You Don’t Have to Make Meaning of Your Pain

I did a quick Google search out of curiosity. I typed in: “When we feel we have to make something big and meaningful out of our pain.”

Many of the top results had titles like:

“Turning Your Pain into Power.”

“The Pain You Go Through Is Designed to Produce Power.”

“How to Turn Your Deepest Pain Into Your Life’s Purpose.”

“Turning Your Pain into Purpose.”

“Making Meaning from Our Suffering.”

Now, don't get me wrong. There can be incredible beauty and healing in post-traumatic growth. There is something deeply valuable about learning how to integrate what we've suffered into our lives, and sometimes our experiences genuinely do become a pivot point that leads us towards new passions or a different purpose.

But I also think there's a cultural insistence that suffering has to be redeemed into something meaningful. It sits alongside those well-intentioned but often unhelpful sayings like, “Everything happens for a reason.”

As if the reason my son died was so I could eventually discover my purpose and create something beautiful for the world.

That makes it better... more palatable... right?

One of the things I noticed in myself during the year after Josiah died was this quiet but persistent pressure that I had to do something with my grief. I had to make a difference. I had to create something. I had to completely change the direction of my life.

I looked around at all the beautiful and incredible things people were doing after their own experiences of suffering, and I found myself wondering whether I simply wasn't doing enough. No one had actually placed that expectation on me.

But the cultural narrative that had subtly invaded my mind throughout my life, coupled with my own tendency to always feel like I had to be more and do more, left me questioning whether I was doing enough.

Why wasn't I changing my whole life? Why wasn’t I starting a charity or something?

There Is No Right Way to Respond to Suffering

The truth is, everyone’s path through pain is different.

Some people do go on to create incredible things from their experiences. They establish charities, write books, advocate for change, raise awareness and transform systems. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that—in fact, we need those people.

But for others, life continues on a much quieter scale. Their greatest focus is surviving each day. Being present to the people they love. Getting out of bed. Learning how to breathe again.

Neither path is more meaningful than the other.

I think that's where the idea of "making meaning" can become unhelpful. It's a beautiful possibility, but it shouldn't become the gold standard by which we measure how well someone has responded to suffering.

We each have to carve our own path.

We don't have to make meaning of what happened.

Sometimes horrible things happen, and there simply isn't an answer that satisfies the ache of asking why. It happened. It's horrible. It will always remain part of our story, and there may never be a neat little bow of purpose tied around it.

Perhaps that's why we're so uncomfortable with suffering.

As human beings, we struggle with unanswered questions. We struggle with the idea that something can be deeply unfair and still have no explanation. So we search for meaning because meaning can make suffering feel easier to carry. We offer platitudes because we desperately want to ease someone else's pain. We try to fix what cannot actually be fixed.

But sometimes there is nothing to explain.

And sometimes, the greatest thing we will do is simply survive what we've been through.

Sometimes the bravest thing is simply standing up again—beaten, scarred, grieving, but still alive.

Survival Is Enough

We don't have to make meaning of what happened.

But we do need to find a way to integrate it into the people we are becoming. That's different.

The grief I carry over losing Josiah will never leave me. Neither will the love. The pain won't disappear either, but it has already begun to change shape. It feels different than it did eighteen months ago, and I know it will continue changing throughout my life. My task isn't to turn it into something impressive. My task is learning how to carry it alongside the life I am still living.

Now, I'm also acutely aware that someone could look at the past eighteen months of my life and say, "Well... aren't you doing exactly that? Aren't you turning your pain into purpose?"

I've run the City2Surf in Josiah's honour and raised funds for Running for Premature Babies.

I've contributed a chapter about our story to a published book.

I've shared Josiah's journey on radio and podcasts.

And I'm sitting here writing this blog.

Here's the thing: I think it's completely normal to look for meaning after suffering. It's human. It's one of the ways we try to regain a sense of control, cope with what's happened, and make sense of a life that suddenly looks very different.

Those things are probably all partly true for me too.

But another truth exists alongside them.

I've done these things because they're my way of honouring Josiah. They're my way of keeping my promise that I would always speak his name. They're my way of being his Mum and continuing to share him with the world.

And honestly, writing and speaking have always been part of who I am.

The Revived Life existed long before Josiah in one form or another. Journalling has been part of my life since I could write. I once made an entire career out of speaking publicly.

None of these things are entirely new—they're simply the ways I've always expressed myself. Even running makes sense for me. Movement and being outdoors are where I naturally go when I'm suffering. It's how I process. It's how I breathe.

But all these things I did because they make sense to me, not because I had to.

You Don't Owe the World Something Beautiful

So I guess what I'm really trying to say is this: There shouldn't be pressure to turn our pain into purpose.

We already live in a world that constantly invites comparison. We don't need to add another impossible standard to the list by believing our suffering only becomes worthwhile if we create something extraordinary from it.

You are not less courageous because you walked quietly through your grief.

You are not wasting your pain because you never started a charity, wrote a book, posted your story online or raised money for a cause.

Maybe the question isn't, "What meaningful thing will I create from this?".

Maybe the better question is, "What does it cost me to keep believing that I have to?".

And what might change if we gave ourselves permission to stop trying to turn our pain into something useful?

Perhaps the most meaningful thing we can do is simply walk the path that is genuinely ours. To be true to ourselves. To honour what we've lost in whatever way makes sense to us.

And to slowly learn how to integrate our suffering into the life we still get to live.