It was only a blanket.

A navy and white striped blanket, slightly itchy, purchased on sale at a discount store. It wasn’t particularly special, either – one of many throw blankets we acquired over our 11 years of living together. An impulse buy, I’m sure.

But I came home and this blanket — which had been strewn across my bed before I left for my cross-country road trip — was perfectly folded in a pile of laundry. I froze in the doorway, unable to exhale before deep sobs exploded from my body.

That blanket was the last thing that smelled like him.

I’m not sure how that was possible since Brad was the type of man who wore the same green and navy rugby shirt he’d owned since middle school, the collar mishapen and the colors faded. We lived in the same loft for six years, our smells inhabiting each crack of the exposed brick wall and everything in between.

But 3 months after his death, it was a twenty-dollar blanket that carried the final lingering of his scent. I guess that’s what happens when cancer slowly, but oh so quickly, destroys your life. People come over and they clean.

After Brad died, I clung to our routine, every day tricking my mind into believing that Brad was out of town and not dead. It wasn’t hard to do. Evidence of Brad was everywhere. The belt casually tossed on his dresser. His favorite chipped coffee mug on the counter. The dogeared book on his nightstand, cracked open to a page he never finished reading.

He was everywhere.

Yet he wasn’t.

Desperate to avoid this new reality, I dipped raw vegetables in his A1 sauce left in the fridge, even though I hated the sharp vinegar bite of it — cautious to use some, but not all of it. I slept in a ball on my side of the bed, mindful never to encroach on his side, the sheets on his half staying cool and untouched and eerily smooth. If our dog curled up on his pillow, I gently moved him to the foot of the bed, telling him he was in “Papa’s spot,” as if space alone could hold a person's place in the world until they returned to claim it. I filled the silence with our playlists as I waited for him to walk in the door, his voice booming down the hallway, “Sugar, I’m home!”

For weeks, I lived within the confines of those four walls, leaving only to walk my dog the bare minimum required to keep him alive. The outside world only reminded me of the truth: my world stopped, but, for everyone else, it kept spinning.

So I’d retreat inward.

From the safety of my home, I could avoid the looks of pity and the questions about how I was doing. From the safety of my home, Brad could still be alive.

But you can only lie to yourself for so long, and soon, even my home became a minefield of reminders that life, somehow, continued. The 7am beep, beep, beeping from the garbage truck outside my window. The music drifting from the hotel across the street. The laughter from neighbors walking through the hallways on their way home from work, keys jingling, doors clicking shut.

Didn’t they know?

The familiar became a suffocating reminder of his absence. Brad was dead and life moved on and there was no pretending otherwise.

So I got in my car and left.

For 8 weeks, I drove 10,000 miles around the country until the unfamiliar became familiar. I replaced the Detroit city skyscrapers with snow-capped mountains. The concrete riverwalk with the dusty trails of the desert. The hum of city traffic with the noise of grit and gravel under my tires. Every day, a new landscape. Every day, a new attempt to forget.

Of course, I couldn’t forget. Brad’s music filled my car on long, lonely stretches of road. Past conversations replayed on a loop in my mind. Even his smell lingered.

After he died, I started wearing his deodorant because that smell was one of the few pieces of him that remained. During our years together, I’d borrow it on the occasion I’d run out or when I was too lazy to find my own. Even then, when his scent was out of convenience, not nostalgia, I remember enjoying the smell of his masculine musk wafting from my body. I felt more connected throughout the day, as we were separated by work — a time when I believed that the only thing that would separate us would be hours and miles, not dimensions.

But after he died, I craved that smell — the smell that was connected to our intimacy. The scent I’d inhale as he enveloped me in his giant bear hug, or as I lay on his chest, an arm pulling me in closer, his heartbeat steady under my ear.

During our early years of living together, when I took for granted the simple task of picking up a spouse’s toiletries, I frequently bought the wrong deodorant. Sometimes I’d grab antiperspirant. Other times I’d pick the wrong scent. Most often, I’d come home with gel over solid. Brad liked to playfully point out my misstep, and it eventually became a joke between us. I’d swear I had the right stick — I knew the brand and triple-checked the label — but I would still inevitably come home with the wrong one. I’d curse myself and Brad would laugh and we would toss the culprit into the drawer of backup deodorants we’d been collecting since I started shopping for him many years before.

I remember running out of his deodorant after he died. It wasn’t a slow, gradual decline, like the wearing out of most deodorants. One day, the stick just crumbled apart, chalky white pieces falling all over the bathroom tile. No warning or preparation. And just like that, his stick of deodorant, like him, was gone.

I eventually bought more and still managed to mess up the scent — buying Ice Cold instead of Original. I got home and, realizing my error, looked for Brad to share in the disbelief that, of course, I did it again. It was then I recognized it wasn’t the memories of our wedding or our vacations that I missed most. It was the small, everyday quiet experiences that no one else witnessed. Like inside jokes about deodorant.

After a few more wrong sticks, I got it right because it was no longer just his brand – it was my brand now, too. And every time I’d go down the men’s deodorant aisle, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, I’d wonder if the nearby shoppers thought it was strange of me to wear men’s deodorant, or if they simply assumed, like so many other women in the store, that I was shopping for my husband.

The blanket was different though. Unlike the years-long battle with the deodorant, It didn’t have any significance in our relationship — not until the end. For us, it was only a blanket.

But then it became the blanket I used to cover his legs when he would kick off the down comforter during a middle-of-the-night hot flash, his skin damp and too warm. It was the blanket that would follow him to the couch when he had enough strength to get out of bed, dragging behind him like a cape. It was the blanket I used as a sling to assist me in getting him to the bathroom when the cancer spread to his spine, his body lighter in my arms with every passing week, even as everything else grew too heavy to hold.

For the last weeks of his life, it was us, our dog, and this blanket, all piled together.

After he died, it wasn’t the rugby shirt he had worn for 2 decades or the pillow he slept on every night that held on to his scent. It was the blanket. And not even his real scent, but his sick, final-weeks-of-life, scent. Soured and slightly off. But I didn’t care. It was all I had left. A big empty bed, in a big empty loft, and this cheap polyester blend blanket that smelled like him, but didn’t.

Like a toddler, that navy and white nautical throw became my security blanket in the months following Brad’s death. I’d bury my face in it and take in his scent, closing my eyes and believing, just for a moment, that he was still there. I’d use it to muffle the sounds of my late-night sobs so the neighbors wouldn’t hear me. I slept with it, but not too closely and not every night because I didn’t want his scent to become diminished by my scent. I didn’t want it to become like the deodorant — something that used to be his but became mine.

Everything that used to be his was now mine.

When I left for my road trip, the blanket stayed behind in the safety of our home. And when I came back 8 weeks later, I saw it. Neatly folded on top of a pile of laundry — a generous gesture from a friend who came to prepare my house for my return.

I saw the blanket and I knew. It no longer smelled like him. Or even me. It now smelled like Tide detergent.

And just like that, his smell was gone too.

Originally written in March 2017, 6 weeks after my husband, Brad, died from kidney cancer. The anger from that sweet baby widow is palpable. For anyone recently diagnosed with advanced-stage kidney cancer, there have been several advances in treatment in the last 9 years. But also, maybe, skip this post written by a new widow, needing to express her grief.

March is Kidney Cancer Awareness Month.

Which, for a long time, I didn’t know. Which makes sense. People don’t tend to be aware of issues that don’t affect them.

But maybe I should have.

Because of my own diagnosis, I am aware that blood cancers have their own month, and lymphoma has a special color cancer ribbon. It only makes sense that kidney cancer would get its own month and special color ribbon too (turns out it does - it’s orange).

But I didn’t know. And because of that, my initial feeling was one of guilt (of course).

Am I a bad cancer widow for the total lack of awareness I have about Kidney Cancer Awareness Month? The disease that stole my husband and my whole fucking future, and I didn’t know anything about it?

Should I be more aware?

But after the guilt subsided, anger set in. I may not be aware of kidney cancer awareness month, but I am certainly aware of kidney cancer. That I am fucking aware of.

I’m aware it’s a sneaky cancer that doesn’t let itself be known until it’s too late. I’m aware that the “lucky” ones who discover it early, usually discover it by accident. I’m aware that for the rest of the people (the “unlucky” ones), it is so aggressive and awful that right when you settle in to fight, the fight is over. I’m aware it has the ability to — in an instant — swoop in and steal the life of a person you love, taking your life along with it.

