Shadows linger in the quiet corners of our minds—whispers of shared trauma that underpass communities like making their way from a secret dungeon.
Trauma is a strange kind of glue that isolates us in our pain yet also binds the torn pieces of our collective experience fabric. We look around and may observe it often: even in the circle of people sitting down in one room, surrounded by a heavy air thick with words not spoken, each person carrying a part of a puzzle that completes the picture of heartache.
Here is a good possibility: those scars can become bridges instead of walls, for when we admit that we all suffered, we find ourselves in the shared narrative that is messily and maybe even wonderfully patchwork-quilt beautiful, stitching of life lived amidst the dark and shadowed outline of loss.
But here is the thing: forgiveness doesn’t eliminate the past; it holds the pain close enough to understand it, yet far enough to allow healing. It’s similar to a river flowing gently through a landscape of jagged rocks; the water does not erase the stones but smooths out their edges over time.
But even as we travel this river of shared trauma, the most intrusive thoughts—these nagging questions of “Why me?” or “Will it ever end?”—can be powerful forces for change. These nagging thoughts are uncomfortable; they prod us to look for connection, to seek one another in vulnerability.
Then, let’s raise our glass of hope and rejoice in all the stories—disjointed, yes. But with these very imperfections, we build a mosaic of hope, a testimonial vibrancy to man’s will for survival. Thus, when we walk this road toward reconciliation, we must also remember this golden rule: We share the wounds to share the healing pathways; shadows don’t survive if there’s light.
