The Unexamined Life: Loss
A philosophical understanding of rebuilding Identity in the Aftermath of What's Gone
Welcome!
Today, I delve into the nature of Loss. I've chosen to approach this seemingly abstract concept from a deeply personal perspective, hoping to uncover surprising insights and communicate a fuller spectrum of my thoughts on the matter.
The chapters are as follows:
Chapter 1 - The Poem
Chapter 2 - The Aftermath of Loss
Chapter 3 - A Linguistic and Ontological Deconstruction of Loss
Chapter 4 - What Remains When Something is Lost?
Chapter 5 - The Collective Echo of Loss
Chapter 6 - A Thought Experiment - The Desert of Uncertainty
Chapter 7 - To Smile, Even in Loss
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Thank you for taking the time to click on this and start reading, as it was a blast to write. Although I must admit, I shed a tear or two in doing so, as it does touch on some emotional topics.
Enjoy.
CHAPTER 1
The Poem
"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly."
— Richard Bach
Loss is often viewed through the narrow lens of bereavement, the definitive end of a life. But what if we broaden our gaze? What if loss encompasses the erosion of dignity, the theft of perceived freedom, the shattering of a chosen path, or even the disintegration of one's own sense of self? As humans, our capacity to experience loss extends far beyond the tangible. We are beings woven from aspirations, identities, and the delicate threads of control. When these threads fray or snap, the resulting void forces us into an uncomfortable, yet often necessary, act of examination.
A number of years ago, before I truly began to examine my life, I existed in a state of perpetual motion, driven by a singular goal: to get into university, having never truly attended high school. My days were a blur of work and fleeting rest. I juggled three jobs, often working through the night. My routine was a punishing cycle: a 7 AM breakfast, a train ride to Edinburgh for an early morning class (grabbing a precious 40-50 minutes of sleep on the journey), then two more shifts lasting until midnight. My third job, a night shift, would then carry me through until 7 AM, when I’d start the cycle again. Weekends offered no reprieve, just longer work hours.
It was a grueling existence, marked by exhaustion, anger, and a pervasive sense of hopelessness for the future. Yet, amidst this relentless grind, a strange seed took root: an unexpected urge to write poetry. It was a revelation, entirely separate from the weariness, almost illogical in its emergence.
My life was already at a breaking point, a taut string vibrating with stress. In an attempt to cope, or perhaps to simply silence the noise, I sought escape. My nights could be easily summarised with the word, self-sabotage, desperately trying to outrun the looming realities and to numb the spiraling sadness and sense of purposelessness within.
Then, life dealt a series of blows that would ultimately force me to confront the unexamined corners of my existence.
My grandad, a man I deeply loved and admired began to rapidly decline, lost in a fog of confusion. It was something I will never forget—witnessing a once bright and charismatic person experience loss of his baring in the world. An avid photographer, gardener and lover of trumpet music, reduced to confused ramblings and empty stares. Around that same time, my gran, his primary caregiver, was suddenly rushed into hospital for an operation. I stepped in to care for him, a temporary reprieve from my relentless work schedule, but also a stark confrontation with the fragility of life.
Just as I settled into this new, solemn routine, a message arrived from a woman I'd only seen a couple of times just months prior, "I need to tell you something." After a long, quiet conversation over coffee, the world tilted on its axis. I learned I was going to be a Dad.
This news wasn't planned; it was a complete, life-altering surprise. I forgot this girl even existed—She was just another fleeting soul I passed by on another dark and blurry night. Every aspiration I held, every carefully imagined future imploded in that moment. The path I thought I was meticulously carving, the one leading away from the very life I was living, seemed to vanish. This shocking revelation was the true catalyst for my massive tailspin, the moment I began to violently unravel.
A week later, my gran returned home, well enough to resume caring for my grandad. The practical reality of my finances immediately hit. My pause from my usual working schedule meant bills were piling up. So, I returned to my ridiculous hours, but the internal chaos was now deafening.
Instead of facing the crushing weight of responsibility and grief, I dove headfirst into the longest bender I’d ever known. For over a month, my days and nights blurred into a desperate, numbing haze of escapism. It was a period of profound loss: loss of control, loss of self-respect, loss of any semblance of a man wanting to be better, a loss of any meaningful future.
Then, I staggered back into mine in the early hours of the morning, stinking of smoke and whisky, another message appeared on my phone. This time, from my mother: "I have to tell you something." My grandfather had passed away through the night.
