It is still just too hard to believe. How it does not feel true nor does it slide off the tongue or into conversation as easily as it has with Mom. How can it be another birthday without you stateside?

Somehow it seems suddenly fitting that Grief Awareness Month ends on your day. As an ad man and Mad Man, I think you might like this. Kind of like the punctuation on the end of the whole world missing their people! But really a reminder for those who are still learning to live in a world where the language of loss is an invitation to know and remember our people. Of course we know that not a day goes by where we forget to remember.

Heading into the city as I write this. Bean by my side. Alex at the wheel. We made a reservation at The Palm. The one near your old office in the 50s. I remember when you taught me about an expense account there. And how to eat a lobster from tail to the tips of each claw large and small. The east side location closed now. I walk by from time to time, my face pressed against the widow, because that is where your rendering lives. Still. Wish we could take it with us. Maybe we can talk them into a redo at this location? I am going to ask today! Not sure I can eat a whole lunchtime lobster in your honor, but maybe we will all go in and share. And the frizzled onion rings. Yes, yes. Of course.

When I think of all of the conversations I wish we could have had, one that keeps bubbling to the top is your own father loss. You didn’t talk about it often. I know that I am named for Grandpa Bernard. Now though, in doing this work, I know how very hard it must have been to grow up without a dad from such a young age. I often wonder where you learned the be a Dad yourself? So warm, and fun and loving. Gentle homework help. Patience for days. Teaching us to ice skate and catch a fish. Holmdel Park adventures and Maine summers. Camp visits. Those days you came and taught us about your career at school, handing out Aim Toothpaste samples, the first ever gel on the planet. And how you’d crush us all with the truth about how ads make most toys look way better on tv. I loved learning about the agency, all before computers. The art department and its tissue paper layouts and markers in every shade of the imagination. Cartwheeling down the long halls. Showing off our artwork in the lobby at the annual Thanksgiving show. Later, being part of kitchen table brainstorms.

I have inherited your love of a good hook, headline and clever campaign. We all share those, “Dad would have loved this one” moments. And who the hell was in this meeting, and how did that one make it to air!

My friend Cindy is a medium. She gave me some of the most comforting thoughts about your life on the other side. The first time we did a reading, she told me you were golfing. She also shared very early on in your memory loss, that parts that remember are already across the veil. That while it looked to us that something was lost, you had one foot in the after. My hope is that you have season tickets to all of our lives. That you are telling your deliciously slow, steady and meaning-filled stories to pals new and old. That you are finally spending some well-deserved quality time with your Dad. Maybe it’s a big old golf outing with Bob and his Dad too. Perfect for the long weekend ahead. But then again, is it always a long weekend where you are? I imagine you and Mom became fast friends again. Letting bygones be just that.

When I talked to Quinn yesterday, she said she had one of those moments where for a beautiful and brief moment, she forgot you were gone. Sometimes my car heads in the direction of visiting with you. My heart forever on auto-pilot. I have to think you are up on all the scoop. It only seems fair. The weddings. First birthday. The book. New NYC addresses.

One of my favorite stories to tell, is your work on the first breast cancer awareness campaign. Those very first drugs tied into the pink ribbon. You were an unsung creative in what it has grown into today. But, I will never forget or quit talking about it.

I have to say, the final act was genius. Almost so clever and stealth we missed it. I talked about it just yesterday. Were you smiling? Every time you took our photo you told the same old Dad joke. As you fiddled with the Cannon aperture and focus (us not patiently waiting) you’d finally call out... 1, 2.....7. Trying to make us laugh and smile amidst the lengthy pause. It didn’t mean much that day, as we gathered by your bedside.

Last day. Last kisses. Last breath.

It was in the middle of that very night, that I woke up from sleep and sat up like a shot. Dad, you left us on January 27. Yup, 127. Genius. You’d be perfectly horrified to know I now have it tattooed on my wrist. An award winning exit by anyones measure. It also happens to be Holocaust Awareness Day. Your checkbook filled with your generous donations. Thinking about you being buried near Elie Weisel seems bittersweet and just right.

You are missed everywhere we go. But, most especially Lang’s Deli. I pop in for a Diet Dr. Brown’s creme when I want to hang with you for a bit. We tried to return to “The French” on your birthday last year and the food was just not as good with you. Will order you desert today. And blow out the candle. 1, 2….7.

Still and always celebrating you, Dad. ILYMTTWWW.

(For those who don’t know, that is Neil Leiner’s famous sign off…I love You More Than The Whole Wide World. - feel free to spread it far and wide!)

PS. If you feel called to become a paid subscriber today, do it to honor Neil. It affords someone a scholarship in my grief support circles. That would make him proud. Me too.

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Tomorrow evening 9/1 we will host a free info session 6pm est for anyone interested in learning more about the Creative Grief Tending retreat taking place at the famed Omega Institute October 18-22.

Join us:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/omega-creative-grief-tending-retreat-free-info-session-tickets-1997482273250?aff=oddtdtcreator

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I was leaving work at the newish and quite chic Leiner/Danes Communications offices on West 39th street, off to catch the subway uptown. Back then, I was living on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Led by a curious nature, I was taking a different route home each day, exploring the city by wandering down this block and that. And let’s face it, led by the way too many Nancy Drew mysteries and crime shows I’d consumed, knowing that you should switch up your daily route so you wouldn’t be followed. Or have your pocketbook snatched. (That’s Jersey Girl for purse or handbag by the way!) This was all before cell phones, and about a year after my mother died. This day, I ended up at the Vanderbilt entrance off of 42nd Street. There was a vey long line forming from the door running 40 deep to the west.

I asked one of the folks waiting what the line was for, and she told me it was a memorial to Mrs. Kennedy. Not sure what that might be, but called to join the others, I waited. It wrapped inside the main concourse. A tribute to her 1975 campaign to block the demolition of the historic building. The foyer now shines with a plaque and explanation. This day, it was only a lucite pedestal and the kind of book that looked to be thousands of blank pages. If you took dozens of dictionaries and stacked them high, this leather bound memorial book would come close in size.

You see, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, known as Jackie O to the many of us who admired and tried to replicate her iconic style, had died on May 19. She passed away in her sleep at her famous lower Fifth Avenue apartment, surrounded by family. She had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma late the year before. I remember, because it was just after Mom died. Suddenly. And with no warning.

The day Mrs. Kennedy died was the first time I had this thought. When someone fabulous goes to heaven, would Mom be there to greet them and gain a new friend. You see, Mom was an incredible realtor and I have quite the imagination when it comes to the afterlife. When a celebrity dies, they go straight to Mom for their cloud in the best neighborhood. Maybe it overlooks a beautiful body of water. Or the best view of the people they love and miss.

The line slowly inched forward. One by one, each of us waited our turn, to write in the book. When I came upon the enormous white page, I decided I would leave a message to John and Caroline. As the children of someone so beloved, I thanked them for sharing their mother with the world. My wish for them was some time to just be her kids. Kids who had lost a Mom. I did add a PS about how my mother was inspired to wear the same big sunnies and even a pillbox hat and boxy shift at her 60s wedding to my Dad. In that moment I realized we were all just kids who lost parents. No matter how famous to the rest of the world.

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As I walked on into the station with its domed Tiffany blue ceiling, I looked up to take in the stars and the heavens above and wished like hell that it was true. Imagine Mom playing cards with Jackie? Taking in a bit of bridge and canasta. Each time I am in Grand Central, I think of her. I am so very grateful that she saved that glorious building. That she inspired Mom’s personal style and in turn my own.

It often feels strange to grieve a public figure we’ve never met. Psychologists call this a parasocial relationship. We feel we know them and have meaningful memories with them, but it’s one sided. When we lose them, we can feel grief stricken, and also tap into some of our own past grief. I think today’s passing of Dolly Parton brought this all up for me. Just this week, I was glad to learn that Empathy.com was honoring grief awareness month in just that space with an art exhibition made by the memories of those we miss. In an email exchange with their publicity person, I was able to share this story. Such serendipity to have a memorial within this area dedicated to memorializing and honoring Mrs. Kennedy. It had me thinking of the book, and where it resides now. Got to wondering if it might be at the Kennedy Library. If John and Caroline got to read all of the stunning remarks. Reminded me of all the beautiful letters folks sent us about Mom. It is such a lovely thing to do if someone loses a loved one. Write them of a time they may not know about. It helped me to know my mother as even more than I imagined. And they also became keepsakes and guides for the future. And for my kids.

So this afternoon when my phone lit up with messages that Dolly Parton had died, I thought Ellen would once again be called to duty. I remember seeing 9-5 in the movies with her. Had to look up the release date to try and place us in time and turns out it was December 17, 1980. I was just 15, and Mom was a single working woman in a time where that was rare and that film and soundtrack became our anthem! Did you know that Dolly sat on set and “played” her acrylics strumming the beat while drumming up that incredible theme song? My youngest was born on 12.17 and that new wink made my heart smile.

Dolly, we will always love you. Jackie too.

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My mother Ellen died in 1993. She was here one day, and gone the next. She took the day off and went to Sandy Hook, a beautiful public beach in central southern New Jersey, and suffered a deadly brain aneurysm in her sun chair. Alone.

It has taken me years to appreciate that she did in fact die in what was her favorite place on earth. Mom was one with the sun, sand and sea. She seemed to sport a year-round tan, always a glowy olive that deepened from May through September, but never faded away. Even in the depths of winter. She was an incredible copy writer, I often think how she may have written this ending. A bag of her once-a-summer beloved Santa Rosa plums. The last sound, the crash and swirl of the ocean.

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We arranged for her organs to be donated (she made this wish known to us when my Grandma, her Mom, died of emphysema) picked the clothes she would wear and the casket we had to choose at the funeral home. We collected her make up case, so that the funeral director could be sure she looked like herself. In the fog of decision making, we decided she did not need hose, heels or a bra wherever she was going, and had it been up to us, would have put her in one of her signature Polo crew neck cotton sweaters, cropped Audrey Hepburn ankle skimming jeans and Sam & Libby ballet flats.

