Finding My Identity Again

For most people, the idea of an identity crisis brings to mind a teen trying to fit in or a young adult figuring out a first job. I never imagined that I would face an identity crisis in my 50s. In the years after losing my son, Marshal, to cancer, I found myself asking the most basic questions about who I am and who I am supposed to become.

My path to motherhood was not traditional. I adopted Marshal in 2013 when he was 13 years old. I was a single high school teacher, and I had always wanted to be a parent. Adoption was a long process for both of us. 

Marshal had lived through many foster care placements and 2 failed adoptions. When he moved in with me, we had to learn how to trust each other. He liked to say that we adopted one another, and that was exactly how it felt. After years of living alone, I finally had a family. I had a son.

A life transformed

Less than a year later, everything changed when Marshal was diagnosed with osteosarcoma. 

He had already lived through so much trauma, and now he had to learn about the world of hospitals, chemotherapy, and surgeries. During that first year, he even had an amputation of his right leg above the knee. The adjustment was enormous. Every part of our lives shifted, but we faced it together. For 4 years, we were a tiny team of 2, figuring things out day by day.

Marshal was an extraordinary young man. He was creative, resilient, and honest. He was unfiltered. He would say things that would catch me off guard, and then it would turn around and be an awesome, loving moment, opening doors to new ideas I hadn’t thought of. 

He drew on anything he could find and made art out of the parts of life. One day, he told an MRI technician that he would lie still inside the scanner only if he could draw on the pillow. The technician agreed. Marshal covered it with a huge drawing of a cat. I still have that pillow today. Art was his lifeline—it kept him grounded.

When Marshal died at age 17 in May of 2018, my world collapsed. He died only 4 hours after Mother’s Day. I had worked so hard to build our family. I had lived as a mother for 7 years, 4 of which were spent fighting cancer with him. 

When he died, I felt as if my identity disappeared in an instant. I remember thinking, Who am I now? Do people even know that I was a mother? Without him next to me, there was no visible proof of the most important part of my life.

Grief brought a loneliness unlike anything I had ever felt. I questioned everything. My purpose. My faith. The meaning of the years we had spent together.

I retired early from teaching, in part so that I could help care for my aging parents during the pandemic. All these transitions added to the sense that my identity was changing. My identity felt in limbo—shaky, wobbly, in transition to something I was not yet sure of.

Finding purpose during grief

Slowly, something began to shift. I found that talking about Marshal helped me reconnect with a part of myself that I thought I had lost. I began to see that I can still be his mother, even though he is no longer here. Parenting him just looks different now. I can carry his story. I can share his artwork. I can help others through grief. I find him and feel him around me when I do those things.

I volunteer with several hospitals. I join other bereaved parents in speaking to nurses and fellows about having important, difficult conversations with families and their children at the end of life. I mentor other parents who have lost a child, including other parents, like me, of an only child who was adopted. One of the things that brings me the most joy is meeting other grieving parents who are on similar paths, working side by side on how to work through our kids’ stories to help other people.

These relationships are powerful and healing. They remind me that my story—and Marshal’s story—have meaning.

Self-expression and helping others

After Marshal’s death, I also began writing again. I started sharing reflections on life after loss, identity, and how I continue to see threads connecting my present life with the years I had with Marshal. Writing has helped me understand that my identity did not disappear. It changed. It continues to change. I am learning to embrace that.

There are still hard days. The anniversaries affect me deeply. His birthday. The day he died. The anniversary of our adoption. On those days, I try to find meaningful things to do so that I stay away from darker thoughts.

I mentor many parents who feel this same challenge. Losing an only child creates a particular kind of loneliness.  When you lose your only child, you lose your identity in multiple layers. You lose the identity of the child, your identity as a parent, your shared identity in the relationship, and your future identity as a family. It is a difficult and very specific kind of loss.

Marshal's lasting legacy

Still, there are moments of light. Marshal continues to touch people. Friends, nurses, community members, and even strangers still reach out to tell me they have one of his small sculptures or drawings that he gave them. They tell me it sits on a dashboard, in a school office, or on a shelf. His life continues to move out into the world.

Over the last 2 or 3 years, I have started to feel myself reappear. I will never be the person I was before Marshal. But I am becoming someone new who carries the strength, love, and lessons he taught me. I am learning to value who I am becoming.

My identity today is shaped by many things. I am a mother. I am a teacher at heart. I am a volunteer and a mentor. I am the curator of Marshal’s story and artwork. I am me, Betsy. 

Marshal was the most resilient person I have ever known. His resilience has become part of mine. He gave me a sense of meaning that has continued even after his death. I am grateful for every moment I had with him. He remains a gift that continues to give.