Feeling Deeply After Brain Injury

Several years ago I learned—along with so many others—of Beau Biden’s death at age 46 from brain cancer. Even now, the memory of that moment still stirs something deep in me. As a parent of a child who was nearing 45 at the time, my heart broke for Beau’s father, Joe Biden.

The headline felt unreal. I kept repeating it, trying to absorb what it meant—for Beau’s children, his wife, his father, and everyone who loved him. And then I thought of what it means for all parents who have lost a child. That kind of grief is universal, and yet so uniquely personal.

The next morning, I watched clips of Joe Biden speaking just weeks before Beau’s death. His pride in his son was palpable. As he spoke, tears streamed down my face. Joe had already lost his first wife and daughter decades earlier. Now, he had lost his eldest son. The weight of that sorrow was visible, and it echoed through every parent who has ever known such loss.

Years ago, when I was trained to facilitate children’s support groups, I learned that one of the deepest human wounds is the loss of a child. Children carry our dreams for the future. They are always becoming—always adding to the world. Their absence leaves a silence that words can’t fill.

Beau’s death stirred memories of my own losses: my mother, my father, my grandmother, and the children of dear friends. Each grief resurfaced, gently and painfully.

As a parent, I can only imagine the ache of losing a child. It defies the natural order. It shatters tradition. The dreams we hold for our children don’t die easily, even when they do. The grief is raw—howls, tears, silence. And when someone like Joe Biden grieves publicly, it reminds us that grief doesn’t discriminate. It finds us all.

As a survivor of traumatic brain injury, I feel things more deeply than I ever did before. A neuro-nurse once told my family that brain injury magnifies personality traits. I was sensitive before, but now my empathy runs so deep it sometimes overwhelms me. I cry more easily. I pause more often. I feel the sorrow of others as if it were my own.

Not every TBI survivor has this kind of access to emotion. For me, it’s a strange and sacred gift. I see Joe not as a public figure, not as a politician, but as a father—one who loved his son fiercely. One whose dreams for Beau were interrupted.

And I, too, am a parent who loves her children with that same fierce tenderness.

In this moment, I set politics aside. I honor the man who grieves. I honor the child who was loved. And I honor the blessing of my brain injury—for the depth of feeling it has given me, and the compassion it continues to grow.

Originally written in 2015 — Revisited in 2026