I’m aware that we were too busy fighting it to advocate for it. Too busy fighting for a future, any future, to worry about awareness and ribbons. And I’m aware that with late-stage kidney cancer, chances are, it’s going to be a shorter fight than you want.

I am also aware that the people who are aware of cancer awareness month are the people still living. The fighters. The survivors.

But stage 4 kidney cancer doesn’t leave a lot of survivors. It leaves a lot of widows. That I am aware of too.

So what is the point of kidney cancer awareness month? What exactly are we trying to be aware of? What kidney cancer looks like? What it feels like? Usually nothing. Early on, when you should be aware, it looks and feels like nothing. And it’s because of this lack of awareness in the body that it is so often undetected until the cancer has metastasized, and it’s too late.

I am aware.

How about what kidney cancer does? Should we be aware of that? Because I can tell you about that, too.

I am aware that kidney cancer silently attacks your body. Every day, quietly wreaking havoc on your system. For years. So by the time you are aware, it’s too late. And then it quickly - so fucking quickly - destroys you. It will spread to all your organs. It will cause life-threatening blood clots and strokes. It will eat away at your bones. It will take your energy. And your vision. And your appetite. And your ability to sleep. And your ability to move. And if you’ve made it this far, it will eventually take your mind. And finally, when it’s taken everything else, it will take your heart and with it, your very last breath.

I am aware.

With stage 4 kidney cancer, I am aware there is no cure. No treatment that provides any real hope (although you’ll hear the story of the one guy who is 6 years in and doing well, or the person who miraculously cured her stage 4 cancer, and I am aware that you’ll grip and hold hope to these examples with every bone in your body). But in most cases, it’s a disease that will drop a bomb on you and obliterate everything and everyone in its path.

I am aware.

That’s what kidney cancer fucking does. Thank you, awareness month. I am perfectly aware.

And now that you’re also aware, now what?

Typically the purpose of cancer awareness month is to bring awareness to symptoms to look out for early detection. For some cancers, that’s a lump. For others, it’s fevers and night sweats. These symptoms can be detected early and can oftentimes be the difference between life and death1. But what about late-stage kidney cancer? What then? Be aware of the indiscernible, silent thing growing inside you? The mass that shows no symptoms and you will not physically feel until it’s metastasized and spread all over your body? Be aware of that?

There’s no early detection. There’s no early screening. Even the American Cancer Society says, “There are no recommended screening tests for kidney cancer in people who are not at increased risk. This is because no test has been shown to lower the overall risk of dying from kidney cancer.”

And because they can’t give you any concrete actions to make you aware, they recommend eating your fruits and veggies and getting sleep and working out and reducing stress and not smoking and all the other preventatives we all know.

I am aware.

And truthfully? It all feels like a bunch of bullshit.

Instead of a month of awareness, how about just being aware?

Be aware of your life and live. Live so fucking hard. Chase passion and excitement and love and adventure. Be compassionate and kind. Take risks. Fail.

Live a life so full and so aware that when you are taking your final breaths, you aren’t thinking about all the things you should have done. Instead, you are replaying all the moments you chose to fully live.

Live that life. Be aware of that.

Happy Kidney Cancer Awareness Month. I am aware.

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Last night I had the pleasure of seeing T.J. Klune, author of many books, but most notably The House in the Cerulean Sea. In his interview, he spoke honestly about the state of our world — everything from the administration and violent crackdowns to the shootings in Minneapolis and the continued harm inflicted on marginalized communities.

He also discussed his newest book, We Burned So Bright, and how even at the end of the world, there is still light — that even in the darkest stories, there can be warmth, connection, and hope.

He reminded us that even when the world feels like a place full of horrible people doing horrible things, there is always reason for hope and joy.

“Change often starts with the smallest of whispers. Like-minded people building it up to a roar.”

That’s what this community feels like to me — the softest spark that grows into a collective fire.

So today, let’s roar about all the good things happening in the middle of the horrors. Let’s talk about the glimmers and the micro-joys. Let’s celebrate the ways neighbors and communities are showing up for each other. Let’s share that despite attempts to prove otherwise, joy still exists.

Tell us — what weird, whimsical, delightful little joys are keeping you hopeful these days? Big or small, light or funny — drop them in the comments. Let’s remind each other of all the reasons we keep going. ✨

“Look for the helpers,” Mr. Rogers said.

But right now, looking isn’t enough. The harm is too organized. The cruelty is too deliberate. The stakes are too high.

So yes, we need helpers. But more than that, we need people willing to act even when they’re tired, grieving, and barely holding it together.

And if you’re thinking: I can’t even manage my own life right now — how am I supposed to help anyone else?

This is for you.

You don’t need energy. You don’t need expertise.

You need a few minutes, a phone, and the willingness to do one small thing anyway.

Below are 5 simple, tangible actions that actually move the needle — all of which you can do in your sweatpants, from bed, even on days when grief has already taken too much.

1. Contact your representatives in under 2 minutes (no scary phone call required)

Use Resistbot, which will message your officials for you.

Text RESIST to 50409 and send this (copy/paste is fine):

“I oppose funding, expansion, and cooperation with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I support policies that protect immigrants, asylum seekers, and mixed-status families.”

Do this today before the Senate votes tomorrow (January 28th). Do it again tomorrow for a different cause.

Don’t know where to begin? You can text “TRENDING” to see other popular campaigns. For example, when I did this today, it brought up the SAVE Act, which is a systematic plan to suppress the vote (which I then proceeded to sign, which took under 5 seconds).

2. Cancel subscriptions and stop shopping at businesses that support Trump and help fund ICE

We vote with our money. Cancel your subscriptions to these companies with alleged ties to ICE:

• Spotify

• Amazon

• Peacock

• Paramount+

• Amazon Prime

• Disney+

Stop shopping at these businesses:

• Target

• Home Depot

• Amazon

• Walmart

• Starbucks

• Tesla

• McDonald’s & Burger King

• PepsiCo & Coca Cola

• Samsung

• Apple

• Shell

• Chevron

• Whole Foods

• Hilton Hotels

• FedEx

• UPS

• Comcast

Convenience is not better than humanity. Support independent businesses and shop small in your town. But if you need other alternatives, has a good list of options here.

3. Set up a small recurring donation

It doesn’t have to be much because grief is expensive. But even $3–$5/month keeps legal aid moving every single day. Set it up once. Let automation carry what you can’t. If you don’t know where to begin, here are a couple options:

• Stand with Minnesota

• RAICES

• Legal Aid Justice Center

• ACLU

4. Start where you actually have power: your block.

Call, text, or check in on your neighbors. Not to debate. Not to convince. To remember that people are real and close and affected.

Lead with kindness and talk to people — even (especially) the ones who don’t see the world the way you do. Isolation is how extremism grows. Relationship is how it slows.

You don’t have to agree. You just have to stay human.

5. Call your Reps (it’s not that scary, promise)

I know some of us have a major aversion to calling strangers (I don’t even like to call for pizza), and if you’ve been forced to make grief-related calls recently, this task can feel even more monumental. But calls are more effective than emails, and they are tallied daily, so if you only do one thing, do this. If you really want to avoid humans (I get it), then call outside of office hours and leave a voicemail. Don’t know who your representatives are? Enter your address here to find out.

And to make it extra simple, here is an example script to defund ICE (the Senate votes Thursday, January 28th!), courtesy of 5calls.org :

For future calls after Thursday’s Senate vote, 5calls.org makes it super easy to call to express your opinion on other issues. Simply enter your address, and it will give you the name and number of your reps as well as a script to use.

Don’t believe your calls matter? Read this post by of .

Bonus: Share ONE resource.

Share this substack. Share an Instagram post. Share a news article. You never know who in your network will see it and take action.

Share

Grief already steals your sense of control. You don’t have to do everything right now, but you can do one small, defiant thing that reminds you that, even while grieving, you are not powerless.

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Today, on the 9th anniversary of Brad’s death, instead of focusing on the end, I’d like to go back to the beginning. To how we met, and the profound influence Brad had — and continues to have — on my life. This piece was expanded on from the story I wrote for Brad’s Book of Stories after he died. I didn’t know how to sum him up in a single story, so I started from the beginning.

I met Brad early in our senior year at Mary Washington College. He used to invite me over on Sunday mornings for strong black coffee and the New York Times crossword puzzle. We’d sit on his back patio on the ground floor of his apartment, and he’d somehow balance both his Swiss flag mug and a smoke in his left hand, and the Times puzzle and a pen in his right.