Neither my sister nor myself thought we could speak at the funeral, a eulogy I am grief stricken and guilt ridden to have not shared that day. I have since written it, and hope like hell she knows that I would have if I could have.

If you have been reading along here (and thank you to those who are here for the ride and your generous paid subscriptions, donations that fund scholarships) you know that they found early-stage liver cancer when her organs were reviewed for donation. They went on to cancer research. I am always reminded how knowing this and being able to examine them, gave us what I consider a gift today.

At different stages and ages along this three plus decades long search for a why, I never quite find the answers, but always new realizations. How even all of these years later, you can write the eulogy and read it aloud to everyone on your 50^th birthday to honor the years she had here on earth. Which I did!

I would have said yes. I would have holed up in my childhood bedroom, legs up the rainbow bedecked walls and notebook on my lap. The writing would have come so easily. There were so many stories about my Mom that could have been shared.

Sure, we sat in the Rabbi’s office and told him the words we wished for him to relay and convey. The words I didn’t think I could brave on the heels of losing her so suddenly. Here. And gone. Like some kind of fairy in a shit’s gone way wrong, Disney film. It was too much, I heard from many. Everyone convinced me it was ok. But the gravity of never being able to go back and do it, never crossed my mind.

Would I be sorry later? Well, now I know the answer is most certainly and undeniably, yes. It breaks me to this moment.

I would have stood bravely, tears and words mingling like the salty brine of her beloved ocean. I would tell them all about Ellen Jane. My hero. My mentor. My Jersey girl. My very own movie star and Mom. How she always held your hand, even as a grown up. In the city. In the mall. How she would pulse three little pumps into your hand. Secret code for, ”I love you”.

I would tell everyone how when she got divorced, she and her best friend got their real estate license and job shared. I believe they literally invented job share. One worked. One stayed with us kids. They made a village. And a support system. And made us proud. The local paper touted them as The Dynamic Duo.

She went on to fundraise for those with no homes. A women’s center for those fleeing from abuse. Big fundraisers at The Count Basie Theater with The Four Seasons headlining.

She loved finding the right homes for people. One of her super powers. She was a local legend. Her “famous” open-house lemonade and Malomar trays always a hit.

Her prowess at Scrabble was historic. Her vocabulary was next level gorgeous and inspiring. I once used “facetious” in a second-grade paper and was called out on it. Mom went to school and did her Norma Rae version of “don’t fuck with my girl” and facetious always and forever will remind me never to be small.

I would have regaled them with camp memories. How she taught Danna and I Wico songs as wee ones. About The Old Pine. We were the most seasoned Wico Girls upon our arrival as tiny alum.

She loved so deeply and fiercely. She was witty and bright and strong. She was hurt when life disappointed her. And told us all about the friendship infractions. She went to therapy and shared her wisdom and why she loved it. She was a badass Scorpio who adored the beach, and boardwalk, her August plums, the Windmill, Carvel, and her family. And her laugh could cure ailing souls.

I would remind them all that she loved a bargain and taught us how to discount shop like it was an Olympic sport. She was always the best dressed everywhere we went.

When she was proud of you, it was all there was. I am still trying to learn this and lean into her lessons at the ripe old age of sixty.

She was the most effortlessly beautiful person I had ever known. Kids from school gathered round our kitchen table to get her advice. Boys to get a peek. She was the cool mom for sure. She was bravely progressive. And she was ours.

I would promise to care for Danna forever and always.

I would rewrite that day in 1993 in a hundred different ways. But alas.

If you could use some support on your journey or writing a eulogy, meet me here. Or meet me and my brilliant colleague and movement therapist, Kelsey Sawyer at the famed Omega Institute for a grief retreat this October! We will explore Creative Grief Tending techniques in the beauty and height of leaf peeping season in upstate NY, just an hour from the city.

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This is not because we loved more. Not because our grief was bigger than anyone else’s—but because loss often arrives with an inheritance tax no one talks about. One day you are someone’s daughter. The next you are expected to know where all the important paperwork is and who needs to be called. How to keep her favorite Thanksgiving feeling like Thanksgiving. Which recipes need to be written down before they disappear with the only person who knew them by heart? Poof!

It feels like one minute you are a the first born and the next you are in charge. There is no official changing of the guard and certainly no formal training—just a silent promotion you never signed up for. It felt urgent for me to become a bridge between what was and what is when our center fell out. It was silent, but duty called.

I remember looking around after my mother died, and waiting for an adult to walk into the room and tell me what to do. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize, they were not coming. It was Mom I was waiting for, she would know how to help, and she was gone.

About a year ago, I worked with an incredible therapist. A true, old-school New York analyst. When we did some work together, she reminded me that 27 may have looked very much like an adult back when, but where were all the grown-ups? The story I had told myself for years was, it was 1993, nobody said grief or grieving. She reminded me that she was VERY much in practice back then and shame on all of the adults (her words) around us for not suggesting that we may need to talk to someone. The most secure attachment in your life and most magical of mothers was here and gone overnight with no warning, and you were tasked with picking an outfit for her to be buried in.

I recall standing in front of her closet with my little sister and debating, hose or no hose? Mom was the queen of the control top and nobody needs to be squeezed into those for the rest of creation. How about a bra? Nope, we did not think she’d need that either. We also packed her make up back for the funeral home. She was very particular about product and we made sure it was all there.

Mom had a brain aneurysm and was kept on life support until we could get to the hospital. We were told she was brain dead upon arrival. If you were my brilliant mother and brain dead, you were in fact gone from this earthly plane. They waited to see if we were in agreement that her organs would be donated. Nobody offered sliding into those hospital sheets and spending a last hug and moments with her. My sister crossed the room when she noticed the hospital drape falling and exposing her breast. I don’t recall if I kissed her. If I said I love you. I must have, We always did.

Organs?

Well, I know that after her Mom, Grandma Bosch, died of emphysema she felt strongly about helping find a cure, and let us know organ donation was her wish.

Um, sure. Everything but her eyes. I am not sure why, but it seemed wherever she was off to, she would need those. They were the most her thing about her. When she looked at you, you were loved.

And we left.

The point here is that, nobody asks if you're ready. The title simply lands on your shoulders. Lucky me to have be “in it” with my sister. And also, feeling like it was my new job to mother, protect and care for her suddenly felt urgent. She was newly out of college, had landed a major gig as the comptroller of a hotel management firm and we both felt compelled to quickly go back to work. To normal. As if there is ever a going back or a normal after a loss.

One of grief’s cruelest little tricks is taking the person you love and suddenly changing your job description. I was so eager to hold on to what was left I became the keeper of memories. The keeper of birthdays and anniversaries and family lore. I took her appointment book and wrote down all the dates. I also felt like the keeper of everyone else’s heartbreak, never truly making space for my own until years later. (Motherless motherhood side swiped me!)

Soon people around you start calling you strong as though strength were a personality trait instead of a survival strategy. The more I was praised for being strong and strong like her, the more it became my m.o.

So here is what I know from the eldest daughters I meet.

They. Are. Tired.

They are making sure Dad gets to his appointments. They have her phone and are answering texts. They’re cleaning out closets no one else can bear to enter. Fluffing up the family house and putting it up for sale. They are remembering who gets Grandma’s china and making sure someone buys candles for the yahrzeit or flowers for the funeral.

They are still mothering while motherless. Still daughtering, even without a parent. What I wish someone had told me that I tell others? You are allowed to put the box down. You are allowed to order takeout instead of recreating the quintessential Sunday supper. Let someone help you make the decisions when you can’t or don’t know what comes next.

Being the eldest daughter does not require becoming emotionally bulletproof. It simply means you loved someone whose absence tries to rearrange the family.

If this is you, I hope you hear this from someone who has walked the road too. You don’t have to earn your rest, care or help. You were never meant to be taking charge overnight.

Remember it is your job to be the little girl who lost her person. Who deserves to be the grieving daughter again, if only for an afternoon or a holiday. Notice who and what feel like nurturing around you. Lean in. Let someone carry you.

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PS. Please share this with an eldest daughter.

I left for the largest worldwide festival of creativity on the heels of the Knicks win. What I have known firsthand, as someone who has held groups for grief support and writing circles, is that what we are witnessing right now, is a hunger for connection. Ai be damned. Or perhaps, thanks for showing us all how much more we need each other and human connection now, because of it?

There are fewer and fewer places where strangers gather around a shared experience in our modern day moments. We don’t all watch the same tv shows at the same time anymore. We don’t even read the same “hot off the press” newspapers. The water cooler and cultural connective tissue has changed. Watching the Knicks cut through all the bad news noise reminded me just how good it can feel to be connected. Suddenly everyone was having the same conversation. The same celebration. Sports fan or newly minted reveler.

We used to live in the kind of communities where we knew the ups and downs and needs of our neighbors and family. We lived close to one another and had the “village” it took to raise a family, raise the roof or even raise support when it was needed.

I think people underestimate how lonely modern life has become. I know I have. Sure, we have been told by the surgeon general that what we are experiencing is a loneliness pandemic. But, what have we learned from it? How have we changed?

When I was walking down my city block high-fiving strangers, I realized that what felt like winning was really that sense of belonging. Making eye contact with neighbors. Talking to people on the train. All of us nodding and knowing we were carrying the same hope. The kind that can only exist in community. With real people.

The emotion I felt, seemed to be contagious. We were literally catching the “feels” from one another. We have lived through the Covid pandemic, political division, financial uncertainty all while the din of social media was riding rough shod in the background.

For a few hours, we put down our “me” and became a “we”. We mattered. We belonged. We could see one another. I see this in my groups. It’s the counter culture that comes calling when the pendulum swings all the way to machines. It screams, hey, come hang out in the real world. With real ones who get it.

I spent much of my time in Cannes at The Wellness Oasis stage. It’s a transformative community and event platform dedicated to helping people with their mental, physical, spiritual and emotional well-being. So while folks were “over there” talking about Ai, I was over here.

‍I heard Oprah share one of the most moving and inspired talks on this stage. I popped on my recording app for part of it so I could share it with you. Give it a listen and tell me what you think. This was one of the only places where mental well-being was shared at Cannes Lions. It was the greatest collective exhale.

