Survivor’s Guilt

There is a kind of guilt nobody talks about. It sits quietly under your gratitude when you survive, when you make it out, while others are still trapped or did not make it. I feel it. Sometimes I am lonely and ashamed that it took my mother’s death for me to finally see the light. Other times I feel like a traitor to the life I left behind.

My mother’s passing cracked me open. It forced me to face myself, to rise out of the patterns of survival I thought would carry me forever. It was grief that sharpened my clarity. Grief that pushed me toward alignment. Grief that made me say: if not now, then when? She didn’t live long enough to see me finally choose myself, and part of me still aches at the thought that it took losing her to bring me home to myself.

And then there is the guilt of love. I met my almost-forever lover in the shadow of my survival. I was grieving, but I didn’t know how to grieve. I was rushing through my life the way I rushed through him—pushing, pressing, demanding more from both of us than either of us had space to give. He held room for me to expand, even as I crowded him out of his own process. I was sprinting toward a timeline society convinced me I was behind on, but what I really wanted was to slow down and feel safe.

My mother’s death made me crave stability, but it also made me reckless with love. I wanted to hold something, someone, so tightly that the universe couldn’t take it away. I see now that I didn’t always love him in freedom; I loved him in fear. And still, he is the best man I have ever known. My almost-forever lover. The man I loved in survival. The mirror who held me. Even in our distance, even in his unfinished becoming, he is the one who met me where I was and helped me grow into who I am.

Survivor’s guilt shows up here, too. Because her death became my awakening. Because our love was both balm and burden. Because I wonder if I could have done better—been gentler, more patient—had I not been running on grief and urgency.

Now, I am finally making a decent living. I have tools to thrive. I want to travel. I want a home base in Atlanta, then Europe, then Africa, then the Caribbean. Or should I choose a small house in Michigan and spend my days caring for my father? He is not always appreciative. He is focused on his needs. Dementia complicates things, but his patterns predate any diagnosis.

I have decided to build my life and my safety first. I will support him without losing myself. I will make money, create stability, and visit when I can. I will hire help when he needs it. I can honor my parents without giving up my dreams. I owe myself that. I owe them that. I owe my ancestors that. Their unrealized dreams are part of my fuel. Their smallness does not mean my brilliance must be small.

We do not have to dim our lights so the world can bear them. We can shine in a way that nourishes others. Alignment is spiritual. When you are aligned, you do not have to choose between honoring your past and building your future. You can do both.