Our crossword styles, like our personalities, were different. I’d read every clue — in order — filling in the answers I knew, starting with the “across” clues before moving on to “downs.” Brad would tackle one across clue and then each corresponding down clue to cross-check his answers. Brad’s way was obviously (or “evidently” as Brad would say to me) superior, although I never admitted that to him.

Brad seemed so much older — more grown up — than the rest of our peers. In those early days, I remember sitting in the warmth of the sun on his patio, watching him with his coffee, smokes, and a crossword puzzle, thinking, “Who is this man?”

We’d met by chance in a dorm room that didn’t belong to either of us. Brad was — no surprise — getting ready to go out to a party, and I — also no surprise — was preparing for a night in. He was slightly disheveled — messy bedhead, ripped cargo shorts, and a crooked smile that immediately felt familiar. With way too much confidence, he stuck out his hand: “I’m Bradford Frost. But most people call me Brad.”

“Hello Bradford Frost,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear — a nervous tick.

Caught off guard, he stared at me — for just a second longer than comfortable — and his mouth turned up into a devilish half smile. “I guess you’re not most people.”

He was still holding my hand in his.

Each time I’d run into Brad after our initial meeting, he’d playfully elbow me and, with a smirk, ask, “Hey D, what’s your story?” I was always caught off guard by this question. Brad refused to accept surface-level small talk, and I was accustomed to quick one-liners.

But Brad always wanted to know more. He was an endless well of depth and curiosity.

What gets you excited?
What keeps you up at night?
What are those hidden dreams you’re too afraid to say out loud?

He wanted to know it all. And he had a way of asking that both pushed your levels of comfort while also making you feel safe. He was rare in that way.

Brad had this innate ability to break people open. Over the twelve years we were together, I’d watch him connect with strangers over taboo — and often polarizing — topics like politics, race, and privilege. Once, when a stranger vehemently disagreed with him in the comments section of an op-ed he wrote, he invited her out for coffee so he could better understand her opinion.

At first, Brad’s intense need for depth and connection intimidated me. It challenged me. But over time, it changed me. Once afraid to use my voice — afraid to stand out from the crowd — I started to speak up. I publicly shared my cancer journey (including some not-so-conventional choices) because Brad not only encouraged me, but also allowed me the space to feel safe and supported. When I was nervous to publish my writing, he placed a sticky note on my computer that read:

“Use your voice. Don’t apologize. Be honest. Have fucking fun.”

Brad didn’t just encourage others to tell their stories; he shared his own vulnerabilities and insecurities, too.

Even with a terminal cancer diagnosis.

Despite our resistance, he encouraged us to have difficult conversations about his mortality and the possibility of his death. We discussed our anger, our guilt, our hopes, our fears, and our optimism.

“Don’t treat me with kid gloves,” Brad used to say to anyone who asked what he needed. His biggest fear surrounding the diagnosis wasn’t death. It was — in his words — “that cancer would silence us, make us disengage, and force us to talk around the disease as opposed to working through it together.”

“I don’t want this bullshit to stop us from having the hard discussions,” Brad said.

It never did. And Brad challenged us until the end.

Because of Brad, I live a life full of depth and connection. Some days it would be easier to close up and swim back to the shallow end of life. But then I think about Brad nudging me and obnoxiously wanting to know, “What’s your story?” And not just the surface level, everything’s “fine” story. But the messy, complicated story. The full-of-fear-and-hope-and-excitement story. The story that acknowledges the full pendulum of the human experience: the well of wonder, the horrendous hurt, the immense love, the unbearable grief.

I want to live that story. I am living that story.

I regularly think back to those early days on Brad’s patio, with his crosswords and smokes. To the simplicity. The contentment. The ease. I think about all those times Brad obnoxiously nudged me and asked, “What’s your story?”

I had no idea then, in those young and early days, that so much of my answer would be “you.”

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Please note that I am not a therapist. I don’t have any official expertise, but I do have experience. Lots and lots of experience.

Q: What are some last-minute gift ideas for a grieving person (that are meaningful but require very little effort)? Like most, I’m out of time and ideas, but I still want to show up for my grieving friend in a thoughtful way
— Late-to-the-game & desperate

Hello, Late-to-the-game -

I know you are not alone. This time of the year is overwhelming for pretty much everyone, and I love that you still know how important it is to show up in a meaningful way for your grieving friends.

To help ease your burden, I’ve done the work for you and created a series of thoughtful, low-effort gifts (that far exceed what you can order on Prime). These gifts aren’t about fixing the grief or forcing cheer. They’re about showing up in a way that shows you understand grief, and without putting any sort of expectation on your friend.

“I Did the Emotional Labor for You” Gifts

Support that reduces explaining, deciding, and thinking

1. A pre-written text library

Why it helps
Grief often steals language. This gives them words when they don’t have any.

What it might look like
A Notes page, Google Doc, or email with copy-and-paste texts like:

• “Today is heavier than I expected, and I could use a little joy.”

• “Can you sit with me without fixing anything?”

• “I really want to talk about them, can you just come listen?”

What to write in the card

“I made this so you don’t have to find the words on hard days. Here are 10 texts you can copy/paste back to me.”

2. ‘I’ll handle it’ coupons

Why it helps
Grief creates decision fatigue. This removes one mental task entirely. Just be sure you follow through on anything you offer.

What it might look like
A handwritten coupon or note offering to:

• Make a phone call that they’ve been avoiding

• Research something they don’t have the energy for

• Cancel plans on their behalf

What to write in the card

“You don’t need to manage it all alone. If there’s one thing you don’t want to deal with, I’ve got it.”

3. A downloadable Grief Registry (done for you!)

Why it helps
The Grief Registry gives you a way to help without guessing — or putting pressure on them to “know what they need.” You can download it, include a short note, and let them decide if and when they want to use it. It’s not a one-time offer of help. It’s an open door.

What it looks like
A simple printable where they can check off:

• Tangible items (meals, books, toiletries)

• Quality Time (dinners out, movies in, getaways)

• Emotional support (sharing stories, long walks, a listening ear)

What to write in the card

“This is here so you don’t have to explain yourself over and over again. Check off what you need (or fill in your own), then hand it back to me when you need extra help.”

Memory Without Pressure Gifts

Ways to honor the person they lost

4. Book of Stories gift card

Why it helps
This gift card lets them know the importance of preserving memories, but without the pressure of doing it now.

What it might look like
A gift card sent straight to their inbox, optionally paired with an offer to collect the first few stories from others, so they’re not starting from zero.

What to write in the card

“A place to remember the memories. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll help you collect stories from our friends and family.”

5. A Single Printed Photo

Why it helps
It honors their person without creating clutter or expectations. Bonus if it’s a photo they haven’t seen before.

What it might look like
One photo. No frame. No instructions.

What to write in the card

“I came across this photo recenly and it made me think about all the fun times together. I hope it brings a smile to your day.”

6. A Memory-Adjacent Gesture

Why it helps
It acknowledges their person without requiring storytelling or emotional output.

What it might look like

• A link to a song they loved

• A screenshot of a quote that fits them

• A book you thought they would love

What to write in the card

“This reminded me of them. No need to do anything with it — I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about them.”

Nervous System Care (Not Performative Self-Care)

Support that regulates instead of fixes

7. A “Bad Day Survival List”

Why it helps
On hard days, choice is exhausting. This encourages them to take care of themselves in the most basic way without having to figure out how.

What it might look like
A short list such as:

• Lie on the floor

• Ice on your wrists

• Rewatch the same show

• No talking required

What to write in the card

“I know it feels like nothing makes a difference, so here are some small “survival” tools that can help get you to the next day.”

8. Permission to Opt Out

Why it helps
Grievers feel pressure to perform normalcy — this gives them an out.

What it might look like
A card, text, or printable explicitly giving permission to say no. Bonus if you include an alternative plan, like uber eats gift card or a massage.

What to write in the card

“You are officially excused from cheer, productivity, and explaining yourself this season. Here’s a gift card for a massage instead.”

9. A Guided Silence

Why it helps
Sometimes the most supportive thing is quiet.

What it might look like
A link to white noise, a short breathing track, or a “do nothing” timer.

What to write in the card

“This is for when your brain won’t turn off and words feel like too much.”

10. A Grief Movie Playlist (Curated for How You Feel)

Why it helps
Grief doesn’t need advice — it needs containment. Movies can help release emotion, quiet the mind, or gently remind someone that joy still exists, without requiring conversation or effort.