My immediate, deeply flawed reaction was to run. I looked at my class timetable, convinced that if I just immersed myself in busyness, I wouldn't have to feel. An hour later, I was four pints deep in a pub. Class never happened. The night descended into a frantic attempt to outrun grief. With a friend, I danced, I drank, I sought oblivion in every haunting temptation the night could find to offer me.
At the end of that chaotic evening, as we tried to get into my apartment, a confrontation erupted with a group of strangers. Everything that followed felt like an extension of the self-inflicted chaos I was living. I remember the dizzying blows, the world spinning, the raw taste of blood. I hit the ground, and as the kicks rained down on me, a strange, almost detached clarity settled in. It didn't seem to hurt. I just closed my eyes, the constant impacts against my head, stomach, and ribs, combined with the frantic spinning of the world, making me feel like I was about to fall off the edge of existence itself. Eventually, my friend intervened, drawing their attention, and I staggered back to my feet, covered in blood, dirt, and tarmac.
The next morning, aching and bruised, I caught my reflection in the train window on my way to class. My face was a mosaic of the night's brutality: black nose, baggy eyes, a burst lip, teeth marks on my cheek, a torn ear, bloodshot, yellow eyes, bloodied knuckles. Sitting alone in that carriage full of daily commuters, something cracked open. For the first time in over fifteen years, I cried.
But amidst the tears, a maddening urge surfaced. It wasn’t a desire for escape, but a desperate need to do something, just anything. I pulled out my phone, opened my notes app, and began to write.
And this is what I wrote:
An old photograph,
A simple piece of paper
With the power to make you cry or laugh.
An old photograph:
Happy days and sad,
Sunrises and sunsets,
Over half the world worth capturing in snaps—
Be it fields, lochs, misty mountains,
Or even the far-off ice caps.
Yet, the moments captured of the ones we love,
No maps needed to get there,
These are the moments we cherish most.
An old photograph—
Moments pass, yet with us they remain so.
"A simple piece of paper?" you say. "Oh, no."
Made to be more.
But by whom, you might ask?
That's simple...
An old photographer.
A simple man, some might say at first, but we know this not to be true.
With the power to make us laugh or cry, smile and sigh,
You would always be there in your own caring way,
No matter how hard, and try.
Like the pictures you take,
You too are many things.
The friend, the brother, the husband, the grandfather, and last but not least, the dad.
All of us having you by our sides, we are nothing shy of glad.
But what about the love of your life,
Who, with you, walked through turmoil and strife?
Beginning in a moment a long time ago,
At a dance, little was it known that together, old, you would grow.
You would do anything for her, no matter how far.
Our old photographer.
They say reach for the moon and you might catch a star;
Where you have gone, that is now what you are.
Tending to your roses and tomatoes once more,
But now amidst the angels, a new place to explore.
Welcomed by golden trumpets, as they close the door behind you.
But before they do, you look back
With a wee smile, a wee wave, and with a tip of your bonnet, you say, "Ah best go."
So for now, old chap,
Cheerio.CHAPTER 2
The Aftermath of Loss
That period of my life was defined by loss in so many forms: the crushing physical and emotional exhaustion, the devastating passing of my grandfather, the abrupt shattering of my perceived future, and the profound loss of self through denial and reckless abandon. It was a culmination of external events and internal turmoil that stripped away every illusion I held about control and stability.
Yet, in that broken state, something unexpected emerged. The raw, unfiltered experience of profound loss, particularly that moment of physical and emotional rock bottom on the train, became the unlikely catalyst for some kind of creation. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't even that good. I could barely spell and I had never formally been taught how to write. But the poem wasn't just a lament for my grandfather; it was a desperate clawing back towards something real, a testament to the human spirit's ability to find meaning and even beauty in the wreckage. This was the moment I began my slow, painful, but ultimately transformative, journey into something hopefully better. It showed me that even in the deepest pits of despair, there lies a seed of potential for growth, for art, and for a truer understanding of ourselves.
CHAPTER 3
A Linguistic and Ontological Deconstruction of Loss
Moving from the deeply personal to the universally conceptual, I want to turn to the very scaffolding of "loss" itself: the word and its elusive substance. "Loss" is a peculiar thing in our lexicon, a shape-shifter that assumes different guises depending on its companion. Consider the common phrases: "loss of a loved one", "loss of dignity", "loss of passion", "loss of self", "loss of freedom". These phrases resonate with a shared understanding of deprivation, a missing piece.
