The Day Everything Split: The Intersection

There’s a moment no one prepares you for. Not the loss itself; people talk about that, in hushed tones and careful phrases, but the moment after. The moment when the world keeps going, but you don’t.

That’s the intersection.

It’s not a place you choose. It’s a place you arrive at, disoriented, holding pieces of a life that no longer fit together the way it used to.

Before, there was a version of me that moved through the world without thinking twice about tomorrow. Plans made sense. Time felt predictable. Life had a rhythm I trusted.

After the loss of a loved one, everything fractured.

I remember noticing the smallest things; the way light hit the floor, the sound of a door closing, the silence between conversations. It all felt louder somehow, like the world had turned up the volume on everything except me.

And I didn’t recognize myself in that quiet. At the intersection, you’re asked questions you didn’t sign up to answer: Who am I now? What do I do with this pain? How do I keep going when the road I was on is gone?

There are no clear directions. No map. Just two truths standing side by side:
Life has changed. And it will not wait for you to catch up.

So, you stand there for a while. Not moving forward. Not going back. Just standing. And maybe that’s the first step no one talks about: not moving, not fixing, not figuring it all out. Just allowing yourself to exist in the space where everything is split, the life before, and the life after.

Now imagine 13-year-old-twin boys riding their bikes. One is a daredevil and arrives at the intersection first. The other is slower and 10 feet behind his speedier brother. The first one sees a gap and races between cars and is hit as his twin watches the accident unfold in disbelief. This is how my new book begins, “The Intersection.” 

Because the truth is, the intersection isn’t the end of your story. It’s where your story becomes honest.