What it might look like
A shared note, text, or printable with three mini-playlists they can choose from, depending on the day. For example:

Movies to Help You Cry (When feelings are stuck and need somewhere to go)

• Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

• Beaches

• Armageddon

Movies to Help You Sleep (When your nervous system needs quiet)

• Julie & Julia

• The Holiday

• Love Actually

Movies to Help You Feel a Little Joy (When you want lightness without guilt)

• Little Miss Sunshine

• Chef

• Tin Cup

What to write in the card

“Whether you need to sleep, cry, or feel some joy, here is a list to help get you there.”

Gentle Reassurance Gifts

Comfort they can return to again and again

11. A Stack of Grief Reminders

Why it helps
Grief distorts self-talk. These offer grounding without advice.

What it might look like
A small stack of printed cards, folded notes, or a digital swipeable list they can return to when things feel heavy.

Five reminder examples

• “There is no timeline for this.”

• “You are not doing grief wrong.”

• “You don’t have to make meaning today.”

• “Rest counts as progress.”

• “You are allowed to feel joy and sadness in the same hour.”

What to write in the card

“These are here for the moments when your brain turns on you. Take one when you need the reminder”

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I walked into the cancer center and immediately felt like a fraud.

The faces — somber but polite — looked at me with pity. I imagined their conversations. What they were thinking.

She’s so young.
I wonder why she’s here.
Where’s her support?

I don’t need support, I imagined back. I’m not here for that. I’m not like you.

Avoiding their eyes, I looked down at my clipboard and filled out my advance directive before being led back to my windowless room.

A rushed nurse practitioner pranced in. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “It’s for hematology — not cancer.”

I wasn’t sure if she said that to all her patients, or just me. She clipped the pulse oximeter to my finger.

103…104…105…

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

“Let’s let you relax a bit,” she said, glancing at my heart rate.

I told her about my dad — how the last time I’d been in this building, in that same waiting room, I was with him. I told her how he died.

“But I’m fine. It was a while ago,” the words tumbled out, meant to reassure her. Or maybe me.

107…115…128…

My heart raced. The weight of it all, showing up on the small screen.

“We’ll just go with 103,” she said, turning back to the computer. She continued down my chart.

“You had lymphoma?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re… widowed?”

She paused. Looked at me.

“Cancer, also,” I said, before cracking an inappropriate joke to ease both of our discomfort.

We made it through the rest of the appointment, talking about ferritin levels and hereditary risks for iron overload. We didn’t mention cancer again.

But my body never settled.

The tightness in my chest.
The pit in my stomach.
The relentless thud of my heart.

Slumped in my car afterward, I refused to let my burning eyes spill over.

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

It felt ridiculous to be so affected. The appointment wasn’t even concerning.

It wasn’t cancer.

I was fine.

But that’s the thing about trauma. Even when our brains insist we’re fine, our bodies don’t lie.

My pulse. The tightness in my chest. The pit in my stomach.

My body remembered being there with my dad — the waiting room, the scheduling chair with its false sense of privacy, the sterile rooms.

It remembered further back, with Brad. An almost identical space in a hospital on the opposite side of the state. The waiting. The wondering. The worrying.

And before that, too — my own diagnosis. The machines. The monitors. The scans.

I’ve gotten very good at saying I’m fine.

Fine enough to sit in waiting rooms.
Fine enough to joke with medical professionals.
Fine enough to drive myself home and hold it together.

But fine isn’t the absence of fear.
Fine isn’t proof that nothing still hurts.
Fine is often just the language we use when we’ve learned how to survive.

My body wasn’t betraying me in that exam room. It was remembering.

I wasn’t just one person sitting in that chair. I was a daughter, a wife, a patient, a widow — every version of me who had learned that hospitals can change everything.

No wonder my heart raced. No wonder my chest tightened. No wonder.

I’ve spent years questioning reactions like this — minimizing them, apologizing for them, telling myself I should be past it by now.

But there was nothing wrong with me in that room.

I wasn’t dramatic. I wasn’t weak. I was remembering.

And sometimes remembering doesn’t live in our thoughts. It lives in our bodies.

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“You should go get a massage!”
“You should go to yoga!”
“You should take time for you!”

That’s what people told me when I was caring for my dying dad.

Were they well-intentioned? Of course. Helpful? Not really.

What most people didn’t understand was that caring for my dad became a 24/7 job that drained every ounce of physical and emotional energy I had. Yoga, massages, “a little time to myself” — it all sounded lovely in theory, but completely unrealistic in practice.

What I actually needed was someone to come sit with me because leaving the house — even for an hour — required effort I no longer had. I needed someone to sit with him so I could run to the grocery store or the pharmacy or just sit alone in my car for ten minutes and cry. I needed someone who could listen without judgment as I whispered the shameful, complicated truths I didn’t dare say out loud: that I was exhausted, resentful, and questioning the choice I’d made to take this on.

To me, the closest thing to self-care was bottling up my stress, pretending I was fine, and numbing my sorrows with a bottle of wine.

Caregiving is brutally hard. It’s full of unique heartbreaks, responsibilities, and losses — and every caregiver’s needs look a little bit different. But one thing is true across the board:

Caregivers need care, too.

There’s no perfect or simple way to support the caregivers in your life, but here’s a place to start. It’s less about “fixing” things and more about active listening, easing their load, and showing up without ego or judgment (and not taking it personally if they aren’t up for seeing anyone).

Read through, share with someone who might need it, and let’s keep this conversation going.

10 Real Ways to Support the Caregivers in Your Life

1. Be a safe place for their hard truths. Let them vent without trying to fix it. Caregivers carry so much guilt — give them room to say the unsayable.

2. Feed them. Bring groceries. Make a meal. Pack snacks. Bonus: bring something tailored to their loved one’s diet, too.

3. Offer company — on their terms. Sometimes, the best gift is just sitting beside them in silence. And sometimes it’s taking their place so they can step out.

4. Don’t wait for them to ask for help. Be specific: “I’m free Thursday at 2pm — what errands can I run for you?” or “I’m dropping off dinner, do you prefer Italian or Thai?”

5. Yes, gift the massage — but also arrange the coverage. A spa day isn’t relaxing if they’re worrying about who’s watching their loved one. Help set up respite care so they can have a small moment of peace.

6. Take on everyday tasks. Do the laundry. Wash the dishes. Mow the lawn. These things pile up, and your help makes a real dent.

7. Ask what they want to talk about. They might want a distraction. They might not. Let them lead, and respect what they need.

8. Respect their capacity — and don’t take it personally. If they cancel plans or can’t hang out, keep showing you care. Send a card, a care package, or a little joy drop-off.

9. Protect their alone time. Offer to sit with their loved one so they can shower, nap, cry, or just be — without being on call.

10. Keep showing up. Not just once. Not just at the beginning. Caregiving is a marathon. Check in often and remind them they’re not alone.

To all the caregivers out there: what would you add?

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If you found this helpful, here are a couple more posts you may be interested in:

When I was earlier in my grief, I’m not sure there was a more activating word than “gratitude.”

Be grateful for the time you had. Be grateful you’re young and can find someone else. Be grateful you didn’t have kids that you now have to raise alone.

I was grateful for none of that. And truthfully, it was hard to imagine being grateful for anything when Brad was dead.

But of course, there were things I was grateful for.

I was grateful for planes that allowed me to escape that first Christmas without Brad. I was grateful for the distractions of my nieces and nephews, and their simple joys. I was grateful for my dog, who forced me to get outside and breathe in a tiny bit of fresh air every day.

Gratitude is there — it just might look a little different in grief.

As we enter another season where gratitude is shoved down our throats, can you dig into your own well and share what you’re actually grateful for right now? Not the toxic positivity version of gratitude, but the real-life grieving version?

Tell us in the comments: What are you grateful for? It can be messy, honest, raw, or full of pure delight.

And if you could use a little support to find gratitude this season, we are doing 30 days of gentle prompts over in the Forced Joy Club. Maybe you’ll consider joining us.

My one true sentence:

Being asked to find gratitude while grieving sucks (but it can also help…)

Let’s be honest: being asked to find gratitude while grieving sucks.

As we enter November, the word “gratitude” is tossed around a lot. If you’re like me, this word may be activating as everyone urges us to find the silver lining in grief (blah) and throws around platitudes of “at leasts” (double blah).

I can’t tell you the number of people who told me to be grateful for the time Brad and I had (the last thing I wanted to hear)...