But why do we rarely hear of the "loss of an enemy" or the "loss of pain"? What does this linguistic pattern reveal about our inherent human wiring? It suggests that for something to be truly at a loss, it must first have been had, and, crucially, that its absence must evoke a negative, or at least a complex, emotional or practical void. We do not mourn the departure of that which caused us suffering, nor do we lament the absence of an antagonist, for their presence was not inherently "good" or desirable in our experience. This simple observation tells us volumes about our fundamental human condition: we define ourselves by what we gain, hold, and, most poignantly, by what we miss. The very structure of our language guides us, often unconsciously, toward valuing presence over absence, and positive states over negative ones.
Traditional understandings of loss often hinge on the concept of deprivation of something valued. Whether it's a person, a possession, a physical ability, or a future possibility, the common thread is the removal of something perceived as beneficial or integral. However, this definition, while seemingly robust, begins to unravel under closer philosophical scrutiny. If loss is merely the absence of something beneficial, then every unmet desire, every road not taken, every moment of peace interrupted, could technically be labelled a "loss." This trivializes the profound impact of genuine loss and fails to capture its unique, often transformative, power. We must tear down this overly simplistic understanding and lean towards a newer meaning: that loss, in its most profound sense, is not merely an ending, but a necessary void. It's the space created, often painfully, within us and around us, which can – if truly examined – become the very ground upon which we build something new.
CHAPTER 4
What Remains When Something is Lost?
If something is "lost," does that imply an absolute "nothing" where something once was? But can there ever truly be "nothing" when the very act of realizing the absence immediately transforms it into something? If we perceive its emptiness, then that emptiness itself becomes a presence in our consciousness. So, what is this "something"? This "something" is rarely a simple void; it is often the enduring echo of what was. It is not merely the remnants of what you cling to, though that is certainly part of it. Nor is it simply a placeholder waiting to be replaced. Instead, this "something" is the very pain, disorientation, and confusion that now occupy the space where the lost entity once resided. When we speak of the "loss of a loved one", the immediate "something" that fills that space is grief – a complex tapestry of sorrow, memory, and longing. It's the ache of a missing presence, a phantom limb of the heart.
And what of "loss of dignity"? Where does it go, down the back of a cosmic couch? No, the dignity itself doesn't vanish into thin air. Rather, its absence is powerfully felt as shame, humiliation, or a profound sense of diminishment. This "something" is the internal experience of being stripped bare, of feeling exposed or devalued where once there was a sense of inherent worth. It is a reorientation of your perceived standing in the world, a dis-ease with your own reflection.
Therefore, something that is "lost" doesn't necessarily leave entirely. We might use the word "loss" to describe a feeling of being disorientated or "missing" something because, for the heartbroken, it truly feels like being in a maze, as if a vital piece of the world has been stolen or hopelessly misplaced. The original entity may be gone from direct experience, but its absence reshapes our reality. The pain subsides not because the lost thing is "replaced" in a like-for-like manner, but because we learn to integrate its absence into our understanding of the world, to reconfigure our internal landscape around the new topography of what remains. Loss, then, is not the deletion of an item, but the re-inscription of a relationship with absence itself. It is the perpetual reminder of what was, and by extension, a constant re-evaluation of what is.
CHAPTER 5
The Collective Echo of Loss
Having delved into the individual experience of loss and its very nature, let us now explore this phenomenon further, venturing beyond the purely personal to the collective. Consider the recent death of a prominent global figure, such as Pope Francis. News channels reported on the immense sense of loss felt by millions worldwide. Millions of people tuned into televised vigils, and hundreds of thousands more gathered in public squares. But these individuals, for the most part, did not know him in any personal capacity. They had never shared a meal with him, never heard his private laughter, never felt his direct embrace. Why, then, was "loss" felt so widely and deeply?
This prompts a critical question: Is loss primarily a measure of someone or something's contribution to the world, or solely their contribution to you? If it were purely a measure of personal contribution, then, logically, hearing of a parent's passing should evoke the hardest loss, as they are the undeniable reason for one's existence. Yet, for some, the loss of a parent might not be the most devastating, particularly if the relationship was fraught with pain or hatred. This paradoxical truth suggests that the traditional framework of "loss = deprivation of something personally valued" is incomplete.
Perhaps the "loss" felt by millions for a public figure speaks to the loss of a symbol, a guiding light, a collective aspiration. Their passing represents the vanishing of a shared ideal, a communal sense of stability, or the end of an era. The individual may not have known the Pope, but they knew what he represented to their world, their faith, or their moral compass. The void felt is not just a personal one, but a fissure in the collective narrative, a disruption of a shared sense of order or inspiration. This expands our understanding of loss beyond the purely individual and into the realm of shared human experience and collective meaning-making.
