"Even when tragedy has nothing to do with physical death, it still involves a form of death in the shattering of shalom, or harmony. " - To Be Told

sha·lom
/SHäˈlōm, SHə-/*

Shalom names a state of wholeness, harmony, and peace. It is the experience of being rightly placed within the world and rightly connected to others. Most of us first encounter shalom in childhood, often without knowing its name.

It is found in small, ordinary moments: playing in a pile of autumn leaves, being lifted onto a bathroom counter while your face is washed, falling asleep knowing you are safe. These moments of innocence and tranquility form our earliest sense of belonging and dignity.

For many of us, childhood holds the most uninterrupted experience of shalom we will ever know.

And then, for reasons beyond our choosing, shalom is shattered.

This shattering does not always involve physical death, but it does involve loss. Harmony breaks. Truth becomes distorted. Safety erodes. When shalom is broken, our capacity for vulnerability, transparency, and trust is damaged. At its core, this is an assault on human dignity.

In the wake of that rupture, something else often happens: we are renamed. We take on identities that do not belong to us—orphan, problem, difficult, unwanted, shameful, enemy. We are clothed in labels that do not fit, yet we carry them anyway. Loneliness and insecurity become part of the wardrobe we wear into the next chapters of our lives.

From that point forward, much of life becomes an attempt to return to shalom. We work to shed the ill-fitting names and defenses we acquired and to recover what was lost. This journey is not easy. It requires revisiting the settings, characters, and moments that first fractured us.

When undertaken with care and honesty, this work can give rise to empathy, forgiveness, and healing. Over time, it reveals that life is not random or meaningless, but coherent and purposeful. As we come to understand our story, we move closer to shalom again—and discover that our wounds, rightly tended, can become sources of care for others.

My Shalom Broken

Violation

mo·lest
/məˈlest/

verb
To assault or abuse a person sexually.

Age 6: A neighbor’s teenage son lured me into his room and began touching me. He warned that if I told anyone, he would claim I was lying and label me as something I was not. Fear and confusion followed.

In the years that followed, I developed patterns of hyper-masculinity in an attempt to distance myself from the name that had been forced on me. What remained underneath was fear, shame, and isolation. I became distrustful of unfamiliar men and intensely protective of young children.

Abandonment

a·ban·don
/əˈbandən/

verb
To cease to support or care for someone; to desert.

Age 7: One day my mother told me I was going to my father’s house for the weekend. That weekend became the remainder of my childhood.

The suddenness of the separation left me feeling unwanted and unanchored. From that point on, I learned to guard myself against deep attachment. The belief took hold that anyone could leave at any moment, and that safety depended on emotional self-protection.

Abuse

a·buse
/əˈbyo͞oz/

verb
Cruel or violent treatment of a person.

Ages 7–8: After moving in with my father, his girlfriend made it clear that I was not wanted. She accused me of stealing, hid items in my room, and verbally demeaned me whenever my father was away.