illness, or your loss. You are not alone in this big world. You just need to find the stars that light up your solar system.