Loss is a part of life. Sometimes we think—by not getting too attached or too close—we can keep grief at bay. To paraphrase The Prophet, by Gibran, "If we don’t allow ourselves to know great sorrow, we will never experience great joy." In my years of personal and professional wisdom gleaning, I believe this to be true. If we love, we open ourselves up. When we lose, it hurts.

This applies to all levels of loss: personal, professional, physical, and national.

We grieve whenever life changes in such a way that it will never be exactly the same again. The events of the last few weeks certainly meet these criteria. There is sorrow for the nation we love, the victims, the workers.

There is also a profound sadness for the sense of invulnerability we lost. We grieve for what we have enjoyed, and often took for granted, for so long—freedom, peace, security. We grieve for a nation. We grieve for ourselves, collectively and individually.

The times I have lost loved ones are few, but you don’t need many to know the experience is one you absolutely dread feeling again.

While in the midst of the veil of shock I recall like it was yesterday, that numb, mechanical, weighted sense of difficulty of putting one foot in front of the other. In those early hours, the enormity of loss does not sink in. There is, however, a pivotal moment in time when reality set in. That look in a friend’s eye, the first food brought in, the calls coming—all of a sudden it is real. I will never hear my dad’s laugh again. My infant son will never see sunshine.

It was that way for me also in those days in September. At first I mechanically listened to the news, registering the fear and horror we would all soon feel. I talked to my husband and kids about it, prayed about it, processed it with clients.

But the defining moments came that finally brought the tears, the enormity of our violation, the helplessness of the wounded. What finally shattered my numbness was the dawning of understanding that the world was grieving for us—us, the strong ones, the ones who made the rules, the ones who usually did the protecting and the rescuing.

The realization of our woundedness welled up in my chest. The brokenness of our hearts became real. In the singing of the National Anthem at Buckingham Palace, the gathering at Parliament Hill in Canada, I saw faces of people weeping for us, praying for us.

We were experiencing an international hug—arms of love and care surrounding us and carrying us when we could no longer stand—when we finally had to let the grief hit.

Only by going through grief do we heal. There are no detours available. In healing we won’t forget, but we will gain "strength in what remains behind" as Wordsworth so aptly put it.

I personally am thankful that I know the joy of living in the United States of America, appreciating the blessings and the protection this country has provided for so many years, and will again.

The future will bring joy and sorrow. We must continue to keep our newly-vulnerable hearts open to both. Vulnerable hearts bring choice—we can live afraid or we can live with a profound awareness of the beauty and very preciousness of life, the fragile texture of our humanness. It is, after all, our life. What choice will you make? TPW