The Privilege I Carry

Love, Loss, and the Gifts I Didn’t Ask For

This is part two of a reflection I began yesterday. If you read that post, you know I have been reckoning with what it means to hold privilege and pain at the same time. Today I am sharing the full story, the one I have been most afraid to tell.

I was born into immense privilege. I didn’t earn it. It came through luck of the draw. My parents were educated and financially stable. I grew up in a world where security was a given.

I didn’t even notice that privilege until college. I remember looking around and realizing that most of my classmates had jobs to help pay for school. I had chosen my college based on fit, not finances. That was a luxury I hadn’t even noticed. At the nurturing college I attended, my days were filled with engaging classes and late-night laughter. I worked hard, but my life was padded with ease.

Two years after graduation, I met the man who would become my husband. Our relationship wasn’t simple, but it too carried the quiet weight of privilege. He was older, already professionally established. I moved from the support of my parents to the support of a partner. Around the same time, I received a fully funded graduate stipend to become a clinical psychologist. That privilege was earned, yes, but it was only possible because of the many unearned privileges that came before.

The privilege of early adulthood was steady and quiet. I never had to choose between purpose and survival. I didn’t live extravagantly, but I didn’t worry about making ends meet. When we began having children, I had the flexibility to choose if and how much I worked. That freedom was a gift I tried hard not to take for granted. But I’d be lying if I said I always succeeded.

By then, I understood my privilege better. I rooted myself in gratitude. But gratitude can get slippery when pain creeps in. With so much privilege, I felt guilty for struggling. How could I hurt, given all I had?

Then came the most sobering privilege of all. I had never experienced an unexpected and profound loss.

That changed in a single day, when a plane crash took the lives of my sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and their three young sons.

There is no way to describe that kind of devastation. What surprised me, and continues to surprise me, was the gratitude that emerged over time. The painful, hard-won clarity that love is what matters most. That connection is everything.

Even that realization felt like a kind of privilege. One I would never have chosen. But one that continues to shape my life and the lives of the people I love most.

There is another layer I haven’t written about until now.

After the crash, our family’s circumstances shifted. The loss brought with it a kind of financial stability we hadn’t anticipated. It came with unimaginable grief, guilt, and a weight of responsibility. We did not talk about it publicly. We still don’t talk about it easily.

But in private, my husband and I asked ourselves what we should do with this unearned resource. We agreed early on that we wouldn’t use it for things. We weren’t interested in things. What we wanted more than anything was time and connection.

So we made choices to slow down and re-center our lives. We had another child. We took work off its pedestal. We made room for the people we love.

Eventually, we bought a lake house to move to during the summers. And yes, I know a lake house is a thing, a big thing. But for us, it is a gathering place. Each summer, we move there as a family. I continue seeing patients remotely. Our older kids work summer jobs. Friends and family rotate through like camp. It is rare to have more than a day without a visitor.

This is what it looks like.

I wake early and go for a run because healing has no finish line. Or if it does, I haven’t found it. I come home for story time with my youngest. We curl up with a book while I drink coffee that tastes like melted ice cream. Friends drift in. We talk, laugh, and take in our surroundings. If I am not working, we spend the day swimming, paddleboarding, or floating side by side. The beauty stuns me. So does the privilege. Not just that I get to be in this place, but that I get to build my days around connection.

And of course, I would give it all back. Every last bit of it. But that is not an option.

So instead, I try to remember what and who made it possible and how it changed us.

Our privilege gave us the breathing room to raise another child. It allowed my husband to step back from a demanding, sometimes painful career. It gave me space to work in ways that align with my values.

I didn’t earn it. I didn’t ask for it. But it continues to shape our lives.

And with it has come the rarest kind of privilege: time. Time to be with the people I love. Time to carry both joy and grief. Time to live in the moment.

I know how lucky I am. I also know how deeply unlucky we have been. I don’t know how to make it make sense. Perhaps that is why I kept this part quiet. Because when privilege and joy are born from tragedy, it can feel shameful.

I hope you will accept this complicated reality.

Even with all my privilege, the kind I was born into and the kind I inherited through loss, I still hurt. I do not always make healthy choices. I am still becoming.

But I am learning:

Hurt and joy can exist side by side.
Privilege and grief can live in the same story.
I am learning to love better, not despite loss, but because of it.
And I am learning to feel pain without shame, even in the midst of privilege.