When MaryAnn and I wrote our book, one of the things we pointed out is that being a part of the Hyacinth Fellowship means we’re members of a club none of us ever wanted to join.

Nobody woke up one morning and said, "You know what would really add some texture to my life? Accidentally committing unintentional harm."

Nobody applied.

Nobody paid dues.

Nobody put this on their bucket list.

And yet, here we are.

Thirty of us, gathered online – strangers – yet bound together – even closely.

And I want to begin by pointing out something rather extraordinary about that.

You came.

You are here.

Because one of the most powerful urges many of us experience after unintentionally harming someone is exactly the opposite.

We want to disappear.

We want to go home.

We want to close the door.

We want to pull the shades.

We want to get into bed.

We want to avoid the questions.

We want to avoid the looks.

Sometimes we even want to avoid the people who love us most.

And there's a reason for that.

Isolation can feel safe.

After Kenny died at my house, I didn't exactly feel like going out and making new friends.

Kenny was a retired postal worker who had started doing landscaping work. I hired him to rake leaves at my house.

Years earlier, I'd installed a garage door opener on the cheap. The doors were old, heavy, solid oak doors, and the opener lacked safety features that could have been installed.

I chose not to pay for them.

And on November 9, 2013, Kenny came over to rake my leaves.

At some point, he became caught in those doors.

I found him there.

Dead.

I lowered his body onto my driveway.

I prayed over him.

And then came the police.

The medical examiner.

Kenny's family.

The lawsuit.

The questions.

And underneath all of it was another voice.

Mine.

How could you have done this?

How could you have been so cheap?

How could you have been so careless?

A man is dead because of something you did.

The book tells a little of what happened to me afterward. I started smoking. I lost 40 pounds. My marriage eventually ended. I was overwhelmed by guilt, blame and sorrow.

But there was something else happening too.

I was separating.

I was withdrawing.

And I think many of us know that feeling.

Because after we unintentionally harm somebody, there are some very compelling reasons to isolate.

The first is simply this:

We don't think anybody understands.

And frankly, sometimes we're right.

People say things that are intended to be comforting.

"It wasn't your fault."

"It was an accident."

"You've got to forgive yourself."

"You have to move on."

And you think:

You don't understand.

Because I know it was an accident.

I know I didn't wake up intending to hurt somebody.

But somebody is still dead.

Somebody is still injured.

Some family is still grieving.

And I was there.

So we stop talking.

The book describes how people come to Hyacinth meetings having never spoken with another person who has unintentionally killed or seriously injured someone, even when their incident happened decades earlier. Then something remarkable happens when they finally hear somebody else's story:

They realize someone gets it.

There is an enormous difference between someone saying,

"I understand what you're saying,"

and someone saying,

"Me too."

That's part of the reason we're sitting here today.

But there's another reason we isolate.

We are afraid of judgment.

What will people think if they know?

Will they think I'm careless?

Will they think I'm irresponsible?

Will they think I'm dangerous?

Will they think I'm a bad parent?

A bad doctor?

A bad driver?

A bad professional?

A bad person?

So we become editors.

We carefully decide who gets which version of our biography.

This person gets the whole story.

This person gets the abbreviated version.

This person gets nothing.

And eventually managing our story can become exhausting.

Maryann knew this extraordinarily well.

After she struck and killed eight-year-old Brian, she spent years trying to live what she later called a kind of "fake" life. She appeared to be functioning, but inside she carried the unresolved trauma and guilt. Eventually she moved to California and stopped talking about the accident altogether. Even her husband didn't know.

For roughly 20 years, there was the public Maryann and the hidden Maryann.

Then something changed.

She began therapy.

She began talking.

Eventually she told her story publicly.

And people started finding her.

People who had their own stories.

People who had been hiding too.

And she discovered something remarkable: when she stopped hiding, she had more energy to give to the world.

Eventually that became Accidental Impacts.

And eventually that became the Hyacinth Fellowship.

Think about that.

An organization dedicated to overcoming isolation exists because a woman who had isolated herself for decades finally decided to tell somebody what happened.

That's quite a legacy.

And it points toward something I think we need to understand.

Isolation makes promises it cannot keep.

Isolation says:

I'll protect you.

I'll keep you from judgment.

I'll keep you from embarrassment.

I'll keep you from having to explain.

I'll keep you from being hurt.

And sometimes, particularly early in trauma, we genuinely do need solitude.

There is nothing wrong with being alone.

There is nothing wrong with turning off your phone.

There is nothing wrong with saying, "I can't talk about this today."

There is nothing wrong with needing quiet.

Solitude and isolation are not the same thing.

Solitude can restore us.

Isolation slowly disconnects us.

Solitude says, "I need some time."

Isolation says, "I don't need anybody."

Or worse:

"Nobody should have to deal with me."

And worst of all:

"I don't deserve anybody."

That's when isolation becomes dangerous.