AND (always both/and), that being said, research has consistently shown that practicing gratitude strengthens our mental, physical, and emotional health, as well as reduces anxiety and depression.

Practicing gratitude literally changes your biology (I know, I know, who cares, right?). And when life is particularly shitty, feelings of joy and gratitude can be especially hard.

Which is exactly why we might need a gentle nudge — a little forced gratitude, if you will.

Join us for a low-pressure month of small, doable practices inside the Forced Joy Club — no toxic positivity, no gold stars, no pretending.

THIS IS FOR YOU IF:

• The word “gratitude” makes you bristle, but you still want to feel a tiny bit better.

• You want company in the most “thankful” month of the year.

• You’re tired of saying “I’m fine” and want a space where gratitude can be complicated.

WHAT YOU’LL GET:

• Short daily prompts (think 2–3 minutes, tops) you can do honestly — even if your gratitude is “I took a shower.”

• Gentle reminders and a private space to share tiny wins (or skip days without shame).

• Community support from people who get that grief and gratitude can coexist.

• Full access to the Club and all its monthly events!1

✨Starts November 1. Come as you are; do what you can✨

In a world of forced silver linings, gratitude lands differently here — in the privacy of a grief space where we’re all just doing our best to survive. Gratitude doesn’t cancel grief. It sits beside it. It won’t fix the ache, but it can make breathing a little easier.

Join Us in the Challenge

Reflections from a Forced Joy Club Member on the Gratitude Challenge:

I find it hard to be grateful for a life that bereaved me of my life, love, and joy - and has me living with grief and loneliness.

But this challenge has unlocked my heart to the possibility of feeling more than just sadness. That in itself is maybe a reason to be grateful and feel gratitude.

By writing about it, I’ve spotted glimpses of myself – the enthusiastic and “looking forward to things” version of me. By writing about it, I’ve shown myself that I still have a bit of a growth mindset and that I have the capacity to think a tiny bit outside the box of grief.

This challenge has been very good for me to participate in.

Not only have I turned and twisted my own thoughts, feelings, and memories, but I’ve also had the honor to take part in my fellow widow friends’ thoughts about “what being grateful” means to them.

Sharing is caring, but it’s also learning and feeling. This challenge has both mirrored my own experiences and challenged me to think in new ways. As I’m entering another rough month, this is something to hold on to and lean upon.

Please note that I am not a therapist. I don’t have any official expertise, but I do have experience. Lots and lots of experience.

Q: I feel alone, helpless, and overwhelmed. What do I do? — Not Fine, But Trying

Hello, Not Fine -

In the last several months, I have had some version of this conversation with friends, acquaintances, community members, and strangers in line at the grocery store.

You are not alone, my friend.

Times are tough. And if you add personal grief (which I’m guessing you are because you’re here) on top of collective grief, it can feel paralyzing.

I could quote Frozen (I’m an auntie to 9 nieces and nephews — I can always quote Frozen) and suggest you focus on the Next Right Thing (which is good advice), but instead, I’m going to share one of my favorite poems:

Count the ribs. Make small fires. Be nostalgic. Remember.

Even inside the belly of the whale, there is hope.

What do you do? Hang on.

And maybe do the next right thing.

💛 Remember, sharing is caring. If you enjoyed this post, please consider liking, commenting, or sharing with someone else!

Today, I have been in remission from cancer for 13 years.

My own cancer journey feels like a lifetime ago — and in a way it was. Since my initial diagnosis in November 2011, I relapsed, Brad was diagnosed (and died), and my dad was diagnosed (and died). My cancer feels almost trivial.

But of course it wasn’t.

A cancer diagnosis at 28 years old, followed by a relapse 6 months later, is life-altering. And sometimes I minimize it because, well, I survived.

I survived when so many others have not.

But even though I survived, I live with the aftermath, the trauma, and the memories of that experience, still, over a decade later — every pain, lump, and cough, still — a new fear of recurrence.

That should not be minimized.

So in honor of 13 years in remission, I thought I would share a post I wrote a couple years ago, on my 10-year cancer-versary, about what it means to still be standing. And why these days deserve to be celebrated.

10 Years of Surviving — October 3, 2023

10 years ago, without fanfare, I received an email from my radiologist that said, “Scans are perfect.”

It had been a year of clean scans since my sudden and unexpected relapse. The relapse that challenged my youthful belief that everything would be ok. The relapse that flipped my odds on my “good cancer” from a 90% 5-year survival rate to a less than 10% survival rate.

I recently found Brad’s journal entry from that day. In the middle of the night, he had googled the life expectancy of a Hodgkins Lymphoma patient who had a recurrence within the first 6 months of treatment.

The numbers were grim. He didn’t tell me.

He wrote about how I was in the next room, dancing and singing and packing for an upcoming trip. He didn’t want to be the one who broke my joy.

He silently held our new reality, terrified, and imagined what life would look like without me in it. He cried from the safety of the night, making sure I couldn’t hear.

Of course, I already knew the statistics. Like Brad, I also secretly googled and learned what we were not supposed to know: I might die.

And instead of worrying Brad, I danced and sang and packed for our trip, not wanting to break our joy.

For 5 years since that initial diagnosis, we held our breath. We put our future on pause, while living boldly in the present. We traveled the world. We connected with friends. We loved.

And then, we dared to breathe again. We dared to talk about our future — about family and careers and big long-term dreams. But we dared to dream too big, it seemed, and days later, Brad had a pain in his side, and that pain turned out to be cancer. And that cancer would end up killing him — and our future together — 101 days after that.

For me, the following 5 years would be spent grieving alone. Grieving Brad. Grieving the loss of my innocence. Grieving the partnership of someone to walk through life together.

All while worrying — more than ever — that my own cancer would come back.

To be here today, 10 years in remission, feels like a remarkable fucking feat.

To look back at everything I survived: cancer, caregiving, death. Repeat.

I don’t always give myself credit for not only making it, but also somehow managing to create a pretty incredible life out of all that loss. Somehow managing to rediscover life in the wake of such profound grief.

But today, I want to acknowledge myself for all that I did. For all that I survived.

It’s a big fucking deal.

I’ll never know why I survived and Brad didn’t. Why I survived and so many others didn’t.

But today, I want to acknowledge out loud that, despite the odds, I did survive.

I survived.

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My favorite testimonial from my annual Joy Scout Camp widow’s retreat is, “I hate people. I’m not sure why I’m here.”

I get it.

No one wants to be in the position to need a grief retreat. We don’t want to be in the position to need any support.

Most of us are pissed that we’re widows at all.

So it’s not uncommon for weary and reluctant travelers to show up that first night on the shores of Lake Michigan — with walls up, teeth gritted — and wonder what the hell they signed up for.

But I’ll tell you.

We spend so much of our grief in isolation — scrolling late at night, texting friends who don’t always get it, piecing together support in comments and DMs. Online connection matters, but sometimes we need more.

What I’ve learned from hosting Joy Scout Camp is this: when grievers gather in real life, something shifts. Healing deepens. Joy more easily sneaks back in.

Here are 10 reasons you should consider showing up to a widow’s retreat (or other in-person grief retreat):

1. You Remember You’re Not Alone

In grief, it’s easy to feel like you’re the only one living this reality. Sitting face-to-face with people who get it breaks that isolation instantly.

2. No Explaining Necessary

At Joy Scout Camp, no one has to ask, “So what happened?” You walk in already understood. That relief is palpable — and healing.

3. Your Body Joins the Conversation

Online, it’s all words. In person, your body is invited to heal too — through shared meals, yoga, movement, laughter, or a silent disco under the stars.

4. Shared Rituals Sink Deeper

Creating a new vision of your future, standing around a bonfire, plunging into a cold lake — these acts hold more power when witnessed and shared.

5. Community Amplifies Emotion

Yes, you’ll probably cry. But you’ll also laugh harder than you have in months. Emotions expand in the safety of community.

6. Nature Helps Carry the Weight

At Joy Scout Camp, the lake, the trees, the night sky — they hold us just as much as we hold each other. In-person gatherings often bring you closer to the earth — and that’s healing in itself.

7. It Feels Like a Reset

Retreats pull you out of the grind. When you step back from your normal routine (and remove all expectations), you can see your grief (and your healing) with new perspective.

8. Connection Becomes Friendship

There’s a difference between “knowing someone online” and swapping stories over a morning coffee, or laughing under the stars. Friendships form faster in person.

