Are You Okay? Michael's Story of Love, Loss, and Continuing to Become

There are moments when a person's life becomes so heavy that even the simplest question can take on extraordinary meaning.

For Michael LaMura, one of those questions was just three words:

"Are you okay?"

They were spoken by Angel, his partner, during a night when Michael was experiencing profound emotional pain.

To understand why those words matter so much to him, we must first understand something about the life he had lived, the people he had loved, and the losses he continues to carry.

Michael is a father who has experienced the deaths of three children.

He spoke with me about Christopher, who died in infancy; his daughter, who died at 23; and his son Dakota, who died at 20.

He also spoke about the death of his brother Robbie, who was 36.

Behind those facts are individual human beings, each with a life, a personality, and a place in Michael's heart.

Christopher was only six months old when he died. Michael remembers him as a small child who brought people together during his brief life.

His daughter and Dakota were young adults with their own lives and relationships with their father.

Robbie was more than Michael's brother. Michael remembers him as a man with a good heart who cared for his family and whose home had become a gathering place for relatives.

When Robbie died, Michael felt that something had changed not only within him but throughout the family.

During our conversation, Michael returned to a concern that I believe deserves to be heard.

He does not want the people he loved to be remembered only through addiction, their struggles, or the circumstances of their deaths.

He wants them remembered as people who were loved.

Their lives were more than the events that ended them.

And his love for them did not end when they died.

Michael's struggles did not begin with the loss of his children.

He shared that he experienced sexual abuse as a child and that substance use became a longstanding part of his life.

He spoke candidly about addiction, including the ways he sought relief from difficult feelings and memories.

For many years, he continued working and fulfilling responsibilities while living with substance use.

But functioning in everyday life did not mean that he was free from pain.

During our interview, Michael reflected on how addiction had affected his relationships, his choices, and his understanding of himself.

He did not attempt to present his past as a story in which every decision was someone else's responsibility.

Nor did he suggest that simply becoming sober erased the consequences of what he had experienced.

His account was more complicated — and more human — than that.

He spoke about the difficulty of facing memories and emotions after the initial stages of recovery.

He also emphasized the importance of seeking professional help when needed, acknowledging that he himself had not received the therapy he now believes could have helped him.

His experience is his own. Recovery takes different forms for different people, and no one should have to navigate addiction or overwhelming emotional pain without support.

As Michael described the accumulation of grief, painful memories, and emotional exhaustion, he recalled reaching a point when he questioned whether he wanted to continue living.

He spoke about a night when those feelings became particularly intense.

Angel was there.

As Michael remembers it, she turned toward him and asked:

"Mike, are you okay?"

It was not an elaborate speech.

She did not offer him a complete explanation for his suffering or a promise that everything would suddenly become better.

She noticed him.

She asked a question.

Michael recalls that the idea of writing came to him during that moment. He felt compelled to begin putting his experiences into words.

Writing became an important way for him to express feelings and memories that had been difficult to carry.

Michael does not describe his grief as something that simply disappeared afterward.

But he remembers that question as deeply significant.

During our conversation, he reflected on how a simple greeting, a few sincere words, or a moment of understanding may matter to someone who is struggling.

We cannot always know what another person is carrying.

And we cannot assume that a single conversation will resolve a crisis.

But we can notice people.

We can ask how they are.

We can listen to their answers.

And when someone is in danger or needs more support than we can provide ourselves, we can help them connect with appropriate professional assistance.

At another point in our interview, Michael described himself as broken and not fixed.

His words stayed with me.

Later, I returned to them.

I wanted him to know that the terrible things he had experienced did not have to define the entirety of who he was.

We spoke about suffering, identity, faith, and the dignity that every human being possesses.

When Michael suggested that I was at a different level from him, I told him that we were equals.

I wanted him to understand that our professional backgrounds, accomplishments, and personal circumstances did not make one of us more human or more worthy than the other.

I told him that he was loved and that he was enough.

Michael repeated those words as we talked.

I cannot claim to know precisely what that exchange meant to him afterward.

What I can say is that it was an important moment in our conversation.

Michael was not merely recounting experiences for a book.

He was a person speaking with another person.

And I was listening.

There is another side of Michael's life that I do not want readers to miss.

He is 55 years old and works as a lock tender on the Kissimmee River in Florida, helping manage the waterway and the passage of boats.

He enjoys the quiet of his work and the wildlife around him.

He has a dog named Bean, a Maltese who has become an important companion.

When I asked about Bean, Michael spoke with affection and humor.

He also told me about his other animals, including parakeets and a bearded dragon.

He described his interest in the wildlife around his home and his unsuccessful attempts, so far, to befriend a crow.

We laughed about our shared affection for animals. I told him about my own dog, Evie, who accompanies me on the walks that helped inspire Welcome to Your Becoming.

These were not distractions from Michael's story.

They were part of it.

Michael also spoke about Angel, his grandchildren, music, reading, writing, faith, and the pleasure he finds in ordinary moments.

When I asked whether happiness and suffering could exist together, he said that they often do in his life.

Some days are difficult.

Other moments bring genuine joy.

His grief remains present, but so do the people, animals, activities, and experiences he loves.

Michael is not only a man who has suffered.

He is a man who is still living.

Michael has begun sharing his experiences through writing and other forms of storytelling.

Part of his motivation is to keep the memory of his loved ones alive.

Another part is his hope that someone experiencing grief, addiction, or loneliness might recognize something of their own life in his words.

He wants people to know that they are not alone and that they should not give up on seeking support or the possibility of a different future.

During our conversation, he spoke about the importance of understanding another person's pain without dismissing it because it appears small from the outside.

A difficulty that seems minor to one person may feel overwhelming to someone else.

Michael has learned to take that seriously.

He wants to offer others some of the understanding he has needed himself.

That is part of why he agreed to speak with me.

Near the end of our interview, I asked Michael whether our conversation had been different from what he expected.

He told me that he had enjoyed speaking with someone in a way that felt more like an ordinary human conversation than a conventional podcast interview.

We thanked each other.

And we spoke of a new friendship.

I came away from our conversation thinking about Angel's question.

I also thought about my own grandmother, whom we called Meemaw.

As she was dying, I sat beside her and repeated words I hoped would bring comfort:

"It's okay."

Michael and I had arrived at those memories from different places in our lives.

But both experiences brought us to the importance of presence and the words we offer another person.

Sometimes we cannot change what has happened.

Sometimes we cannot take away another person's grief.

Sometimes we do not have the answers.

But we can ask.

We can listen.

We can remain present.

And we can remember that the person sitting across from us is so much more than the hardest thing that has ever happened to them.

Michael's story is not finished.

Neither is mine.

Neither is yours.