Am I Broken? Grief, Scars, and Life After Losing Alex

Today I found myself stuck in the middle of a series of emails from our dads support group, turning over one question in my mind:

Am I broken?

A lot of us used that word today.

And honestly, I understand why.

When you lose your child, it does not just hurt. It tears through every part of your life. It changes how you think, how you feel, how you see the world, and how you see yourself. The person I was before losing Alex is gone. That version of me does not exist anymore, and I know it never will again.

There are days when “broken” feels like the only honest word for that.

But the longer I sat with it today, the more I realized something I could not ignore: when I look at the other dads in this group, I do not see broken men.

I see men who have suffered a traumatic loss and have been changed by it forever.

I see men carrying pain that most people cannot understand.

I see men getting up each day and doing the best they can with a life they never would have chosen.

I see men who are wounded, grieving, exhausted, and forever marked by love and loss.

But I do not see broken.

And that makes me wonder if maybe I need to look at myself with the same kindness I naturally offer to them.

The truth is, I will never be the same person I was before Alex died. I am trying to pick up the pieces and put life together again, but I know it will never go back to what it was. I will never be “whole” in the way I once was. There will always be cracks. There will always be scars. There will always be a part of me that is missing.

And yes, on some level, that sounds a lot like broken.

But maybe there is a difference between being broken and being wounded.

Broken sounds ruined. Finished. Beyond repair.

Wounded sounds like something else.

Wounded means there was damage. It means there are scars. It means there may always be pain. It means life will never look quite the same again. But it does not mean there is nothing left. It does not mean love is gone. It does not mean hope is impossible. It does not mean a person has no value or no future.

Maybe grief leaves us more like that — not untouched, not restored to what we were, but still here.

Still loving.

Still carrying our children.

Still trying.

Still taking one day at a time.

I know I will never stop missing Alex. I know I will never stop feeling his absence, or the absence of who I was when he was here. That missing will always be part of me. I know the cracks and scars will never disappear or fade. They are part of me now, just as this grief is part of me now.

But maybe those things are not proof that I am broken.

Maybe they are proof that I loved deeply, lost terribly, and am still here.

I do not have a neat answer. I am still living the question.

But tonight, I think maybe this is the closest thing I have to an answer:

I am not who I was before.

I may never feel whole again.

But maybe I am not broken.

Maybe I am wounded. Scarred. Changed forever.

And maybe that is what it looks like to keep living after losing a child.