I have been looking at life through grief colored lenses for over three decades now. And it was no different in Cannes. I proudly wore my Chief Grief Officer ™ baseball cap all around the festival. (Thanks to my kiddos for the coolest ever gift!) Folks asked “what do you do” and “can I take a photo of it”? With every explanation and conversation I learn about the loved ones they missed. I joked that I met every griever there. One creator said, “you are a grief-fluencer”. I laughed and asked, is that one f or two? Truth is, I have been having these conversations in quiet corners for years. I could make no sense of why it was happening in hushed tones.

What I know for sure, as Ms. O says, is that grief is profoundly isolating. It makes us feel separate and other from the rest of the world. Life seems to carry on around us per usual, while we are finding our sea legs in the swirl of the great unknown. I know that we can do better when we know better. From the C-suites to the nose-bleed bleacher seats let’s talk about it.

Grief is as much a part of life as every celebration. It will touch us all, if it has not already. If Cannes taught me anything, it is that when we open the door for conversations about grief, we allow folks to show up as their truest selves. Not the brave face or mask we put on to make others comfortable.

As I shared on Instagram after game four, what we were feeling was what sociologist Emilè Durkheim coined in 1912, Collective Effervescence. That feeling we get when we are wrapped around a shared experience where we experience something larger than ourselves.

Our sense of safety and predictability can be lost in grief. To gain that back we need to borrow calm, hope and understanding from one another. Knowing we don’t have to carry our grief alone is the gift we can give one another.

Look, I am one small voice in a big old world filled with experts I admire. Many whom I have trained under and worked alongside or under their wing. But, when I show up in spaces like Cannes Lions, and offer folks the opportunity to connect, I know the conversation belongs right there on the world stage.

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Meet me at Omega in October.

Mom, it has been 33 years this week since you are gone. I did the bad grief math. That is 396 months and over 1,721 weeks. Seems fitting we were heading to a beach! This is one you may never have touched. Not sure you have ever been to Cannes. It's for Al's work and a bit early for his bday. I am tagging along and hope to bring some grief talk to the party. It's a slew of ad and marketing folks. Awards. And bold faced influencers and creatives. It's called Cannes Lions. I am trying to get grief on the stage. Let's see how it goes.

This week was a big one for The Memory Circle. Book meetings. An NPR interview and very viral Knicks post I made after leaning into the electricity of game 4.

You had to be watching from the best seats in the house!  I loved how Brunson and KAT did their part in bringing grief to the world. The people they were missing got the ultimate post game shout outs and skyward prayers and thanks. Grief and hoops. Go figure.

Dad, this is Father's Day number 2 within you. Arggg. I got you a card. I am trying that on to see how it feels to write you on Sunday.  Maybe I will also order a to-go in your name! I love when they call out Ellen and Neil for my BEC or iced coffee. Livin’ on the rituals.

Mom all of the women on the recent Motherless Daughter's retreat were all 50+.  I got to work alongside Hope Edelman again. Insane, right? Thank goodness her book showed up the year after you died. She was the only one talking about what I was feeling.

Anyhoo. I was telling a story about how I call you Grandma Ellen to the kids. Danna does too. It seemed like something everyone might do to remember their loved ones, even if they were never a grandma or grampsy.  A whole group of the women promised to give this a try with their kids. Really warmed my heart.

Danna and I saw a stunning interactive play with Mariska Hargitay, Every Brilliant Thing. So moving. Clever. Interactive and heart searing. Only three more weeks. I am telling everyone to go.

We got tickets to see Rosie and her new one woman show. You would both love it.

Do you two hang out?  Are you with all the pets? Ever see Rocco and Fluffy? How about Calico and Sadie? Bow Bow and Jackson? I have to assume pets mingle with their people.

How is Dad doing as the new guy? I heard he was golfing. That is what my medium friend Cindy said. She said the illness is gone on the other side. I have to believe this for you both.

I thought many they might be skipping the usual Father’s Day hub bub here. But no. Already saw windows announcing “Cool Dad”. And cards. So this year it’s in French, Papa. Seems fitting to be at an ad convention. Your head would spin at the state of the ad biz Dad. Maybe all the brilliant dead folks are actually running AI. That is how I might like to imagine it.

Ok, setting up our little French apartment for the week. A day off before the big start. Love you both. Miss you. Keep sending the signs. It’s one of those harder than usually weeks. Mostly it's because you were you. And that makes me luckier than most. Au revoir. For now.

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Tune in, and let me know what you think…

See you at the parade.

x, B

Here is the link to listen: https://www.npr.org/2026/06/15/nx-s1-5858864/the-knicks-run-sparked-a-collective-effervescence-in-new-york-grief-specialist-says

Dad lived with us for a bit, between selling his home in Connecticut and finding something new. He was commuting with my husband to his consulting gig in Tribeca and grew to like the commute, the community and of course living close to us. Grampsy took great pride in meeting my eldest, Emma, at the bus after school when he was off and I was working. They were two peas in a pod. Puzzle pals, woodsy walks to Gedney park, his special French Toast on breakfast for dinner days and epic homework help.

We found his condo in a sweet enclave behind the local shopping center. Bonus, it was walking distance to his newfound favorite deli, Lange’s. His version of Cheers. Where Mr. Lange and gang knew his order, always had his Post and Daily News ready to meet his Dr. Brown’s Diet Creme. Dad would schmooze with the neighbors. He knew everyone at the grocery store and Chase. And they knew him and his warm mid-western ways right back. I can hear him thanking folks and see his outstretched arm holding the door for strangers like friends.

His corner condo was tax reduced for seniors and exempt from a portion of the school tax. In filling out this paperwork, it had also asked if he was a veteran. Check. He served and worked in the pharmacy.

A few weeks after moving in, he received a visit from the local Brownie troop and an invitation to walk in the Memorial Day parade. Hilary and Bill Clinton lead the local bands and baseball teams among the many veterans. He proudly wore his veterans cap, but never walked. Never feeling like he had served in the same way others had on the front lines, he told me once. There were many bedtime stories he told us about being by the bedside of those at Walter Reed, in D.C.

He met my Mom in Washington, she was a student at American University. It was a fix up. He always told me how pretty and smart he thought she was when they met.

Oh how I wish I could ask him so many more questions about his days in the service. And of meeting Mom. I want to be reminded of the names of his buddies. His army tag on a ball chain lives in my night table drawer. We found the letter from town inviting him to be part of the parade when we cleaned out his apartment. This morning when I woke, I thought about all who have served to keep us free. My pride in my father’s service and all who serve and have served.

After ten years of living alongside his memory loss, it was too late to ask more about his stories. We never know when it will be the last.

Keeping his memory alive is my legacy and his.

May his memory be for a blessing.

This morning, I am taking a page from my own playbook. (Well, no, “the book” is not out yet, but I promise it’s coming!) If I have learned anything in the bad grief math of 33 mother’s days without you, it’s this…writing makes me feel better. Writing to you and filling you in on every little thing and big thing, makes me feel even better. I tell clients to do this all the time, and so I am taking my own damn advice this morning.

Yes, it’s Mother’s Day. Again. The card aisles fill sooner than they used to, it’s a marketing machine, Mom. The hype and pump for gifts and brunches begin the moment we have put the last one to bed. I can imagine the beautiful copy you would be writing for the Steinbach’s Mother’s Day ads. Maybe if you were still their copy writer they’d still be selling away in Red Bank.

Town has changed so much. But Surray Luggage is still there. Why did we go there so often? We laughed last week thinking about it. It must have been where you got your pretty leather gloves and Aigner purse. Oh, that buttery burgundy with the signature “A” clasp. Danna and I were talking about town trying to remember our favorite shops from growing up. Remember The Garret, where you would drop us off to make beaded necklaces? Neither of us can remember the name of the place with the preppy chinos in a loud rainbow of choices. You know, the one right there on the corner. I know you’d know.

Yesterday I hosted the annual Unmothered Mother’s Day with Amy. It has always felt like taking back a little bit of the power that this weekend wields. Lots of people say, I know she wouldn’t want you to be sad. But I call bullshit on that, I think you actually would be a bit chuffed that we are bereft. Nobody did momming better than you. After 29 years at it myself, I actually know this is the fucking truth. (I curse just like you taught me!)

Danna is heading out on vacation today with her crew. She just took off. A family wedding on the other side. I have been back and forth to Emma and Lauren’s. She is feeling really good post-surgery. That is her story to write you about, but I have to think you know and were there in the operating room cheering them on and keeping it all smooth and easy. I know she would have called you and told you herself. All the whys and feelings she had, and knowing the just right words you would have had to share.

I got a text from Quinny this morning around 7 my time. Early MD wishes. I thought she woke up at the crack of dawn, but she was just getting home! Yes, that is 4am LA time. Lots of cooking gigs and training certification study with today off, and she was headed to a party last night into the wee hours. Ah, to be young!

I often wonder what your texts would look like and if we would still have as many calls these days? My guess is that you’d forever be a calling-us-multiple-times-a-day-Mom. And a tracking-us-all-with-the-location-settings kind of Grandma.

Oh, holy shit. I totally buried the headline. WE ARE IN PEOPLE MAGAZINE!

I know, right?

A wonderful client, who knows the Mom of a writer who works there, told them about my annual Mother’s Day Card Swap. And there we are Mom. My favorite photo of us. Have to say, I am not so happy that there are not more. I savor this one. Look at me looking at you like that.

I keep meeting an important Ellen everywhere I go, as you know. I can’t help but think you continue to put them in my path. From the producer at WGN to the incredible sage at the yoga studio. I feel them, hear them, seek them and I am soothed by them. Ellen was my favorite character in a book we read at book club last month, even if not my favorite selection.

This month we are reading You Could Make This Place Beautiful, a stunning divorce memoir by Maggie Smith. Can you believe women are talking about it like this? I read it before it even came out in 2023. There are passages that remind me of how you and Dad divorced all those years ago when I was just ten. You helped so many women understand this as a choice. I am pretty certain you also invented Conscious Uncoupling before it had a name or the fame of Gwyneth Paltrow behind it and was splash on social media.