Because now we aren't merely protecting ourselves from other people's judgment.

We are punishing ourselves.

The book calls this part of moral injury.

Guilt says:

I did something terrible.

Shame makes a subtle but devastating edit:

I am terrible.

And those two sentences lead us in very different directions.

Guilt can lead us toward responsibility.

Toward apology.

Toward restitution.

Toward change.

Toward compassionate accountability.

Shame tends to send us somewhere else.

Into hiding.

The book puts it very plainly: guilt can motivate action and amends, while shame makes us want to run away and hide. Social withdrawal and isolation can themselves become symptoms of moral injury.

And I think this is one of the great traps for people like us.

We begin to confuse suffering with accountability.

We think:

If I feel bad enough, I'm honoring the person who was harmed.

If I never enjoy myself again, I'm demonstrating remorse.

If I don't let anybody love me, I'm paying some portion of the debt.

If I punish myself long enough, perhaps the universe will somehow become balanced again.

But it doesn't work.

My suffering cannot bring Kenny back.

Maryann's suffering could not bring Brian back.

Your suffering cannot undo whatever brought you into this Fellowship.

The book says that plainly too. Self-punishment cannot resurrect the person who died or change the circumstances of the incident. What can change is what we do with the life still entrusted to us.

And that's where overcoming isolation becomes more than a mental-health technique.

It becomes an act of courage.

Maybe even an act of love.

Because healing requires allowing ourselves to become connected again.

Not to everybody.

I want to emphasize that.

Overcoming isolation does not mean telling everybody everything.

You do not owe your story to strangers.

You don't have to put it on Facebook.

You don't have to stand up at Thanksgiving and say, "Before we carve the turkey, I'd like to tell everyone about the worst day of my life."

Please don't.

Your story is yours.

Discernment matters.

Privacy matters.

And in some circumstances, legal considerations matter enormously.

But privacy and secrecy aren't quite the same thing.

Privacy says:

"I choose carefully who gets access to this tender part of me."

Secrecy says:

"If anybody really knew me, they would reject me."

That's the lie we have to challenge.

And we challenge it one relationship at a time.

In the book we call one of the first responses after trauma simply:

Phone a friend.

Not 30 friends.

One.

Find somebody who can listen compassionately, think clearly, disagree respectfully, and help you make decisions when your own thinking isn't particularly reliable.

That's manageable.

Who is your one?

Who is the person you can call and say:

"I'm having a bad day."

"I'm thinking about it again."

"November 9 is coming."

"I drove past the place."

"I saw something on television."

"I had the dream again."

"I don't need you to fix anything. I just don't want to be alone with this."

Sometimes overcoming isolation is that small.

A phone call.

A cup of coffee.

A walk.

Sitting on somebody's porch.

Watching a stupid television show together.

The book actually recommends exactly this kind of ordinary human contact after trauma: have somebody come over, share a meal, watch television, take a walk.

There's something beautiful about that.

Healing doesn't always look dramatic.

Sometimes healing looks like pizza.

Sometimes healing looks like somebody sitting beside you saying nothing particularly profound.

Sometimes healing looks like a friend texting:

"You up?"

And you answering:

"Yep."

And that is enough.

But there's another level.

We need people who don't merely love us.

We need some people who understand us.

That's peer support.

One person quoted in the book said that more than ten years after their accident, they had never spoken to anyone who'd been through anything similar until finding this community. Their response was beautifully simple: talking with someone who truly understood meant they didn't feel so alone anymore.

That is why Hyacinth matters.

It's why this you coming to this meeting matters.

It's why the person sitting two zoom boxes away from you matters.

Because there are things we don't have to explain here.

There are sentences we can leave unfinished.

There are emotions we don't have to justify.

There are contradictions we don't have to resolve.

"I know it wasn't intentional, but..."

We understand.

"Everyone says it wasn't my fault, but..."

We understand.

"I was having a perfectly good day and suddenly..."

We understand.

"I don't think I deserve to be happy because..."

We understand.

There is tremendous healing in those two words:

We understand.

And there is something else I've learned.

Community doesn't only heal us because other people help us.

Community heals us because eventually we get to help other people.

This may be one of the biggest surprises of the whole journey.

At first we come into community because we need something.

We need somebody to listen.

We need reassurance.

We need guidance.

We need someone who has survived what we're going through.

But then one day somebody new walks through the door.

And they're shattered.

They're two weeks out.

Or six months.

Or maybe they've been carrying it for 35 years.

And they tell their story.

And suddenly you realize:

I know something that might help this person.

I have something to give.

And that changes us.

Because shame says:

You are a burden.

Community says:

You have something to contribute.

Shame says:

You don't belong.

Community says:

Pull up a chair.

Shame says:

Your worst moment disqualifies you.

Community says:

Your worst moment may have given you a compassion somebody desperately needs.