9. You Carry It Home With You

The bonds you make at a weekend retreat don’t vanish when you leave. They ripple out — into texts, phone calls, and a sense of belonging that follows you back to daily life.

10. It’s Proof of Life

Gathering in person is a declaration: I’m still here. I can still feel, laugh, dance, cry, connect. It doesn’t erase grief, but it’s living proof that joy can survive alongside it.

Grief will always be part of your story, but it doesn’t have to be all of it. When we meet in real life, something shifts: grief feels lighter, joy feels closer, and the road ahead feels a little less lonely.

Oh, and the woman who said she hated people and didn’t know why she was there? She’s since traveled the world with Widows in the Wild, as a welcoming presence to the new widows who question what they’re doing.

So whether it’s Joy Scout Camp or another circle near you: get offline, show up, and let yourself be held.

And if traveling isn’t an option for you right now, but you could still need some support, consider joining us over at the Forced Joy Club, the best online space for grievers (worst club, best people).

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Before the calendar reminds me, my body already knows.

In the exhaustion in my muscles. In the ache in my chest. In the anger in my mood. I feel it everywhere before I am attuned to the date.

My body knows. Grief is a part of me now. A sixth sense, reminding me that I am unable to escape the pain. Reminding me of dates — both happy and devastating — that I'd sometimes prefer to forget.

But I can’t.

My body shuts down and I get sick. My patience lessens and I back my car into a tree. My temper shortens and I yell at those I care about. My emotions heighten and tears flow freely and inconveniently.

And I know — deep in my bones, even if I was oblivious to what month we were in, I would know. My anniversary is approaching.

And for me, my anniversary kicks off, not a week or a month, but an entire season of significant dates: a season of grief.

My anniversary. My remission date. Brad’s cancerversary. My cancerversary. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year’s. Brad’s death. My dad’s death. It’s all coming.

And in between those monumental dates are flashbacks to emergency rooms and scan results and unbelievable pain and suffering that wasn’t always talked about or written about, but was lived in the quiet reality of a household fighting desperately to survive. And also in between those monumental dates were intimate moments of hope and joy and love.

I carry these moments of grief just like I carry these moments of love — they both slow me down and propel me forward. The heaviness of those moments is still there, even years later. But so is a new fortitude. A new strength I didn’t have in previous years.

As I approach my anniversary on the fall equinox, the grief surfaces before I even note the date. The tension just below the surface, the rapid heart beat, the ache in my bones.

My body always remembers — no matter how much I may want to forget.

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So often grief is portrayed as loud. It’s associated with external cues. Guttural moans and full-body sobs.

But so much of grief is quiet. Internal. Happening in the corners of your home, witnessed only by the dust gathering in the cracks.

It’s seeing their favorite coffee mug and remembering they’ll never drink from it again. Or the song that you play on repeat, thinking of them. Or the inside joke you can’t quite recall.

So many tiny moments full of enormous grief.

Let’s bring light to what no one else sees — the everyday experiences that are felt but not witnessed.

Tell us in the comments: What is part of your grief that no one but you sees or feels? Share with us some of your quiet moments of grief.

My one true sentence:

Just because you stepped in shit once, doesn't mean you won't step in shit again.

Life isn’t fair.

We’ve been told this our entire lives.

But it’s not until we personally experience the unfairness of life, do we begin to understand.

At one point, Brad’s life appeared to be so unfairly good, that he was told, “You must have come out of the womb, stepped in shit once, and never stepped in shit again.”

Brad had the passion and the purpose and the wife and the puppy and the friends and the family.

Brad had it all. Which means he must have gotten his shit stepping out of the way early.

But then his dad suddenly died (shit.) And then one of his best friends suddenly died (shit.). And then his wife suddenly got cancer (shit).

After that, we thought we were done stepping in shit. We assumed the universe worked in a way that rewarded good people by avoiding future shit.

But then Brad got cancer (shit) and died (ultimate shit).

And for a moment, I thought that maybe I was done stepping in shit.

But then a whole lot of other shit stepping situations happened (more deaths, more cancer, more heartbreak). It felt unfair.1

But here’s the thing: Just because you stepped in shit once, doesn’t mean you won’t step in shit again.

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s this: there is no escaping the shit.

But I’ve also learned it does absolutely nothing to spend your time worrying about all the potential piles of shit out there (trust me, I’ve wasted my fair share of hours worrying about the illness shit and the death shit and the pain shit and all the other bull shit).

The shit is inevitable.

My advice? Be the cliché and live your fucking life to the fullest, knowing you will eventually step in shit. Maybe you’ll get a terrible diagnosis. Maybe a person you love will die. Maybe both. Maybe worse.

Because life isn’t fair.

You will step in shit. And then step in shit again and again and again.

And when you do step in shit? I hope you do it while living fully. Blinded by joy and dancing and skipping and laughing your way into that shit.

Because it’s not whether or not you will step in shit (you will), but how well you live your life while doing the shit stepping, that matters.

What’s your one true sentence today?

I’d love to hear where you’re at. What is true for you in this moment? Let’s continue the conversation in the comments below.

Leave a comment

Please note that I am not a therapist. I don’t have any official expertise, but I do have experience. Lots and lots of experience.

Q: How does your current partner feel about you being a widow who talks about her late husband? — Dipping a Toe into Dating

Hello, Dipping a Toe -

Recently, I was asked this same question: “How does Nate feel about it all?” The “all” that was being referred to was about me being a widow, an outspoken grief advocate, and a human who loves one person who is dead and another person who is not.

So I’ll tell you the same thing I told them.

Navigating a relationship in the wake of a profound loss is complicated. It takes an immense amount of courage to put yourself out there. Phrases that come easily to other happy couples, like “you’re the love of my life” or “you’re my favorite person in the world” or even “I’m so lucky to be with you,” come with a pang of guilt. Guilt at the idea that Brad is not my “one” love. And guilt that Nate, no matter how long we may be together, will always have to share these titles with Brad.

We’re lucky to be with each other. We both know and feel that. But we also both know that our “luck” is built from the foundation of Brad’s death -- that we exist as a couple only because Brad and I do not.

We have so much capacity for love. I am lucky that Nate never makes me feel like there’s not enough supply for both him and Brad. But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard on him. I know it would be on me.

I once asked Nate how he feels about it “all.”

“Honored” is the word he used.

Honored to be with a person whose previous relationship he admired. Honored I chose him. And honored to be on this adventure together.

But it’s me who is honored.

Nate is the kind of guy who goes on vacations with Brad’s family. He calls my nieces and nephews on their birthdays and just to chat. He reads every heartbreaking and beautiful piece of writing I share about my life with Brad. He brainstorms org charts to push the Forced Joy Project forward (and is the reason “fuck fine” went out into the world).

I never thought I’d find another partner. I didn’t see how it was possible to love one man while also forever loving another. Dating as a widow is full of complexities. The perceptions, the judgment, the questions - they’re all real. But Nate recognizes that even if sometimes life is hard, love is not.

And for that, I feel pretty fucking good about it all (and I think Nate does too).

💛 Remember, sharing is caring. If you enjoyed this post, please consider liking, commenting, or sharing with someone else! 💛

Are you a widow who is dating again? How does your partner feel about your widowhood? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

If you liked this post, here are others that may resonate:

The original version of this post was published in HerStry, a publication that empowers women through storytelling. It was a difficult piece to write and an even more difficult experience to live. I’m grateful for HerStry for sharing my story.

The doctor gets straight to the point. No pleasantries. She flips through the chart and goes through his health history.

Smoker. Diabetes. A-fib. Kidney failure. Congestive heart failure. Cancer.

I am familiar with each diagnosis, as some date back to my childhood, but it’s still sobering to hear out loud. Probably because my dad spent our entire lives minimizing, and more often, avoiding his problems.

Cold air is streaming from above and ruffling a stapled medical resources page tacked to the wall. It’s filled with tiny, almost illegible print and endless lines of phone numbers. Its intention is to let the occupants of this claustrophobic room know that ‘help is available,’ but even with this never-ending list, I feel completely overwhelmed. Like no amount of resources can help me.

“Do you have an advanced directive?” The new primary care doctor asks my ticking time bomb father.

My dad shifts in his seat. This is the second time I’ve been a witness to this conversation since moving him into my home, and I recognize his discomfort. The first was in the ICU a month earlier, the morning his heart stopped. He was lucky—if that’s the right word—because he was already in the hospital due to complications with his recent diagnosis of esophageal cancer. If he had been at home, he would have been dead. Sometimes I wonder, knowing what I know now— knowing what we would eventually go through together—if that would have been preferred.