CHAPTER 6
A Thought Experiment - The Desert of Uncertainty
To truly grasp the transformative potential within loss, let us journey to a place stripped bare: a vast, featureless desert. Imagine yourself in this colossal expanse, so immense that every direction offers nothing but an unbroken, flat horizon. You are utterly disoriented, unaware of your position within this boundless terrain. Your only tool, your only perceived hope, is a map of this very desert. Yet, the map itself is a blank piece of paper, for how does one chart an endless, undifferentiated flatland? The legend, however, holds a crucial clue: an 'X' marks the spot where you can obtain what is necessary to escape this arid prison.
Suddenly, a capricious gust of wind snatches the map from your hand, carrying it away into the featureless distance until it vanishes from sight. Are you now truly at a loss for having lost this map?
From a traditional perspective, yes. You've lost your guide, your single piece of information, your perceived means of escape. The tangible 'thing' is gone.
But consider this: was the map, in its blankness, ever truly a guide? It merely promised an 'X', an abstract solution within an infinite space. In its presence, you were still lost, still paralyzed by uncertainty. Its 'loss' merely removes a symbolic crutch, a potential deferral of action.
Is it not, then, as purposeful, or perhaps even more purposeful, to simply begin to dig in any given location? To choose a direction, to commit to an action, even without a clear path? The 'loss' of the map, in this context, forces a radical shift from reliance on an external, potentially illusory, guide to an internal act of agency. It shatters the illusion of a predetermined solution and compels you to create your own path. The void left by the map's absence becomes a canvas for initiative, a stark reminder that true escape, true progress, often begins not with a perfect plan, but with the courage to simply begin.
CHAPTER 7
To Smile, Even in Loss
We began by acknowledging that loss is far more than mere absence; it is a profound fracturing, a stripping away of the familiar, be it a loved one, a sense of dignity, or a chosen future. Our linguistic habits reveal our deep-seated aversion to loss, valuing what we hold over what we release. Yet, as we've explored through the collective grieving for a public figure, and indeed, through the paradox of the blank map in the infinite desert, loss isn't solely a measure of what was, but what could be. It is not always a void of pure negativity, but often an empty space for growth.
My own journey through the maelstrom of exhaustion, grief, unexpected fatherhood, and self-destruction was a crucible of profound loss. I was at a loss of hope, control, a perceived future, and for a time, I even lost a vital part of myself. The external events, painful as they were, were merely symptoms of a deeper, unexamined life that was desperate to break through. The climax of that period, battered and bruised on a train, staring at a shattered reflection, was not just a moment of personal defeat; it was the precise point where the sheer weight of everything I had 'lost' forced a radical shift.
It was in that raw, exposed void that an inexplicable urge to create emerged. The poem, born from some depth of despair, in one of those odd moments in life where you can't explain what came over you, was not a surrender, but a desperate act of reclaiming agency and finding meaning amidst the wreckage. It was the first, painful, yet profound step towards truly examining the life I was living.
I went on to read this poem in front of friends and loved ones at his funeral. My hope was to bring them comfort in the same way it brought me.
This ugly moment on the train led to a beautiful one as I watched from the lectern in the old kirk, as my devastated mother and gran cracked a smile, and even chuckled together as I read it allowed.
It gave us the ability to smile, even in loss.
And this, perhaps, is the true essence of loss: it is not merely the end of something, but often the necessary, painful clearing of the ground. It is the demolition of old structures, the shattering of false comforts, creating the space for a new foundation to be laid. It reminds us that to build anew, we must sometimes first endure the profound, transformative ache of truly losing. And in that aching void, what we choose to do next , even if in desperation or dread, more often than not provides us some sense of meaning to the loss, and by extension, an inkling of what kind of person you truly are.
Yours in thoughtful inquiry,
Matthew.
Wow. Just unbelievable.
Bloody hell, Matthew. This went deeper than I expected! not in a showy way, just in that quiet, gut-level kind of truth way.
I wasn’t prepared for the train, the fight, the poem, all of it, but the way you held it together without rushing to fix or explain anything… that was great. Not in a tidy bow so much, but in the mess where life actually happens. And that bit about your mum and gran laughing -🫶.
You’ve got something rare here. Thanks for letting us read it. Glad to meet you and have you share with us!