Some days, like today, I ponder all of those paths you blazed. Taking your real estate license test and sharing floor time and commissions with Joanie. A business card with both of you on one. The Red Bank Register heralding you as the Dynamic Duo. I think you invented job share.

Looking back at then through my sixty year old lens (progressives firmly in place), I see it all as a map. Tacking points. The ones that led from there to here with new insights. You were a badass pioneer, Mom. I bet you were scared. Did you have a plan or was it like leaping off the edge of the great unknown?

Going to hop in the shower and head back to Emma. It’s been nice being able to care for her in a way I have not in many years. Gave her a Grandma Ellen bath, because she can’t yet get the scars wet. We have called that washcloth-at-the-sink quick clean up, a Grandma Ellen bath since they were born. What do you think would be your Grandma name?

It all reminds me how I am and always will be your baby. Will always and forever need you. And why today hurts and hollers in my bones. I know I have you baked in well, but damn if it does not hurt to not have you here on this side.

Oh yes, Aunt Trudy is still working. But more, still taking care of us all. In and out of the tax department. And yes, we played The Great Big Game Show for Danna’s birthday. You would have loved! So much to share since last we chatted.

One thing will always be true. I do it all to make you proud. And deep down, even without you saying so, I know that you are and will be cheering. Miss you like a mother fucker. And more. Talk soon.

It’s layered, right?

It’s all a celebration of getting from there to here. Another trip around the sun. But, nobody to see you as a son. Or help you when you trip. It’s an absence of them as they saw you. The memories made and those no longer. It’s also that bad math of getting older, when they do not. (I need Siri and my sister for the numbers, but they do add up.)

I remember writing about it for the first time. Noticing when my birthday, became my birth day. Yes, somewhere along the way, birthday stopped being one word. It split open. What used to feel like something wrapped tight, bright and expected, now had a space in it. A seam.

Birth. Day.

Less about balloons and gifts, and more about the mother who brought me into the world and was now missing from it. People still say it the same way, like nothing has changed. Happy Birthday. But, I hear it differently now. The origin story humming underneath it all.

There is the version the world keeps selling all candles, messages and the insistence that you look great for your age. (That is a whole other essay for another day). Then there is the version I live inside. The one where the day bends backward instead of forward. Where we don’t just mark another year, but trace the beginning. I think about her body, her breath, the fact of her being there at all. It’s no longer about getting older. (Though, it’s amazing that I get to.) It’s about being born. Birthed. And who is missing from that scene.

What I miss isn’t only her voice on the phone or the ritual of being remembered in that particular way. It’s the feeling of being held in my own story. She was the witness to my arrival. The one who could say, I remember. I recall some of the stories she told me about the day I was born. She actually called my grandma crying and told her she did not need to come. I was greenish olive and covered toes to crown with hair. With a cap H. A mop of matted charcoal on top and waves of fuzz covering every inch of my five pound body. We used to joke that she should have called in a team to wax and cut right there and then. When I hit my tweens, she did allow me get dipped a vat of wax. I have a tiny pic from a stack with my Grandma’s writing, it says, eskimo pie. Likely not very pc then or now, but I did look like I came from another people.

Today is my sister Danna’s birthday. She was born peach and perfect. Creamy skin and light, like the blonde of our family. Long and leggy too. Such a beautiful baby. She came along when I was about five. I always say she is the smart one. The nice one. The good one. (Though she did steal the family car once, drove into the city to Studio 54 and mom died never knowing.) She learned sign language at the local collage when she was in 4th grade so she could babysit for a little boy on our block who was deaf. There are birds that seem to sing and swirl around her when she walks by, like my very own Disney princess. And she deserves this. I could go on and do. My brother in law used to tease us about being the mutual admiration society. More than sisters. More than friends. I have always felt like her birth day, was my greatest gift.

When we were in elementary school, there was a sweet tradition on May Day. Each class had a pretty paper cone filled to over flowing with farm flowers. Each was decked out and decorated by the sixth graders, the eldest in the school. They were tied with a sweet yarn ribbon to every classroom doorknob. Each year I would ask for them at the end of the day, to bring home to her. I always thought that being born on May Day really suited her.

Today on my sister’s birthday I feel Mom’s absence in a different register. The way it moves through me. I find myself reaching for what I remember. How she marked the day. I have a vivid memory of my sister in a white dress in our New Jersey back yard with a gold paper crown. Was it her birthday, or dress up for my near Halloween parties?

I am not sure how to honor my sister the way our mother and father did. But trying has its own ache. I am not her. Or him. It has a different texture in my hands. Still, there is something steady in the effort. Something that says, they may be gone, but the way they loved us isn’t. I have been practicing without our Mom for many decades now. Dad made up for it with the gift ideas we would whisper for him to bestow.

So I show up. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. I have had to apologize for pinching her more times than I would like to admit. I am sorry. Still sorry. On the day my sister was born, our folks created a bond they never could have imagined. One where we would need one another in ways unthinkable.

We used to sit cheek to cheek in the mirror looking into those freckle doused faces and say, “can you believe it?” There was something we could not grasp in the magic of it all. Yes, to even believe we get to be sisters is still a marvel and a mystery.

So for today, I try to find the words. Her Birth Day is always mine She not only made me a big sister, she made me a better person for knowing her. For being on the planet. And while there will always be a space between birth and day, I have to believe it’s us there in the middle.

Hugging and holding tight. Closing the gap with all the love in the whole, wide, world.

I adore you, Danna Jill.

PS. This might be the place for the photo montage, but photos are not her thing. So just imagine the prettiest girl in the room. And the kindest. And that is her.

JOIN US: FOR AN UNMOTHERED MOTHER’S DAY

For anyone who is having a hard or heavy time with mother’s day for any reason or season, please join me and my dear friend Amy Owen for an Unmothered Mother’s Day hour on May 9th at 11 am est, for some community, gentle movement and journaling to meet the day. Virtual, free and we hope just what you needed it to be.

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/an-unmothered-mothers-day-tickets-1988418048911?aff=oddtdtcreator

Let me start by saying thank you for giving me the permission I needed to write about the night that snapped me in two. While my Mom said you never start a thank you note there, I must. Your extraordinary novel and not surprisingly, best seller Strangers: A Memoir of Marriage, felt all too familiar in many ways. I have heard folks say things about famous families and a lifestyle that may have felt more privileged than most. This pain is all the same. And the novel is a force.

I write today from a new vantage point. With the distance of 16 years in a second marriage, heaps of self-discovery and that pain way in the rear view mirror. Though revisited on every page.

It is 8:20 pm on an ordinary Thursday night.

“I’m not happy.”

My husband of fourteen years shared these words with me. He has just returned from a weekly business trip.

We had been through the wringer of our challenges including infertility issues and three miscarriages trying to have a second child. We finally got pregnant on our own after waiting to see a very high-profile and hard to get into specialist.

I am sitting in the quiet night of our dark living room. The girls are tucked in with stories. Emma is 9 and Quinn, 18 months. The door-sized windows run the length of this old ballroom-made-living-room, back when our Lake Shore Drive mid-rise was divvied into condos. The tree top view of Belmont Harbor below, sparkles with docked boats bobbing in peaceful ripples. If you squint, it looks a bit like the ocean of my Jersey girl youth.

These are words that burned an equator into 2005.

And my memory.

I want him to be happy, I think.  In an instant, I also imagine what life would be like without this view. Him. Could I move back home? Back East?

We had moved back to Chicago a second time from New York. This time, I was four months pregnant with Quinn. Away from family and back to the Windy City. A second move there for his career. For our family. I knew what I was in for now and had established myself as a freelance reporter and editor there. We spoke of commuting as an alternative. To stay close to my Dad and sister for support. His work a a syndicated television sales exec, on the road three days a week, had been a challenge as well. But one I knew how to handle. Returning to have another baby there actually felt somehow comforting and familiar. And when he was home, he was a present father.

That I am in fact sitting in the dark when I hear those now infamous words, is also not lost on me.

I don’t have to imagine a life without him.  I feel like Ma on Little House most weeks here on the prairie. Pa goes off into the field to fight the execs and score a sale, and Ma holds down the home front. Just the right apple sauce squeeze packs for lunch box snacks, a green shirt for field day, air in the trike wheels we race down the lobby halls on rain days, a Shania Twain playlist in the car that keeps us singing awake as we cruise toward nap time.

Outside the house, we are the envy of friends, family and colleagues.

“You two are goals”, says my young cousin Jamie, who is husband hunting.

My husband’s boss makes it a point to tell me at the annual holiday party, “We could not do our jobs without you”. This “thank-you-for-your-service-pep-talk” is no substitute for the five-star family vacay we have so clearly earned. For every mile he has clocked away from home, we deserve 10 in the frequent flyer program of my mind’s eye.

“I am not happy” is not what you want for the boy you have known since 1988. London. Study abroad. Sure, I want him to be happy. I especially want that for the kids we were before kids. I was sideswiped by his announcement that evening in ‘05. But not entirely as I look back from here.

“Do you think we should talk to someone?”

“I can ask Carol who she recommends for couples.” She is a therapist friend.

I imagine he will say no. Change his mind. Go to bed and wake in a better mood. I also imagine I am divorced, like my own parents and that if Mom did this, well then, I can too.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good call” he says and disappears toward the bedroom.

Two appointments in, we are not nudging anywhere toward happy.

“Are you here to walk through a new door, or for a stranger to give you permission to leave?”  I point toward the male therapist. Slim jeans. Suede Gucci loafers. Cobalt oxford. Dark hair. He is serving neutral, but I think he knows where we’re heading.

“If you have one foot out the door, you can leave tonight,” I hear myself say.

I am not sure where this voice comes from. I watch the words float out slowly across the air. I get a rush of warm from my toes to my forehead. Tears loom close to overflow. I am nauseous but somehow standing. Not letting myself cry.

