When someone survives the aftermath of homicide, people expect devastation—and they’re not wrong. There’s anguish. Sleeplessness. Rage. Numbness. The kind of grief that changes your posture, your voice, your health. All of that is real.
But there’s another layer that almost no one acknowledges.
It’s quieter. Slower. It doesn’t come right away. It never makes up for the loss. But in the long shadow of trauma, some survivors discover surprising gifts—personal strengths they didn’t know they had. We don’t often speak of these shifts aloud because we’re afraid it will be misunderstood. We worry it sounds like we’re saying the murder was “meant to be,” or that something good came of it. That’s not what this is.
This is about emergence. About what happens after the initial shock gives way to stillness, and you begin to unfurl or rebuild on scorched ground.
Here are a few of those hidden strengths that homicide survivors have confided in me—or that I’ve come to recognize in myself:
1. A No-BS Filter
After a violent loss, we stop wasting time. Small talk can feel like an insult to our nervous system. Performative friendships? We see right through them. We just don’t have the bandwidth to entertain what isn’t real.
Survivors often say, “I know who my people are now.” Grief becomes a clarifier, a filter. We stop tolerating dishonesty, manipulation, and ego—because we’ve glimpsed how short and fragile life is.
2. Deepened Empathy—But for Fewer People
Here’s the paradox: Our empathy deepens, but becomes more selective. Many survivors develop an uncanny radar for suffering in others (humans and animals). We notice what others miss—the tremble in someone’s voice, the unspoken exhaustion in their eyes, the dog or cat who protectively curls their legs beneath their body in an uncertain world. (This particular feline was lying atop the new grave of her deceased human companion in a war zone.)
But we’re not infinite wells. We learn to protect our energy. We may draw closer to those in pain and simultaneously set firmer boundaries. This kind of empathy isn’t fluffy. It’s fierce. Focused. And hard-earned.
3. An Awakening to What’s Sacred
After we’ve lost someone to violence, it reorders our sense of what matters.
Nature, music, art, silence—these things suddenly feel essential. We might tear up in the grocery store when a certain song comes on. Or pause mid-walk just to feel the breeze. Or—if you’re like me—sleep in a tent in the garden on balmy summer nights because it’s the only place you can hear yourself think and feel closest to something beyond.
These aren’t “coping techniques.” They’re sacred acts. Tiny rebellions against a world that tries to keep us busy, numbed out, purchasing, competitive and performatively okay.
4. Intuition You Can’t Explain
Some survivors report having refined gut instincts that defy logic. A sense of being guided. Moments of profound knowing. Sometimes we call it intuition, sometimes grace, sometimes after-death communication. But the experience is often the same: “I knew something before I could name it.”
This doesn’t make life easier, but it gives many of us a sense of being connected—to our loved one, to the universe, to each other.
5. A Fierce Sense of Purpose
Eventually, some survivors reach a point where staying silent is no longer an option. We speak. We write. We advocate. Not because we’ve “healed” in the way people want us to—but because purpose gives grief a place to land.
It may not be a formal mission. Sometimes it’s as simple as raising a child with gentleness. Planting a garden. Volunteering. Creating a podcast. Confidently telling the truth when no one else will.
We didn’t choose this path. And we would undo our loss in a heartbeat if we could. But since that’s not possible, we learn to listen for what’s rising in the space and the silence. Often, what we find are capacities we didn’t know we carried.
They’re the secret gifts no one asks about—but they’re real. They deserve to be named.
“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.”
— Carl Jung