The book describes moral repair as involving both receiving support and contributing to community through shared activities, service and helping create safer, more caring communities. It specifically says this requires fighting the tendency to withdraw.

That's a profound reversal.

We begin thinking:

I need to hide because of what happened.

And eventually we may discover:

Because of what happened, I have something important to offer.

Not because the tragedy was good.

It wasn't.

Not because everything happens for a reason.

I'm not convinced it does.

Not because we needed this to happen in order to become better people.

We didn't.

We would gladly give every insight back if we could undo what happened.

But we can't.

So the question becomes:

What will I do with the life I have now?

That's what Maryann did.

She couldn't bring Brian back.

But she could make sure the next person didn't have to spend 25 years thinking they were the only person on earth who understood this experience.

And that's what I'm trying to do with Kenny.

I cannot bring Kenny back.

I cannot rewrite November 9, 2013.

Believe me, if the universe offered rewrites, I'd be first in line.

I'd buy every safety device.

I'd replace the doors.

I'd do a hundred things differently.

But that day is not available for editing.

This day is.

And that's one of the most important discoveries I've made.

We cannot change the day that brought us into the Hyacinth Fellowship.

But we can change what happens today.

Today I can make the phone call.

Today I can go to therapy.

Today I can tell somebody I'm struggling.

Today I can come to the meeting when I'd rather stay home.

Today I can sit beside someone else who is hurting.

Today I can listen.

Today I can serve.

Today I can laugh without immediately punishing myself for laughing.

Today I can allow somebody to love me.

Today I can allow myself to belong.

And eventually, perhaps, something else happens.

We begin to build a life that is not centered entirely around what happened.

The book calls part of this Legacy-Centered Growth.

It isn't about making up for what happened. We can't.

It's about honoring those who were harmed by using the life we still have to put something good into the world. And in doing that, we develop connections, discover new strengths, and actively combat the tendency to withdraw, isolate, ruminate and hide.

And that brings me back to us.

Look around.

Seriously.

Take a second and look around at the names and faces here.

This is what overcoming isolation looks like.

Not curing everything.

Not forgetting.

Not pretending.

Not absolving ourselves of responsibility.

Not magically becoming the people we were before.

This.

Thirty people on zoom, who could be watching football.

Thirty people carrying stories most of the world doesn't quite know what to do with.

Thirty people saying, simply by showing up:

I will not carry this entirely by myself anymore.

And perhaps even more importantly:

I will help you carry yours.

That is Fellowship.

And I think Maryann understood something about that long before many of us did.

The hyacinth became our symbol because in the ancient story, something beautiful grows from the place where blood has fallen. In the book we describe it as an image of hope after harm, beauty emerging from suffering.

Not beauty instead of suffering.

Beauty from the same ground.

That's different.

We don't erase what happened.

We don't pave over it.

We don't pretend the ground was never broken.

We plant there.

And sometimes something grows.

A friendship.

A support group.

A book.

A nonprofit.

A retreat in Michigan.

A monthly zoom call.

Maybe even a life we once thought we'd forfeited.

So when that urge to isolate comes, and it will, I hope we can learn to recognize the voice.

"You shouldn't go."

"Nobody understands."

"You don't belong."

"You'll make everybody uncomfortable."

"You don't deserve to enjoy yourself."

"You should stay home."

And maybe we don't have to defeat that voice with some enormous act of courage.

Maybe we simply answer:

I'm going anyway.

I'll make the call anyway.

I'll take the walk anyway.

I'll tell my therapist anyway.

I'll go to the meeting anyway.

I'll sit at the table anyway.

I'll let somebody love me anyway.

Because isolation tells us that healing happens when we finally become strong enough to carry this alone.

Hyacinth teaches us something very different.

Healing begins when we discover we don't have to.

And if you forget that tomorrow, or next month, or on the anniversary, or on some completely ordinary Tuesday when the memory suddenly comes roaring back...

remember this zoom room.

Remember these faces.

Remember that there are people here who know something about the road you've traveled.

And remember the thing we have been trying to tell people from the very beginning:

You are more than the worst thing that has ever happened through you.

You still belong.

You still have something to give.

And you do not have to walk home alone.

•  When you feel the urge to isolate, what does that look like for you? Do you stay home, stop returning calls, sleep, keep busy, avoid certain people, or something else?

•  How do you tell the difference between healthy solitude and unhealthy isolation? What are the warning signs that you’ve crossed that line?

•  What is one small act of connection you could choose when you next feel yourself withdrawing? A phone call? A text? A meeting? Coffee with someone? Asking for help? Simply saying, “I’m having a hard day”?

•  What does isolation promise you? What feels safer or easier about withdrawing from other people? 

•  Who has been a “safe person” for you? What did that person do, or not do, that made it possible for you to let them into your story? 

•  Have you ever experienced the power of “me too”? What was it like to meet someone who understood your experience without requiring a long explanation?