I have an 18-month-old and a 9 year old. I have a dead mother and live far from my family and closest friends on the East coast. I have moved here for him, given up a pr career, manned or rather womaned this solo ship like a rockstar. I have given in to a coming and going sex schedule that syncs to his travel and we are making the most of weekends with the kids. Or maybe for the kids?

“I pretty much have one foot out the door,” he speaks toward the therapist.

I channel a force that knows in my marrow, that I deserve better. And more.

“Then you can leave.”

Permission. This is what he wanted.

We will arrange for a time to tell them at some point I guess. For now they will just think it is another trip. I am markedly calm. Part of me is clear. I recall thinking, he must be seeing someone. Nobody jumps out the window on a 14 year marriage with four small words and no escape hatch.

I head out to my friend Nate’s apartment. I hear the words leave my lips for the first time.

“Yes, separating.  No, he says there isn’t someone else.”

He does not believe this is true. “Guys don’t leap like that,” he says. Pretty certain there is someone else. I am learning, there usually is.

He orders in Thai and serves it at the island of his vintage stainless-steel kitchen. I can’t eat. The tears find their way out.  I am in a heap on the floor.

“I am afraid I will never have this again. I will never have sex again, or be naked again. Who will want me”? Two kids, divorced. Saggy breast feeding boobs.”

He wraps me in the kind of cashmere throw that people with no kids toss casually over the arm of a chair. He advises me five minutes after I announce my probable divorce demise that I should probably “not take to the bon-bons”.  Subtle. But wise.

At the suggestion of a bright female friend, I checked on all of our accounts. To be honest, I did not know where all the money was, or how much our mortgage payment was monthly. I made all my married friends do a financial deep dive for their own “what if” could be true too. I have heard you talk about all the ways you did not know about much of this either. Many of us, leaving it to the men. Trusting in a marriage. A partnership.

I arrived back to my girls in the morning and we tell them that Dad is moving to his own house. You will have TWO houses. I use this same phrase with their teachers and the school counselor. “Broken home” was served up when my folks divorced in grade four and I will carefully rewrite this script. Two houses. Two parents that love you more than the whole, wide world.

I later find the cashmere throw, where Nate has tucked it into my overnight bag. A security blanket for the ages. It now rests on a chair in my home, to this day. Decades later.

The case for leaving the state with children in Illinois is called “removal”. The lawyer said short of abuse or non-payment of child support, it would be costly and rare to be able to win sole custody and move them with me to New York.

I became Nancy Drew. Unlike how your story unfolded, I was searching for the why. Combing through papers, emails and bills. One charge to Lady Foot Locker that was most definitely hot for me.

Then there was his My Space account. Yes, he was too old to have one of those. But there it was. A bit of witty repartee with a female writer who he was complementing and I knew in an instant. He had been married to a writer for all of our lives and had barely taken note of a piece or headline. A quick search revealed her address. The building he moved to was next door.

They met at the Mall of America. Business trip. she worked at J. Crew. I will leave out all the remaining details. In a no fault state, the courts did not care and I was learning daily, I did not either. The very idea of being away from my children when he was with them was the heartache. I had survived it as a kid, could they?

I will spare you the endless court dates. Our shot at mediation. The creative visitation schedule and the horrific financial fear that nearly took me out on several occasions. All of the mistakes and missteps I made became warnings for others. I am certain that is why every sentence of your book lands so hard with me, and so many of us who have been there.

Divorced and 42. I had never been on a date in my whole life. Just when you think you have figured out the rest of your years, the plot changes. The earth shakes like a plate tectonic shift and you do everything not to fall through the crust, hanging on to the mantle with every ounce of dignity you can muster.

Much like you, in hindsight, I see the pink flags I missed. I see my own part in our demise. With the help of a lot of therapy. I was a grieving daughter who needed more than he could give or understand when we were just two years into our marriage and 27. I wanted a sibling for my eldest so she would never have to be alone. This was all new thinking post loss. What if I went early too?

Nurturing a marriage was difficult with kids and his travel. We could have done a better. I could have done better. The little trio we made when he was out of town was sturdy. Important. Filled with routine and magic. The reasons I married him that felt solid have changed. Perhaps I was a better mother than a wife? All this to say, even if he had come to me with the truth, honesty I had long wished for, I don’t know that it would have changed much.

Belle, I am remarried now. We met online. I heard you can’t imagine it. I could’t either. Wasn’t looking. He arrived in a pretty self-actualized package. Never married and fresh from a broken engagement. Seven years younger. He moved in before we made it official and he had enough love (and patience) for the three of us. I never intended to marry again. The truth is, I think I never wanted to get divorced again. We made our own version of a pre-nup. Everyone goes out with half of what they came with and half of what we grow together. This pact is a good one to make in the bliss of the beginning.

He laid bare his moving in needs. A place of his own to recharge at day’s end. To be able to close a door and reboot his introverted bones. We work at happy. Happily. Communicate a lot. And above all else, make room to nurture our marriage. He is an epic stepfather. Ask my girls.

Yes, there was another woman. No, I won’t share any of those details. Yes, my girls now know. I never said a bad word to them about their Dad. Ever. My friend Nate calls this my “Grace Kelly” moment. I made a pact not to, and stuck to it. I picked him and they only ever get one Dad. When my girls asked and were old enough to know my truth, they asked my husband before they asked me. I will say that I never knew it could be quite this good on the other side. I often think I should write my ex a thank you note on my newly monogrammed stationary. When I talk about him publicly, I now say ‘their father’.

I will never know the details of why or how the switch flipped for him. Some days I wished I did. I wonder if that is why it felt like such deep and disenfranchised grief? I am so grateful you are showing the world that while this is not a grief society acknowledges, it is profound. Betrayal trauma is real.

I just bought tickets to hear you speak at The Bedford Playhouse in June. I have told everyone I know to buy the book and sent it to a few friends. You think it could never happen to you until it does. I wish I could send it to my Mom. I wondered when I was in it, what was worse, divorce or death. You talk about this perspective your stepmother shared. Having experienced both and sitting beside women who are grieving a spouse, I agree with you. It’s a kind of death, a grief of a future you imagined that would never see old age. Soul crushing. Pain filled, but not the same.

You are giving us permission to say it all out loud. To share what we have learned and earned. Drop our shame and take charge of our finances. Hope I get to tell you just how thankful in person.

Read more

The first is poet Sara Rian. Many who follow her incredibly relatable and deeply healing griefy poems on instagram, may not know that she is also a Detroit based therapist. She is here on The Stack too, with Big Grief, Little Poems. She began writing and publishing her work to honor the grief she experienced when she lost her Mom to suicide. She talked to be about how complicated and complex it was and is to help folks meet this kind of loss. So many of us come to the page to sort and soothe our own grief and in the process find our people.

Her inspired poetry books are those I often share with grievers, read in my groups and on retreats. Stay tuned for our upcoming collaboration this Spring. (Think poetry and prompts with two grief girls who get it, in a warm and cozy workshop.) Her site is filled with all the ways you can purchase her poetry and prints.

I also received an advanced copy of Alessandra Olanow's Spring release, Begin Again and Again: Notes on the Art of Perpetual Renewal. It is available for pre-order now. (March 17 release) I cried when I received it. For real. Melted into each page and her stunning watercolors woven throughout. She found herself awake at 3 am with questions that wouldn’t settle and took to the page. It started as notes to herself and emerged as a book about the fundamental rhythm of being human: the constant cycle of questioning, doubt, finding ground, opening and renewal.

I have been a longtime fan of her work, words and creations (I am slowly burning one of the last of her stunning candles!) and the way she personalizes all of her offerings. You can feel her permission to invite transformation on every page. She has worked as an end of life doula and her books I Used To Have A Plan and Hello Grief are equally special.

I will be in conversations with her at Bedford Books on June 3rd.

There is good reason so many of us find ourselves reaching for a pen when life cracks open. Research in the field of Expressive Writing was pioneered by psychologist James W. Pennebaker. It shows that putting our thoughts and feelings into words helps the mind and body process what has been difficult to hold. When emotions stay unspoken, they often swirl in the nervous system without a place to land. Writing gives them somewhere to go. It’s a quiet way of saying, this happened. This mattered. And I am allowed to feel it.

Studies in psychology and neuroscience suggest when we translate feelings into language, different parts of the brain begin to work together. The emotional centers that hold the intensity soften when the thinking brain helps organize the experience. It helps our story take shape. And when something has shape, it often feels less overwhelming to carry.

Writing also allows us to witness ourselves with a kind of distance. On the page, what felt tangled inside can become something we can see, reflect on and return to later.

Researchers have found that folks who practice expressive writing over time report stress reduction, emotional clarity and even physical well-being. The act itself is simple. A page. A few honest sentences. And you.

I can hear you say, but Barri, I am not a writer. And I say, if you are writing you are a writer! Coming to the page isn’t about perfect words or polished thoughts. It is about giving inner life a place to breathe. A place where memories, questions, the love, the ache and all of it, can exist without needing to be solved. Sometimes the page simply holds what the heart has been carrying alone. It allows us to become our own story witness. To find movement in the very act of transferring thoughts to letters. Seeing it all outside of ourselves.

Join me this week 3.11 at 7pm est. It’s a Write to Heal workshop for paid subscribers. It’s five bucks and helps support scholarships to my grief support circles.

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All you need is a pen and paper — maybe a hot cup of tea and your curiosity in tow. Save the date. Zoom link coming to all paid subs.

P.S. New support circles are open for Spring too.

Hope to meet you on the page. xo, B

Fine – is an F word, Mom always says.

To her it was worse than that OTHER f word. Which she let us say in the house, by the way. She was way ahead of herself there, as science now shows us that a good old cuss is a good old emotional release and relief. Just the expressive exclamation we all need right about now.

Fine was not an answer she would allow when asking how school was, or gymnastics practice, or your Sunday with Dad when he came on Divorce Day. Movies. Bowling. Skating. Keeping busy from lunch to dinner on Sunday. You had to always share something you learned or something interesting. Even a bit of gossip might suffice.

Anything but the F word.

