Let’s be honest: some chapters of life don’t just bruise you—they crush your ribs a little on the way through.
I’m in my sixties now, and I’ve learned that resilience isn’t a slogan or a poster on the wall. It’s what’s left after the tide pulls everything else away. If you’ve walked through the following storms and kept going—especially while raising kids, grandkids, or simply showing up for the people you love—then you’ve built something inside that’s hard to shake.
I won’t sugarcoat any of these. But I’ll tell you what each one can teach, and how you can carry the lesson forward without carrying the weight forever.
Let’s dive in.
1) Losing someone you love
Grief comes in waves—sometimes polite little ripples, sometimes breakers that knock the wind out of you while you’re just buying milk. The first time I lost someone close, I felt like the world should have stopped spinning out of respect. It didn’t. And that mismatch—between what we feel and what the world does—can make you feel invisible.
Here’s what I learned: love isn’t canceled by loss; it’s concentrated by it. Grief stretches the heart’s capacity. It forces you to hold two truths at once—pain and gratitude. When I take my grandkids to the park and catch myself remembering old Sunday walks with my own kids, I let both feelings sit next to each other. One doesn’t cancel the other.
Action to take? Ritualize remembrance. Write a letter, cook their favorite meal, plant something. Show your kids or grandkids how we honor people who are gone without freezing our lives in place. That’s resilience with roots.
2) Being betrayed by someone you trusted
Nothing quite rearranges your inside furniture like betrayal. A friend breaks confidence. A partner cheats. A colleague throws you under the bus. You start questioning your judgment: “How did I miss the signs?”
Betrayal can harden you or it can hone you. The difference is whether you turn suspicious of everyone or discerning about a few. I learned to separate forgiveness from reunion. You can forgive to drop the anchor of bitterness without dragging the betrayer back onto the boat.
With kids, narrate boundaries out loud. “Trust is built with small promises kept.” Let them see you protect your dignity without throwing grenades. It’s a masterclass in emotional self-defense.
3) Facing illness—yours or someone else’s
A serious diagnosis—yours, your partner’s, your child’s—shrinks the world to waiting rooms and calendars. I spent months once as a steady presence for someone I loved. It was slogging, sacred work. The toughest part wasn’t fear; it was the helplessness that creeps in at 2 a.m.
Illness teaches the difference between control and influence. You can’t always choose outcomes, but you can choose tone: humor, patience, gratitude for small mercies. Teach kids to ask, “What helps right now?” Make it practical: a glass of water, a blanket, a quiet story. Resilience grows when we practice calm competence in chaos.
And if you’re the one in the hospital gown, remember: receiving help is its own kind of strength. Let others love you by showing up.
4) Starting over after a financial blow
I still remember the day a job disappeared—poof—and the numbers in my bank account started to look like a bad joke. Money stress is a very specific ache. It wakes you up early and puts you to bed late.
Here’s what I discovered: scarcity clarifies. It tells you what matters. We sold things, cut the nonessentials, and got creative. I picked up work I’d never considered before and, later, writing became a new chapter I didn’t expect to love.
Show the young ones how to do “what now?” math instead of “why me?” math. Bring them into age-appropriate budget talks. Let them see you trade pride for progress. Resilience is resourcefulness over time.
5) Failing publicly
Have you ever had an idea flop in a room full of people whose opinions you care about? I have. It stings. Your cheeks burn, your chest tightens, and your inner critic starts narrating the end of your career—or, at least, your day.
But here’s the thing: embarrassment is a strong teacher with a short class. If you can get through the initial heat without sprinting for the exits, you can ask better questions: What did I misread? What will I try differently? If your kids see you name a failure and then calmly try again, they’re learning courage by osmosis.
A phrase that helps: “Next time, I’ll…” Fill in the blank with something specific. Then do it. Quiet, repeated rewrites—that’s resilience in motion.
