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There is no solid answer to the question of why people suffer. I cannot pretend to understand the motive or the pretense behind suffering. Even after studying theology I have no inkling as to why people must suffer. I can only tell my account of suffering in a hope to dispel the myth that perhaps it only comes in one shape or form. My most memorable experience with suffering was in a one bedroom sublet in the summer of 2006. This was two years before I would start a graduate program in religion at Yale and while I was finishing up a program in education at Boston College. I enrolled in the course Civil Rights History and Protest for the summer of 2006 and I was determined to make this educational experience worthwhile.

Summer

That summer was one of the thorniest of my life and there are days when I try to compare it to other challenging seasons when I realize that it was in a class by itself. There was a moment in that summer when physical pain met pure exhaustion head first. Born deaf and diagnosed with autism at age four, the past seven years had been an uphill battle for me as I parented my daughter Taylor. As a single parent, I had the task of completing double the work with half the manpower. During that summer, Taylor slept only three hours a night. I was attempting to get some sleep on the modest air mattress that served as our only piece of tangible furniture when Taylor fell backwards and our heads collided. It created the most excruciating pain. Taylor seemed unmoved by the incident because lack of empathy and sensory issues are two common traits of children with autism.

Pain

For me the pain was overwhelming and all I could do was cry. That was the bottom for me. I had nothing left. This was a culminating event to the other difficult experiences that plagued us that summer. I did not own a laptop at the time, which meant every other night I walked ten blocks to the computer lab while pushing Taylor in her red Mclaren stroller. My babysitter was mediocre at best, and I felt though Taylor was safe while I attended class, she was bored and there was a definite language barrier. As I lie there in pain, tears flowing, I wondered what I doing there, at Yale, in New Haven with no family and friends. At that moment I could not answer that question because I was suffering deeply. At this point the suffering was not just emotional but physical and I thought I would die right there, lying on that air mattress and no one would know that I was there. In fact, for many days and nights over the past seven years all I had been able to do was cry and ask the simple question, why must I suffer so much?

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