“Well, today Barbra G. came back to school,” I tell her. We all know that her Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. But nobody is supposed to say anything. She certainly did not want to talk about it, and neither did I. So I complimented her new maroon corduroy Levis. Then I asked about her new suede Wallabees with the high wedge soul. And we avoid talk of anything to do with her Mom. Which sort of made it even more obvious that we were not talking about it. I do sit next to her at lunch and I think it made her feel like it was just a regular old day.

Lunchroom pizza and giggling at the lower graders. We both got chocolate milks, which is a score when there are only a few on the tray. Mr. Gasparini, had to put the cardboard up on Ronald’s desk again. This helps him focus.

He has a hard time concentrating in the experimental open classroom. It’s called the POD. Two classrooms each of fourth, fifth and sixth grades. We share a Newberry award winning movie and book called, A Wrinkle in Time. Each of us has the chance to participate in an introductory panel. I am in charge of the vocabulary words. I hold up hand drawn sign with Crayola bedecked bubble letters. It won the award in 1963. Two years before we were born!

“Frenzied. Frenzied. Does anybody know what this word means?”

We are observing our aquarium/terrariums in science, or SCIS as it is called. Not sure we realized how futuristic or forward thinking this learning space was, until we were much older and joked about it in high school.

See.

All of these things are just, well, ok.

And…fine. Until I realize, they make me worry.

I worry that a Mom can get sick. Might get sick. Or cross over into the wrinkle. But I don’t dare share. With Mom or Barb. I know that Mr. G’s Mom died. She was old, not sick. We learn to say, I’m sorry, when that happens.

I keep these thoughts on death to myself. And in my small pink diary with the heart shaped lock.

Recently, I reunited with a few of those six grade girls. Including Barb. So much time had passed, but we dropped right back into the very same memories and shorthand of our shared history, this time over Zoom. Cheerleading. Lions. How we all took woodshed instead of Home Ec. How awful it was that Ron didn’t get the help he really needed back then. That the POD was cool and all, but did we learn more in that mod open setting or just mingle and crush on the older grade guys? Where was this one now and did you hear that one died. They were all fans of my Mom, which has been a truly special way to keep her memory alive. Each shares their reflections. The talks at my kitchen table. How she was the first to divorce and work.

This urge bubbles in me. “Barb,” I am really sorry we didn't know better or do better when your Mom died. She seemed moved. Said it was one of the nicest things ever. I have long thought of it now. Sitting with others in this work. She was so very young, too young to be without a Mom. Her Dad and older sisters navigating uncharted and griefy waters. It was not until my own Mom died in my 20s that I had even given it another thought.

It’s never fine to say nothing.

It’s also never too late.

Truly.

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CREATIVE GRIEF TENDING: Moving Grief Through The Body

I am incredibly honored and excited to be co-leading this first of its kind programming at Omega from October 18-22 in Rhinebeck, NY. Joined by my amazing colleague Kelsey Moro, (a movement therapist specializing in grief and loss) we will be gathering community at one of the most beautiful retreat centers in the country. I have loved being a program participant here as a writer, yogi and curious learner — and can’t wait to be with you here to help facilitate this transformative time together. I can imagine us together in the crisp beauty of an East Coat autumn.

Grief lives in the body—and sometimes words only arrive after we’ve paused to feel where it aches, pulses, or softens. In this gathering, you are guided through gentle movement, breathing techniques, meditation, and reflective writing prompts to help you access both embodied awareness and creative expression.

Together, we ground in the body, write from the heart, and tend to what is asking to be witnessed. This is not about fixing grief, but about befriending it—allowing space for release, reflection, and renewal.

In Omega’s caring, creative and nurturing environment, you will:.

+Increase your grief education through creative and experiential practices.

+Learn interventions to alleviate present-day emotional and psychological overwhelm as you incorporate practices into your grief tending journey.

+Return home with a personal, culturally-informed and flexible process to best support yourself.

+This program is suitable for grievers at least six weeks past their most recent loss.

LEARN MORE AND REGISTER HERE

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Reminder, there will be a Prompt & Process writing class on March 11, 7-8 pm/est on ZOOM, for paid subscribers. Your paid subscriptions help with scholarships to support for those who can’t afford it. And I believe everyone deserves to be seen and heard in their grief.

Who’s in?

If you are unable to join a retreat and seek community grief support, join me in The Memory Circle virtual support groups. Limited to 15, with a few spots remaining. Here is the scoop.

x, B

Have you read Belle Burden’s, Strangers? She shares the intimacies of her divorce, some moments I have long felt and never seen articulated. Much like poet Maggie Smith’s, You Could Make This Place Beautiful. There is a grief in divorce that feels so like a death in many ways. (I say that from my perch of having experienced early motherloss in my 20s, divorce in my 40s, and father loss after caretaking for a decade in my 50s). The sense of future and family lost. It can feel shameful to call it grief when you likely know someone who has lost a spouse. I sit with many widows and widowers who feel a tinge or more of anger at this comparison.

The way my client articulated their loss of safety in the world, wishing that her person would walk through the bedroom door and wake her from an earlier bedtime as he entered phone flashlight on high, how her new bathroom feels like the best place to retreat these days. A place he never knew, might like, but not where he is supposed to be.

I showed up to our Zoom wearing my favorite ever sweatshirt. I found it upstate in a shop in Hudson and fell in love. So much so, I have two! It says, J. Didion in a collegiate varsity block font, on a heather grey ground. She reminds me of her personal connection to the divine Ms. JD when she sees it and how they once dined together. SWOON. “Oh, J. Diddy”, I joke, “the Patron Saint of Grief!”

When all of Ms. Didion’s personal effects were coming up for auction at Stair Galleries in Hudson, I felt the urge to see if I might bid on a small piece of her ephemera, or at the very least, convene at the altar of her possessions. Two electric typewriters, a Random House dictionary, scissors, a box of pens, a clipboard— even a collection of seashells. There were coveted photos, a fan’s extraordinary portrait painting, a small desk clock estimated to be worth no more than $200. Maybe that, I dreamed. It ended up fetching over 35k— all possessions going well beyond estimates in record highs. I was just one of thousands of people who came to the auction house to see the items being sold on the days leading up to the sale.

I felt the need to make the same pilgrimage to The New York Public Library, when her archives became public. There were 336 boxes of notes, manuscripts, correspondence (I loved the faxes between Ms. Didion and her publicist.) There are files kept from birth to death. The story under the story of The Year of Magical Thinking was there. For me, it remains the holy grail of grief books. I needed to be with the words, the world and the inner workings. Being close to her grief, helped me to be close to my own. It felt prayerful.

There are days when I must write, when nothing else feels right. About my mother, to my father— many days to you. I want to do it together as I have in my recent support circles.

The words that have emerged take my breath away. There is no experience needed. Just the openness to show up and see if you might access your own story under the story. We will meet on March 11th at 7pm est. All paid subscribers help fund scholarships to my support circles. The link for subscribers is below. I will post it again to remind you all!

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My mother Ellen died in 1993. She was here one day, and gone the next. She took the day off and went to Sandy Hook, a beautiful public beach in central southern New Jersey, and suffered a deadly brain aneurysm in her sun chair. Alone.

It has taken me years to appreciate that she did in fact die in what was her favorite place on earth. Mom was one with the sun, sand and sea. She seemed to sport a year-round tan, always a glowy olive that deepened from May through September, but never faded away. Even in the depths of winter. She was an incredible copy writer, I often think how she may have written this ending.

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We arranged for her organs to be donated (she made this wish known to us when my Grandmother Mona died of emphysema) the clothes she would wear and a the casket we had to choose at the funeral home. We collected her make up case, so that the funeral director could be sure she looked like herself. In the fog of decision making, we decided she did not need hose or heels wherever she was going, and had it been up to us, would have put her in one of her signature Polo crew neck cotton sweaters, cropped Audrey Hepburn ankle skimming jeans and Sam & Libby ballet flats.

Neither my sister or myself thought we could speak at the funeral, a eulogy I am grief stricken and guilt ridden to have not shared that day. I have since written it, and hope like hell she knows that I would have if I could have.

If you have been reading along here (and thank you to those who are here for the ride and your generous feedback) you know that they found early-stage liver cancer when her organs were reviewed for donation. They went on to cancer research. I am always reminded how knowing this and being able to execute them, gave us what I consider a gift today.

At different stages and ages along this three plus decades long search for a why, I never quite find the answers, but always new realizations. How even all of these years later, you can write the eulogy and read it aloud to everyone on your 50^th birthday to honor the years she had here on earth. Which I did!

I would have said yes. I would have holed up in my childhood bedroom, legs up the rainbow bedecked walls and notebook on my lap. The writing would have come so easily. There were so many stories about my Mom that could have been shared.

Sure, we sat in the Rabbi’s office and told him the words we wished for him to say. The words I didn’t think I could brave on the heels of losing her so suddenly. Here. And gone. Like some kind of fairy in a shit’s gone way wrong, Disney film. It was too much, I heard from many. Everyone convinced me it was ok. But the gravity of never being able to go back and do it, never crossed my mind.

Would I be sorry later? Well, now I know the answer is most certainly and undeniably, yes. It breaks me to this moment.

I would have stood bravely, tears and words mingling like the salty brine of her beloved ocean. I would tell them all about Ellen Jane. My hero. My mentor. My Jersey girl. My Mom. How she always held your hand, even as a grown up. In the city. In the mall. How she would pulse three little pumps into your hand. Secret code for, ”I love you”.

I would tell everyone how when she got divorced, she and her best friend got their real estate license and job shared. I believe they literally invented job share. One worked. One stayed with us kids. They made a village. And a support system. And made us proud. The local paper touted them as The Dynamic Duo.

She went on to fundraise for those with no homes. A women’s center for those fleeing from abuse. Big fundraisers at The Count Basie Theater with The Four Seasons headlining.

She loved finding the right homes for people. One of her super powers. She was a local legend. Her open house “famous” lemonade and Malomar trays always a hit.

Her prowess at Scrabble was historic. Her vocabulary was next level gorgeous. And inspiring. I once used “facetious” in a second-grade paper and was called out on it. Mom went to school and did her Norma Rae version of “don’t fuck with my girl” and facetious always and forever will remind me never to be small.