After he was revived with CPR, a pacemaker was put in his chest. One more life-saving tool to keep my dad alive. A week later, we would add a feeding tube to the list.

After his ‘heart pause’—that’s what they called it, a pause—the palliative care doctor paid him a visit based on my request. I knew my dad would be uncomfortable with the conversation, but eighteen months earlier, I had collected the remains of my thirty-five-year-old husband and didn’t have the patience to tip-toe around the feelings of my rapidly declining father. I needed a plan.

The palliative care doctor asked about an advanced directive and my dad, like an indignant child, asked him to leave.

“Maybe now is not a good time,” the palliative care doctor whispered to me outside my dad’s curtain. Even he wanted to avoid the tough conversation.

“His. Heart. Just. Stopped.” I responded through gritted teeth. “When would a better time be?”

Talking about death isn’t just hard for the dying. It’s hard for everyone, including the doctors giving the life sentence. Even with my husband, who died one hundred days after his terminal diagnosis, the doctors were always searching, searching, searching for the next miracle cure. Not once did anyone directly tell us he was dying. We live in a glass-half-full society that requires us to keep fighting, to keep hoping, and to keep denying the truth that we will, in fact, one day die. Most of us sooner than we want.

My dad was the epitome of glass half full, despite—or maybe because of—his difficult life. He was the son of an abusive alcoholic, the ex-husband of not one, but two women who wanted more than he could give, and the father of three children he barely saw. But you’d never know any of that when you met him. He was always full of smiles and warmth and positivity. It’s what made him so good at his job as a used car salesman. He wasn’t lying about the condition of the car. He believed the car could be fixed. He simply overlooked the severity of problems.

So it’s no surprise my dad refused to talk about death. I never understood this because he had been on the verge of it for as long as I could remember. He’d been struck by lightning, twice (or so the story goes). He was a pack-a-day smoker his entire life. He survived every ailment under the sun, including kidney failure, septic shock, a burst appendix, and blood poisoning. And now, a few weeks after his cancer diagnosis, he survived his heart stopping. For all the times he rubbed shoulders with death, my dad never learned how to be comfortable with his own mortality. He was, in his mind, immortal. And I played along—until now.

I used to be like my dad, positive and avoidant. Like him, I was a people-pleaser who rarely talked about herself with any sort of depth. When you wade in shallow waters, it’s harder to drown. And if I did flounder in the deep end, I’d convince you I was fine, while under the surface, my legs kicked desperately to keep me afloat.

But after my own cancer diagnosis at twenty-eight years old, I could no longer keep up the facade while silently gasping for air. When people asked how I was, I didn’t find the silver lining or claim my diagnosis was a gift. Instead, I told them the truth. And when, five years later, my husband received a cancer diagnosis that would take his life mere months later, any pretense that we are guaranteed a long life was shattered.

The words from my late husband, “we’re all terminal,” reverberated through me as I moved through the world with a new sense of urgency.

I unapologetically talked about death. Just not to my dad. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. We stayed happy, mostly, and surface level always.

Even as my dad attempted to leave the hospital to sneak in a cigarette, “Don’t worry baby, it’s all fine.”

The older I got—and the more of life I experienced—I realized that the ‘fun’ weekends of my childhood were a band-aid for actual parenting. He rarely showed up for basketball games or helped pay for school. Never asked who I was dating or what I wanted to be when I grew up. Packing lunches, checking homework—these were absent from his job description. He was the typical divorced dad who thought showing up as a parent meant having fun and not rocking the boat.

Which, for a child, is fun, until it isn’t.

Like the time my dad took us to Atlantic City for the weekend. I struggle to remember how old we were, but my little sister was young enough to still be in a car seat. I remember the excitement that exuded from my dad as he sang along to the oldies station on the radio. I remember the salty boardwalk fries, dipped in vinegar. And I remember the panicked look on my mom’s face when we were dropped off five hours late the next day, without a word to where we were.

Apparently, my dad drove us two hundred miles to an out-of-state casino without bothering to call my mom.

“Lisa, it’s fine! The kids are fine!” he yelled from the driveway.

Seeing the fury in my mom’s eyes, I stepped in, my little hand tugging at the edge of my mom’s shirt. “We’re fine, mom. Don’t worry.”

Growing up, he was the typical every-other-weekend dad, spoiling us with late bedtimes, too much sugar, and R-rated movies my mom would never let us watch. He told us tall tales of his life that we rarely believed, but loved hearing anyway. He cared about us, but didn’t always care for us.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, he never showed up to visit me in the hospital or comfort me while in treatment. When he called to check in during that time, he asked if I watched the football game or saw the latest blockbuster movie. The rare times he asked how I was doing, I always made sure to say I was good. The hard part of parenting just wasn’t his area of expertise, and who was I to worry him?

With the exception of our mutual desire to be perceived as ‘fine,’ my dad and I seemed to be on opposite ends of a teetering see-saw. He’d go one way, and I’d go the other.

I was a serious child—quiet and stoic. My dad, a natural jokester, would drive-by-prank strangers from his car. I was an introvert, he was an extrovert. I read books, he watched TV. I voted blue (and in every single local election), he voted red (if at all).

And now, as an adult, I confront and he avoids.

I opened the curtain to my smiling father, who looked at me like he was waking up from a restful nap, not coming back from the dead.

“Dad, you have to do this,” I said softly, my jaw clenched, like a mother speaking to the child who refuses to put on his shoes. “The advanced directive is for me,” I impatiently pleaded. “I don’t know what you would want if another emergency were to happen.” Of course, there would be another emergency. With my dad, there’s always another emergency.

“We can talk about it later, sweetie,” he evaded, kicking away the metaphorical shoes.

Now, back in this new primary care office, my dad calls the doctor ‘Mrs.’ An innocent mistake, that makes me cringe anyway. Feeling embarrassed, I correct him, unable—even in this moment of naked vulnerability—to keep my mouth shut. She again asks about the advanced directive.

My dad is silent, looking at the stapled packet of resources tacked to the wall.

“He doesn’t have one,” I jump in, avoiding my dad’s eyes. “But we want one,” I say, taking the form. He’s only been in my care a few weeks, but our roles are already shifting. As his caregiver, I am more bold and quick to speak than I ever was as his always agreeable child.

The truth is, I am in no condition to care for my dad. I just moved to a tiny cabin on a lake, hours away from anyone I know. I left my friends and the Detroit home I shared with my husband to heal from (or more accurately, run away from) his death the year before. I needed a space that wasn’t full of memories, good or bad. I needed a place just for me.

And then my dad got sick.

Over the summer, he had been in and out of the hospital with flu-like symptoms. “It’s nothing,” he repeatedly told my siblings and me over the phone. We should have known then that it wasn’t nothing, but my dad spent our entire lives denying his problems, and we spent our entire lives believing him.

When my dad told me, through tears, it was cancer, I booked a flight back to Virginia the next day. It was a rare time I heard him cry.

Admittedly, I made the offer for him to move in with me without expecting him to say yes. My dad and I hadn’t lived together since I was five, when he and my mom divorced. The truth is, we barely knew each other.

But I knew firsthand the difficulties of navigating a cancer diagnosis. And more than that, based on his health, I thought he would die in the coming months, and I couldn’t fathom him dying alone. My dad was stubborn and proud and always refused help (or even admitting he needed help), so I was sure he would refuse the offer. I was unprepared when he agreed.

This will be fine, I told myself. I justified that this time would allow us to grow our relationship beyond shallow levels of fun. I would learn about his Native American roots and his childhood and why he was so damn positive all the time. I would break through and we would finally go deep.

I expected too much.

A terminal diagnosis doesn’t automatically change a person who doesn’t have any desire to change.

Every day since my dad agreed to live with me, a series of questions rolled through my mind:

How do I handle his failing physical state, his possible failing mental and emotional state? What happens when my proud dad completely loses his independence?
How will I handle the daily triggers from reliving a terminal cancer diagnosis?
How will I survive the trauma of another man I love potentially dying in my home?
Will I have to move again?
How can I care for someone who is dying but refuses to be upfront about their pain, their symptoms, or their feelings?

And the single question that played on a loop, over and over and over again:

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

Despite our best intentions, living together only highlighted our differences, intensifying my resentments. The fact that he never took care of himself or me, and now I was sacrificing everything, felt like an uneven deal. I lived with that truth and also struggled with the guilt of that truth, alone, in the quiet shadows of my home.