6) The slow grind of loneliness
Nobody prepares you for the loneliness that can sneak in even when your house is full. Sometimes it’s moving to a new city. Sometimes it’s divorce, widowhood, or the empty nest. Sometimes it’s scrolling through other people’s highlight reels and wondering why your life looks more like the blooper reel.
Loneliness is not a character flaw; it’s a signal. It asks for connection, not punishment. Start small. I built a practice I call the “one more”: one more call, one more coffee, one more walk with a neighbor. Don’t wait for the perfect tribe—start with one sturdy thread.
Teach kids that friendships are grown, not downloaded. Show them how to initiate: “Want to ride bikes?” “Want to draw together?” On a site like ArtFul parent, you know this—shared projects glue people together. Crafts, cooking, planting—hands busy, hearts open.
7) Parenting through a crisis you can’t immediately fix
There’s a particular heartbreak when your child is hurting and you cannot wave a wand. Learning difficulties. Anxiety. A friendship breakup that guts them. As a father and now a grandfather, I’ve sat on the edge of beds at midnight, listening to small voices try to carry big feelings.
Resilience here looks like staying when you can’t solve. It’s learning to regulate yourself so you can co-regulate them. I use simple scripts: “I’m here. I’m listening. We will figure next steps.” We breathe together. We break problems into snack-sized pieces. If a professional is needed, we get one. No shame, just tools.
I’ve mentioned this before but the goal isn’t to remove every obstacle; it’s to prepare them to climb. When they see you steady in the storm, their nervous system borrows your calm.
8) Being humbled by your own mistakes
Owning up—really owning up—can feel like swallowing a barbed wire fence. Maybe you lost your temper. Maybe you forgot a promise. Maybe you made a call that cost someone else time or trust.
A resilient life requires repair. Not just “I’m sorry,” but “I’m sorry, and here’s what I’m going to do to make this right.” When my kids were young, I’d sit eye level after I bungled it and say, “Dad got that wrong. Next time I’ll pause before reacting. Can I try again?” The look of relief on their faces said it all.
Modeling repair doesn’t shrink you in your children’s eyes; it grows you. They learn that mistakes are survivable and fixable. That’s priceless.
9) Caring for aging parents while raising kids (the squeeze)
They call it the sandwich generation, but most days it feels like a panini press. I’ve had seasons of booking pediatric appointments in the morning and geriatric ones in the afternoon. Everyone needs something, and so do you.
What kept me sane? Boundaries and rituals. Boundaries say, “Yes, I’ll help—but not at the cost of my health.” Rituals say, “We still have a life.” Movie nights that don’t get canceled. Sunday walks, even if shorter. A standing “how’s your heart?” check-in with your partner.
Teach the kids that caring for family is honorable work—but not martyrdom. Let them contribute in small ways: reading to Grandma, fetching a blanket, drawing a card. Service builds empathy, and empathy is a close cousin of resilience.
10) Letting go of a dream—and finding a new one
Some dreams don’t survive contact with reality. A career path stalls. A relationship you thought was “it” isn’t. An empty nest makes you realize your identity hitched itself to being needed.
Here’s the quiet truth: endings are beginnings in plain clothes. After I retired from my office job, I felt a strange mix of relief and drift. Then writing—something I’d flirted with for years—stepped forward. Starting as a beginner in my later years was humbling and exhilarating.
If your kids are watching, narrate the pivot. “This didn’t work out. I’m sad—and I’m curious about what could be next.” Curiosity is WD-40 for stuck lives. It loosens the hinge so the door can swing open again.
A few words for the tough days
When the day runs long and your patience runs short, remember this: you’ve already done hard things. You didn’t just survive; you harvested wisdom. You know how to ask for help. You know how to repair. You know how to rest, then try again.
And if you’re in the middle of one of these experiences right now, let this be a hand on your shoulder: keep going. Not perfectly—persistently.
“The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.”
Bending isn’t weakness. It’s strategy.