I would have regaled them with camp memories. How she taught Danna and I Wico songs as wee ones. About The Old Pine. We were the most seasoned Wico Girls upon our arrival as tiny alum.

She loved so deeply and fiercely. She was witty and bright and strong. She was hurt when life disappointed her. And told us. She went to therapy and shared her wisdom and why she loved it. She was a badass Scorpio who adored the beach, and boardwalk, Santa Rosa plums, the Windmill, Carvel, and her family. And her laugh could cure ailing souls.

I would remind them all that she loved a bargain and taught us how to discount shop like it was an Olympic sport. She was always the best dressed everywhere we went.

When she was proud of you, it was all there was.

She was the most effortlessly beautiful person I had ever known. Kids from school gathered round our kitchen table to get her advice. Boys to get a peek. She was the cool mom for sure. She was so progressive. And she was ours.

I would promise to care for Danna forever and always.

I would rewrite that day in 1993 in a hundred different ways. But alas.

If you could use some support in your journey or writing a eulogy, meet me here. Or meet me in the Berkshires (where MA meet NY) at GRIEF CAMP!

I will be going LIVE with Danielle Moss, stay tuned for more.

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I was thinking about all of the ways I could share your wisdom and midwestern warmth as I was remembering you on this neon day. Gosh, how the world needs that right now. I know I do.

Perhaps I’d share the story of the day you died, all four kids at your bedside. My friend Terri shares that the death anniversary is the least interesting thing about her dead parents and I tend to think that is a stunning realization and truth. Though unlike the sudden loss we experienced with Mommy, there remains a picture in my memory of holding your hand, playing your favorite songs close to your ear, smushing in close to you in the bed and not noticing your last breath was last, until we did.

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There is so very much to grieve in the world right now, can you see it all from up there? I saw that ICE marked vehicles were landing in Ohio, and I thought you’d have a hand in protecting your hometown pride. The Ohio State and all. It’s messy and I want to call you and hear the calm cadence of your voice and wise storytelling. I know you would have checked in on Meems in Minnesota. Al’s Mom misses you too. Did you know you died on his Dad’s birthday? I know. Ooof. I guess all of it helps us to remember and celebrate. Very Neil Leiner if you ask me.

I told a friend that I felt a bit guilty about holding my own grief in the tumult and loss so many are experiencing right now. This collective grief is heavy. So many holding so much. She offered permission to grieve and share about you if I felt I needed that and I grabbed it. Thank you Linds. It helped me to remember that there is no hierarchy in grief, no grief Olympics — even if you lived a good long life. It is because you did that there is so very much to miss even in the midst.

The young man that was killed, Alex Pretti, he was an ICU nurse at the VA. I know how proud you were to have worked in the VA when you were in the army. The days you marched in the Memorial Day Parade in Chappaqua with your veterans cap will always remain special to me. He was a good man Dad. He was helping someone when he was shot. It’s all so senseless and cruel. There are stunning videos of him offering last rights to a vet. Their family released it. I would have sent it to you. I know you’d have the just right words and actions to share. He was working on cancer research. I recalled the breast cancer drugs you helped bring to market back when and your work on Breast Cancer Awareness Day. I hope you have been part of his welcoming up there. He really seems like someone you would admire. I know I do.

This morning I connected with Amy, my friend and yoga teacher from Chicago after a zoom class. She calls you Grampsy. All the friends call you Grampsy. Even some of my clients. It is so endearing. When I shared it was the one year anniversary tomorrow, she could not believe it. Time is such a robber and strange friend. Like yesterday and forever ago, all at once. Amy lost her Mom young too, and Dad just a few years ago. “Can you believe we have no parents” she said, and “we are orphans”. It is hard to contend with and here we are at a year. And I am not a little girl at 60. But I was always your little girl. My head in the crook of your arm on the sofa. Nothing could hurt me there. I know from my work, and losing Mommy so long ago, that we think there will be some magic when we make it through all the firsts. But no. Just magical thinking. I think I will come to visit you on Sunday, and then I remember.

We tried to go to “the French” in town on your birthday. Everyone ordered one of your ‘favorites’. The burger was eh. The onion soup not as good as any of us recalled and the goat cheese wonton salad wilty and boring. We decided it was you that made it all delicious. It was the same day that Starbucks was dropping their pumpkin spice drinks. We walked over instead of staying for desert and ordered some icy PSLs. When they asked for a name, I said, “Neil. Hearing them call your name still in the local Starbucks will never get old. I do it all the time wherever we go. Even on our NYC take out deliveries. Neil is very popular at Excellent Dumpling.

For so very many years you were the only parent. We never talked very much about that, you just picked up the baton and ran with us. Check ins on the kids and work, the weather. gardening and plans for a visit. You became our council and sounding board and even learned to gush at haircuts, discount finds and new outfits. Even a trip to the Op Shop thrift was up your alley on visits! I am so grateful for that, and I feel like I never thanked you enough. You guided me through my divorce too. I just told a friend this week that was navigating her settlement, your winning advice. I always thought it was just a hopeful Dad strategy and never really wanted to believe it.

You told me to negotiate a “step down” as part of my settlement. Going from part-time freelancer and full-time parent on the ground when their Dad travelled to single mom and full-time freelancer was going to need a bit of gas to get up and running at full steam. I had owned a PR firm and had a hand in the editorial game in Chicago, but this would be a Herculean shift. You said, take most of the settlement up front, and taper off. By then, you will be in the job you need and you will likely be remarried. I scoffed. I never wanted to get married again. Hell, I had never even been on a date having married my college sweetheart. Truth was, I never wanted to get divorced again. I believed in love and you did too. Even the kind that included loving me and a 3 year old and a 10 year old. And you were not only right, you were front and center at the wedding loving your new son in law. He loved you right back.

Back in the PR days when I was drumming up clever names for the agency - you reminded me to use my own name on the door. You will be doing the work. They are paying for you. You have established yourself at agencies and with editors who return your calls. Use your own. It was also yours, and it made us both so proud. Still does and always will.

You know what else we never talked about enough? Your own father loss. You were only 7 when Grandpa Bernard died. My namesake. How did you raise us with all that fatherly goodness having not known much of your own? It was so innate, nurturing and soft. Those early morning trips to the skating rink to earn a patch have been with me lately. Maybe it’s the crazy winter. The very day we were supposed to have your unveiling, a foot dropped on Westchester. Did you do that? I really can’t think of something I ever tried to do where you were not cheering or offering sage advice. And your Special French Toast, that is still in rotation. Dr. Brown’s Diet Creme too. It almost brings me to tears when I see it in the grocery. I toss a six pack in the cart and have one when I miss ya.

And oh how I miss the guy we met along the way as your memory faded. I don’t spend a lot of time with him, but I am damn proud of all of the celebrations and moments we shared. I visit those photos often. I am forever grateful for the glimmer that always remained. The sparkle in those almond Leiner eyes that let us know you were right there still. We did our best, we really did. You were the envy of the place. Hipster joggers, hoodies and Hoka’s and always a thank you and a please till the end. You were robbed of some “good years”, but I know you would not have felt sorry. So we try hard not too as well.

You died on January 27, 2025. It was an unremarkable day, until you were gone. We made all the calls and waited for your last ride home. Unimaginable. I fell into bed in my clothes. I woke like a shot in the night and realized you died on 1.27. In a final act of advertising cleverness it seemed. I told the story the other evening at book club—we were reading signs. We had heard you say it every time you took a photo. And you did that a lot. Thank goodness. So many fun childhood snaps.

You would take forever focusing that damn Canon and say… 1, 2…..7. To try to get us to smile. There I was alone in the dark when I realized that was the date. You died on 1,2…..7. I texted the sibs. Nobody was up, but I had to tell them anyway. Clever. Remarkable. And making us smile, still. I am thinking of getting a tattoo of that tomorrow. I think you are on board. I see lots of 127 signs lately. Have to believe it’s you.

How I miss you Dad. Today and every damn day. I will keep writing. Sharing. Remembering your lessons. More soon. ILYMTTWWW

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Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, was the first I had ever read about a sudden loss. It was written in 2005 following the sudden death of her husband, writer John Gregory Dunne. He suffered a heart attack at their New York City apartment, at the dinner table. My mom Ellen died in 1993 of a brain aneurism at the beach at Sandy Hook National Park. Joan was there. Mom was alone.

I dipped a toe into writing to make sense of her death. Long a fan of a tiny pink diary with a heart shaped lock, I had loved to write. Being a paid writer for work, I had to make the designation part of a grief tending practice.

In school I had long been taught by writing teachers not to write too close to the heat. Writing from the red hot center of an inciting incident can make a memory faulty. Maybe we are still in the anger of an open wound. Not sure I buy that as much as a griever any longer. Lots of good studies too, like Expressive Writing Words That Heal, by Dr. John Pennebaker that say it not only helps, it heals.

I was not sure how close to the pain Didion had written her story back when it came out. But it was visceral for me as a reader. I felt mine, when I read hers. Years later I felt the same when reading memoir, Here After. First person, present tense, graphic and gripping about the sudden death of her husband Kurtis during a half-marathon. They wrote from so close to their experience I have seen firsthand how it helped me and my clients.

Part of Amy’s journey, was to journal in her early and devastating loss. To make sense of her pain through writing. When I interviewed her, she told me it was an assignment from her grief therapist. These writings turned Substack, turned USA Today Bestseller, were hot on the page. She shared how important it was for her to make the book itself a smaller cut, shorter chapters and include more white space so that grievers could meet it, even when they were making sense of their own grief. Small enough to tuck in a pocket or small purse. Bite sized chunks to digest even when grief fog is in full effect. I loved learning about these thoughtful and gentle invitations she crafted for readers.

She saw writing not as a way to express thoughts she already had, but as the actual method of discovery itself. The act of writing was how she made sense of the experience. The idea that she could not make sense of what she thought until she wrote it down. She interrogated the details of the evening like a stealth reporter with her journalist chops on full display. I had the unbelievable experience of sitting with her archives at The New York Public Library. One piece that took my breath away was the doorman’s log. It jogged her timeline of the evening.

