In previous blogs, I’ve spoken about key moments within a process of grief or healing—because that’s what it truly is: processing and healing. Today, I want to share some of the things I experienced along that journey.

During this passage, emotions and reasons arise that make us think in a thousand ways and feel in just as many. Through pain, we go through several stages that I cannot name scientifically—those belong to psychology, and I am no expert—but I do want to tell you about some of the ones I went through, and where I found THE GIFT.

You might be wondering: What does this have to do with THE GIFT?
A lot.

Only through pain did I discover countless gifts I’ve received throughout my life. And I’m not romanticizing pain or the situation; it’s simply that revelations come when we’re willing to listen and understand the message. Many times, it’s impossible to do so in the rush of everyday life.

The first thing I had to face was uncertainty—that restlessness that gives you no peace, keeping you busier than the pain itself. Sometimes you can’t explain why things happen, and you try to find reasons that don’t exist, that won’t make sense of what you feel. It’s a snowball that grows with every thought, and soon becomes anguish. The anguish of not finding answers or justification. Instead of bringing peace, it becomes one of your greatest obstacles to healing.
There I received my first gift: understanding, within myself, that not every situation requires a why, but rather a what for. It doesn’t resolve immediately or even soon—it comes at the right time, when that small pang of guilt appears for feeling okay, for noticing that pain is starting to transform. Then a new feeling is born, and you can watch your story from another angle and see how everything can touch your life differently.

The second thing I felt was loneliness—that presence we constantly fear and are rarely prepared for. Let me tell you something about this companion that stares straight at you, waiting for your strangest reactions. Though at first you’re surrounded by people wanting to comfort and embrace you, in truth, you’re alone in your pain: no one can experience what you feel, or the way you feel it. Over time, people get busy—they have their own struggles—and you realize that yes, you are alone. You were, for a brief moment, a spark of empathy, compassion, and—harsh as it sounds—pity. That didn’t comfort me in my time of “public sorrow,” but it was moving to know that, at some point, I mattered to some people.

Then you begin a dialogue with yourself: you start to know yourself again, to understand where you were left before solitude found you once more. That is one of the greatest gifts—talking to yourself, comforting yourself, nurturing the child within you who cries as they watch their dreams and illusions fall apart, like a beloved toy breaking. And so you begin to rebuild from that child—the one you left behind when you started pretending to be an adult, forgotten in the rush of responsibility.

Sometimes you feel life is ending because you feel so apart, so far from everything and everyone. You are distant from the world because all you want is the company of the loved one you lost. When that is gone, you must find yourself. In my case, I clung to God: He embraced me, consoled me, and said, “You are not alone. I am here with you. I understand your pain, and I will give strength to your soul so you can walk through your sorrow until you feel the comfort only I can give.”
He gave me back my inner child—the one I’d left behind, the one who was wounded without knowing it, yet reappears when I need that burst of joy. Yes, in my process, I have also felt joy; and even if it sometimes makes me feel guilty, I remember my wife’s words: “Let your joy and your energy brighten the world, for in them lies God’s grace.”

Then I understood that it had all been worth it. Perhaps I wouldn’t have valued it as much had my life followed that so-called “normal” course. I also understood two things: first, that believing in God and counting on Him doesn’t mean nothing will ever happen to us, nor that we’ll be spared from hardship—He shapes us for new purposes.
And second—and most importantly—that in deep pain, we truly experience the love of God. What a wonderful gift, isn’t it?

After going through these moments, I reached an unfamiliar place: a calm I had never felt before. My pain was transforming into more love—into the joy of knowing I had done things right, of having built memories that now fill me with immense peace. I can give thanks for what I’ve lived. It’s not that the pain is gone—it never truly leaves—but we can transform it into something that doesn’t hurt: something that restores the soul, that helps us transcend as human beings, and allows us to help others by sharing what was once given to us in the form of love, compassion, empathy, company, or wisdom.

But how do we do that? Here comes the hard part. You spent so much time holding onto pain and making room for sorrow that when peace finally comes, you don’t know what to do. Your great occupation is gone. Then the question appears: Now what? Where do I place my energy? What do I give my thoughts to?
The search for a new path begins. In my case, it was slow and serene—not with the drive I once had, but with the intention to understand where to go next. Many ideas passed through my mind, though without much sense: I was thinking with reason, and this moment calls for heart. As hard as it may sound, God gave me the chance to start over—to rediscover my dreams and build His purpose through the things left unfinished, through what I once longed to do and had set aside.

Then THE GIFT appeared: the gentlest, sweetest, and most heartfelt way I found to share an experience that might help those walking through their own pain. And above all, it allows me to pay tribute to the woman who changed my life for the better; who brought not only joy, but wisdom.
Part of what helped me through this time was her unshakable faith and her way of seeing life from its bright side—never complicating what was simple, but rather finding joy in the little things. I only hope I can live up to all this and tell you, with love, that you are welcome to be part of this gift.