Beyond Despair: A Decade of Life Lessons After Losing Valentine

3-min. read

It was ten years ago, in November 2013. The Holiday Season was promising.

Thanksgiving was just around the corner, and we had also planned an exciting trip with our daughters to Europe to spend Christmas with the family.

Life took a different turn. 

In the afternoon of November 23rd, my cell phone rang, and a somber voice from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police delivered devastating news.

“Sir, I regret to inform you that your daughter died in a car accident,” said the man.

Valentine was only 19.

A student at UBC in Vancouver, she was one of the happiest people on earth, in love, and had no shortage of exciting ideas for her future.

Her dreams shattered on the black-iced Sea-to-Sky Highway leading to Whistler. The car lost control, hit a pickup truck head-on, and Valentine, in a passenger seat, died on the scene.

To say our world collapsed would be an understatement. Life would be forever different for Valentine’s sister, my wife, me, and everyone who knew and loved her.

A long journey began – from disbelief and despair to acute anger. I never accepted Valentine’s death. It never made sense. How could it?

Yet, solace emerged as I progressed, and invaluable life lessons unfolded. Here are a few I’d like to share today:

1 – Inspired by people who really care

I’m so grateful for our close friends, family, colleagues, and strangers’ support when we lost Valentine. Examples abound, but one that stood out for me at work was with my then-manager, Renée:

Renée put her strong sense of empathy to great use, reorganizing our team’s efforts, taking a significant load off my shoulders, and giving me much-needed breathing room. She kept checking how I was doing for months and carefully gave me back more extensive assignments. It made a world of difference in my recovery at work.

It inspired me to pay specific attention to what was on people’s minds. What is just annoying for some might be an absolute disaster for others. But the bottom line is that we all experience trauma. The best leaders understand it and adjust things to help people overcome the challenges they are going through.

2 – A dreaded question leading to deep conversations

Since Valentine left us, there has been one dreaded question in any social encounter: “Do you have children”? How could I balance honesty without causing discomfort and risking an awkward situation?

In many business situations, I’ve only shared briefly about Valentine’s sister and moved on quickly to the other person’s areas of interest.

Yet, over time, as I progressed gauging others, I found that if they were open to sharing their own traumatic experiences, talking about my “Orphan Dad” situation took a co-therapeutic dimension. All in all, these conversations have proved to be mutually beneficial.

3 – A quest for meaning that moved mountains

Adopting Valentine’s mantra, “Do what you want to do and inspire others to do the same,” transformed my anger into positive energy

Running, a shared passion, became a channel to honor her memory. And when I decided to race a full marathon on each of the seven continents, the motivation she brought dwarfed every moment of doubt. 

Whenever I faced a significant issue during training or a race, I’d think hard about Valentine. How could I think about giving up or even complaining when I had the privilege to be there and run for her?

The #irunforvalentine journey encompassing seven continents and over forty marathons became a testament to the power of meaning. It took my – and others’ – motivation to levels I could not imagine before.

I’m just scratching the surface here, but I’ve realized that sharing my experience about Valentine’s loss helps others navigate their trauma.

Becoming a stronger listener, developing empathy, and finding deeper meaning in achievements have been unexpected outcomes.

And if the void of Valentine’s loss remains unbearable, keeping her present in my thoughts and actions has made me a better person.

I thank you for that, Valentine.

With Love, Dad.

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