There are so many details missing from the day my mother died. I have been piecing them together for decades like a crime junkie. From “what if I had been there” to calling years later for her hospital records from Monmouth Medical Center and writing the eulogy I was told I was too shocked to give. The A&P receipt in her beach bag gave us clues. I am so grateful she ate her beloved Santa Rosa plums on that last day.

When we write, we can see our story, thoughts and emotions outside of ourselves. I believe that moving it from the inside to the page helps us become our own story witness. This offers us distance, a new view and perspective. For Didion, writing was both an act of self-preservation and self-understanding. I see this in my Write to Heal clients.

Brain imagine studies found that writing about your emotions calms the amygdala, the part of the brain that is the brain’s threat detector. Is is a small, almond shaped structure deep in your brain that acts as your emotional processing center, particularly for fear and threat. The amygdala receives sensory information and evaluates whether something is threatening, rewarding or emotionally significant.

The book is Didion’s attention to understand her own mind in the immediate aftermath of loss. The “magical thinking” of the title refers to her irrational belief that if she did certain things correctly she could reverse what happened. So many of us can get lost in the “shoulds” this way. Every person that has ever read the book I talk to, shares their reflection of “the shoes.” She could not give away his shoes because he would need them when he returned.

When we move the story we are telling ourselves about our loved ones and our loss from the inside out, we are also telling this part of our brain that the magical thinking has moved to the acceptance of reality. Not accepting that this will ever be right, but that it is in fact real. They are not walking through the door. The threat of another bad thing happening, can quiet.

I am not saying the medicine is becoming a memoirist. But I know that trying on writing as a grief tending tool has proven to help hundreds I sit with in their experience. Many of my grievers in groups and on retreat are often hesitant to pick up the pen. Their inner critic shows up and scoffs. Perfectionism ensues. Or they have a bad taste because they have been given an assignment to write a letter to their dead loved one and became lost in overwhelm. I actually love this invitation, but it can be offered too early, or when you don’t feel ready to imagine this is your new normal.

Gentle invitations to the page can help us exercise this beautiful and effective practice. Sometimes it helps us find words to what is too hard to speak. Maybe it unveils thoughts that are deeply embedded in the subconscious. This can be found in a four minute sprint across the page…ditching grammar and punctuation and trading it for curiosity. Write like nobody is reading!

It never has to be shared, or even read. Lists and free association can create an easy container for a practice. This is my favorite part of my Grief Camp sessions. Seeing “campers” become writers. The next one takes place in March if you have an itch to try it in person with me.

If you geek out on the science of why - here is what we know.

+When you write about something painful, you are externalizing it. Out of the head and onto the page. This creates mental distance — a moat! It reduces the heavy load of holding on. It’s “over there”.

+Writing lights up so many brain regions and memory retrieval. This can help us make sense of even the most difficult experiences.

+We can move from overwhelm to better understanding. Observing our thoughts before we take action.

+Even a short timed automatic write, or list helps organize thoughts, regain control and focus.

+Writing by hand can slow us down allowing more time for processing and meaning making.

+Let it be messy. Ignore grammar, spelling and even sentences. A shitty first draft (even the only draft!) allows us to just to adapt and regulate.

You don’t need a fancy journal to journey this way. Although I do love having a dedicated place to put these thoughts. A safe container. A favorite pen. The New York Times just featured one of my favorites. But I am equally a fan of the old school composition book.

One of the prompts or invitations I offered in our recent group was called “Hello Again”. Every time there was something in the day that you longed to share with a loved one, you can just jot it down. Almost like a phone memo, call or text. Instead of feeling that frustration, sadness or block - see what it feels like to bring them into the magic and minutiae of the day. This helps us to create a continuing bond with our person.

“Hey Mom, it’s candy heart season. Our favorite. I have already knocked back a bag and it is not even February. I put them in a pink bowl on my desk. I sent a pic of one to Quinny that said Love Bug. You would not believe her cooking. Imagine my kid cooking? Miss you”.

Give it a try and tell me what you think. And if you have not yet read either of the memoirs shared - add them to your TBR pile. Hope to write with you soon.

The loss, the waiting, the rebuilding, the exhaustion and the quiet bravery it takes to keep going, is not lost on me. Many have told me they have felt forgotten this year. Still passing places they long for and remember, daily reminders of what is no longer there.

One of my first clients lost their home in a fire years ago. She came to me by way of a fellow teacher, who had lost her mother. When she learned more about her own grief, she suggested that she see me after having rebuilt her home. She felt her colleague never acknowledged the grief that she experienced after losing her home. This woman was so moved by the friend naming her grief. She had not lost a person, and so had never felt she could name this loss she was mourning and grieving out loud. She measured it against death loss. She was so moved by having this permission from a friend who had lost such a special person in her life.. Touched that she could see them both, her own mother loss and the loss of her home, side by side in this way.

One of the ways she told me that she coped still living in a place that could and might be affected again, was to keep a list in her wallet, “8 Things I Would Take In A Fire.” She said it helped her feel prepared. It changed the way she thought about her memories and the importance of home and how she held her personal history.

I keep a mental list like this. It is largely because after a loss, what we can hold on physically holds such great meaning. I have LA friends that have lost those connections. Ashes. Photos. Heirlooms. Valued for their deeply rooted meaning. Irreplaceable.

Grief after fire is not only about what was lost, but about what will never be quite the same. And still, alongside that grief, I have witnessed tenderness, community and people showing up for one another in deeply human ways. And also feeling like we just could never do enough.

I remember being in touch with family, friends and colleagues that evening. Go bags and sparks. Fear of the unknown. This past year has asked so much of Los Angeles. The fires didn’t just take land or homes, they touch memories, safety, routine and the very sense of belonging. Corner stores, coffee shops, playgrounds and schools. Grandma’s dinner table and china. For many, life was divided into before and after with very little warning.

Grief after fire doesn’t end when the smoke clears. It lives in the rebuilding, the waiting, the remembering and the courage to show up again and again. For those who lost, those who are still finding their footing and those who stood beside them, I am thinking of you all today.

A few ways to support someone you know today:

Remembering Without Asking Them To Move On

Say their loss out loud, Use the name of the place, the street, the view, the home. Remembering is not reopening a wound-it is honoring what mattered.

Offer presence, not solutions.

A check in text can help today. Maybe more than you know. Listen to how they are today without offering a silver lining or lesson. Let it just be about companionship and friendship.

Support the long recovery.

Anniversaries can reopen everything. Donate locally, shop from affected businesses, check in as many still have fundraising pages and efforts you can support.

My friend and best selling author, Natasha Sizlo, who lost her beloved home is hosting an in person anniversary grounded walk. Join her at Will Rogers Historic Park at 1pm pacific time. A gentle unhurried walk to Inspiration Point and back. Children and leashed dogs welcome. Meet at the lot above the polo fields.

Her work, WILD GRIEF was born of her experience. She helps others move through grief with nature, care and presence. She is also a grief guide and LA Emotion Facilitator.

We remember not just what is gone, but what endures. Community. Love. The human instinct to reach for one another in the hardest moments. Holding LA gently today. Space for all that was lost and all that continues to be carried. You are not alone in remembering and in my heart.

I instantly found myself on memory lane. Grief happens upon you just like that. There I was years back, heading from the airport in Dad’s silver VW Beetle, in from Chicago for a visit home. While I have been back a little over three years now, it’s a route I rarely take these days. I know we will make our way right past his old house. My body knows too. I can feel the tears pressing up inside me. It feels tight around my heart. Red light. Turn right. “Hey Dad”, I say as we pass his driveway. The tears unfurled. They come easily. A quick stop at Whole Foods en route to the film, for a stash of Sumos.

As we pull in, there is a new J. Crew Factory store. I want to tell him. I can imagine us combing the store, and I am picking out a cozy chocolate brown sweater for him from the sale rack. I remember when the Whole Foods came to town in this shopping center. It was a huge deal. We had one in Chicago for years, but it was new to the tiny Westchester enclave of Chappaqua. My eldest is with me and Dad as we head in for the first time. He admires the beautiful produce. The way it is stacked. And tells us. I remind my husband of this memory as we make our way down our list.

Dad has been gone nearly a year now. We will return to the cemetery for an unveiling of his headstone. Something we do before the one year anniversary of a death in the Jewish tradition. You should see the Leiner sibs text thread of the four of us trying to find the just right words. It was like a high-level ad campaign of Dad’s past. We knew all too well that the font, stone color, words and sentiment were high stakes. I’d say we did Neil Leiner proud. I think he would also be terribly sad it was our job, but proud nonetheless.

As we returned to the car, I was tearful as I said out loud, “it’s just not right that he is gone.” Yes, he was 86, but he also lived with nearly a decade of memory loss. It seemed unthinkable for a man who used his words and creative prowess making ads memorable. Award winning. It should have been his best years as a Grampsy. His most beloved gig. One year he ordered himself custom Grampsy plates for the Beetle, and zipped proudly around town showing them off. We hung one on his door at his memory care room.

Back down the winding country roads to the theater. This time Song Sung Blue. A movie with Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson based on a doc and life about a Neil Diamond tribune duo. I’d heard mixed reviews, but was truly moved by the story and think Kate’s Golden Globe nom is well-deserved.

I am gently reminded once again, that grief is hiding in plain sight down every side-street. But, so too is joy and just about a zillion incredible memories.

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Wishing you all good things for a gentle New Year.

I am forever grateful you found your way here. Thank you! Writing to you is a gift to me. It serves as great grief tending to be able to share how I too, even decades later, am learning to live alongside loss. This is such a special community.

I would love to guide you on your grief journey. Here are some ways to feel supported in the new year, a partner loss circle and living with loss circle.

If you’d like to work 1:1 with me, feel free to book a free consult to see if we are a good fit for you, or if you are requesting a scholarship.

And lastly, Grief Camp, a retreat at the incredible Kripalu Center.

See you all in 2026. That which is right is unfolding. x, B