A couple of weeks ago, I saw a man I work with who lost his son just before Thanksgiving. He's always been a strong personality, in the middle of everything (as his job dictates), loud and in charge. But when I saw him this time, I noticed a change. He looked...quieter. Subdued. I don't know if someone can LOOK quieter, but that's the word that comes to mind.

And I wondered if I look quieter. I know I am quieter--don't participate in discussions (with friends or collagues) as readily. Even if I have something to say, I'll wait and see if anyone else says it, and then speak only if I feel the thought really needs to be expressed.

It's as if losing my daughter has led me to measure my words, movements, even thoughts. Or maybe there's so much going on under the surface that I try my best to keep the outside under control.

I wonder too, whether I seem so different to people who know me. Losing my daughter changed who I am, just as having her changed me. My one hope is that it didn't make me a lesser person, somehow. I fear my younger daughter getting a lesser version of me. As always, I believe some of that is up to me, is a choice I can make. The experience of losing my daughter has affected me in some immeasurable, unchangeable way though. I wonder if anyone can see or hear that.