Every time I stepped into the oncology ward of the local hospital, my body confronted the memories of the nightmares I had experienced only eighteen months before.

Pulmonary embolism. Mini-stroke. Fractured spine. Progression of disease. Reminders of my husband’s death, echoing in my head.

I silently carried both the grief of losing my husband and the anticipatory grief of losing my dad. I never talked about my experience caring for Brad, and my dad never asked. I saw how cancer destroyed Brad, one organ, one bone, one brain cell, at a time. I remembered the intimacy required in the end.

Maybe it was better my dad didn’t know.

“I’m not fine,” reverberated in my mind, but I didn’t dare speak it out loud.

When people found out I moved my dad in with me, they told me I was doing God’s work. They called me a gift. An angel. This only added to my guilt. Would an angel be so fucking angry?

And I was angry all the time. I was angry that my dad was diagnosed, yes. But more shamefully, I was angry at my dad for getting sick and upending my life. I was angry at myself for taking on such a task, even though those around me warned me against it. I was angry at my dad for surviving when my husband did not. And I was angry at my husband for dying and leaving me to pick up the pieces of this life alone.

I was also angry about how drastically my daily life shifted. Now, waking up at 4:30am to shovel the driveway to get my dad to dialysis on time. Filling feeding tube bags and measuring insulin vials and separating pills. Cleaning blood and vomit and urine from carpets and sinks and furniture. Happy hours at the bars, trips to the beach, even late nights in the office, like my thirty-something peers, were replaced with the lonely reality of caring for another dying man I loved.

Of course, I never shared my fears or my feelings with my dad—we just didn’t have that kind of relationship. Instead, I hid my resentment. Because my dad’s biggest fear was feeling like a burden, and mine was him finding out that he, in fact, was one.

Instead, we both pretended we were fine.

In many cultures, it is inherent to care for our elders. But what if that elder rarely cared for you? How much do we owe the people who are responsible for your birth but not your life?

Yet, here I am, sitting across from one of many new doctors, overseeing not just my dad’s life, but his impending death; a death he refuses to acknowledge as a possibility.

Driving home from the appointment, my mind is racing a million miles a minute, thinking about all that is to come—the decline of his body, the procedures, the questions I don’t have answers to. I am terrified of him dying and also terrified of him—of us—living, like this, for years. I remind myself of the gift I am giving my dad. The time, the space, the connection. With my husband dead and no kids of our own, will anyone return the favor? Or will I die alone?

My mind is spiraling into a future world of unknowns.

I look over at my dad, his eyes fixated on the passing lake. He rolls his window down, turns up the music, and closes his eyes, feeling the wind in his face. A slight smile comes over him as he sings the lyrics to Eric Clapton. I’m annoyed at how oblivious he can be. Does he not know how hard this is for me? Why is it not harder for him? Is he not worried about everything to come?

But then I soften, hearing his melodic hum get picked up by the breeze and float away. And I join in, letting my current worries drift away too. Just for a moment.

Right now, we are okay.

It would be many months before my dad finally gave in and signed the advanced directive. After the chemo and radiation failed and all that was left was comfort care. My dad’s death was imminent. I knew it and the doctors knew it and maybe even my dad knew it (although if he did, he feigned ignorance). We never did talk about it. Even at the end, he refused to check the ‘do not resuscitate’ box, instead opting to save his unsavable life ‘under any means necessary.’

Maybe he thought he was protecting me by denying his reality. Maybe he was protecting himself. I followed his lead in not asking, so I’ll never know.

We never verbally reconciled our relationship. We didn’t have any grand gestures or end-of-the-movie moments. But we had a quiet understanding. An undercurrent of love. My dad was my dad and I was me and in our flawed relationship there was respect.

His final eighteen months were spent on the lakes of Northern Michigan—first with me and later at a nursing home. His last months were grueling, but he died in the care of hospice and his favorite nurse—with his three children, two grandchildren, and one ex-wife nearby—without the need of his advanced directive.

He never did admit he was dying. To me or himself. But by that point I knew, even death itself couldn’t change my dad.

And in the end, that was just fine.

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Funeral industries are turning to AI to memorialize loved ones, and I have thoughts. Lots and lots of thoughts.

Here is a clip from the recent Washington Post Article describing using AI technology to write obituaries:

Funeral directors are increasingly asking the relatives of the deceased whether they would prefer for AI to write the obituary, rather than take on the task themselves. Josh McQueen, the vice president of marketing and product for the funeral-home management software Passare, said its AI tool has written tens of thousands of obituaries nationwide in the last few years.

Tech start-ups are also working to build obituary generators that are available to everyone in their time of grief, for a small fee. Sonali George, the founder of one such tool called CelebrateAlly, said the AI functions as an “enabler for human connection” because it can help people skip past an overwhelming task and still end up with something that can bring their family together.

“Imagine for the person who just died, [wouldn’t] that person want their best friend to say a heartfelt tribute that makes everybody laugh, brings out the best, with AI?” she said. “If you had the tool to do ‘25 reasons why I love you, mom,’” she added, “wouldn’t it still mean something, even if it was written by a machine?”

I understand how taxing it can be to write an obituary, especially when you are in deep grief, and the temptation to just “get it done.” I know the pressure of attempting to capture a person’s life in 500 words. It feels monumental.

But what about the personal touch? The details? The quirks and imperfections? The humanness?

What about the catharsis that comes with getting lost in thought over a person’s life? Isn’t part of memorializing reminiscing over the memories??

What about you? Would you use AI to write an obituary? Would you want someone to use it for your own obituary? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.

The first day I became Maggie’s human, I lost her.

On our 30-hour drive home from Sandpoint, Idaho to Northern Michigan, we made a pit stop at the mountainous Kootenai National Forest to stretch our legs and figure out our bond together.

“She won’t pee on a leash,” my sister-in-law warned me. “But she’s loyal,” my brother-in-law chimed in. “She’ll follow your lead.”

It was a big ask of her — to trust me so fully and immediately.

Always a wild soul, this street dog turned family dog, belonged briefly to Brad’s twin brother and his family after her previous owner died. She entered their lives shortly after Brad died — a beacon of support when she was needed most. And when it was my turn, my dad had just been diagnosed and moved in with me. Dune was still mourning Brad, and his separation anxiety was increasing. I was silently collapsing under the grief of it all.

Maggie would be the balm we didn’t know we needed.

But that first day, alone in a forest along the side of a highway, I lost her.

One minute she was behind me and the next minute she was gone.

For two hours, I ran through the woods, along the rushing rapids, along the fence to the train tracks, that continued for hundreds of miles. I whistled and called out her name in pure panic. I imagined her falling into the water, being eaten by a bear, squeezing through the hole in the fence and following the tracks back to her previous home. I, too, knew what it was like to want to go back to the life you had before.

I sat on a rock and cried, about to give up, when I heard a rustling in the brush. Out pops Maggie, wet, dirty, and tail wagging. Out of breath, her smiling face beamed up at me, saying, “Look Mama, I went on an adventure.” It was as if she was testing me, ensuring I’d stick around.

From that moment on, she was by my side always, the way water stays close to the sand. Ebbing and flowing but always there.

She loved a good steak, but didn’t start begging for it until her later years. She was disinterested in toys, other animals, and children (although she allowed them to pet her, crawl all over her, and tug at her ears without reaction). She barked at every single man that stepped through the threshold of the door (until Nate came along and allowed her to trust again). She mostly ran free, never liking a leash, although she learned to tolerate it. She loved the beach, but never went in the water — instead, watching over me from shore as I dipped in and out of the waves. She was an explorer who loved hikes, the dunes, and the sand. She was sweet in a way I’d never seen in a dog before. The absolute sweetest.

As long as we were together, she was content.

She was Dune’s security blanket, Nate’s best friend, and my shadow. We were each other’s emotional support beings during a time we needed it most.

We were attuned to each other’s rhythms. Her tip-toeing through the house in the middle of the night for a drink of water or panting in my face when she needed to go out. The way she tucked her head on my lap when I was stressed, forcing me to give her pets. The almost imperceptible movements that become part of the inner workings of life with a dog. Her presence was as natural and easy as the breath from my lungs.

Maggie was known as “the grief dog,” always taking care of everybody. She came into lives when she was needed most. I am honored that after 17 years of her giving love, I was able to be the one who cared for her in the end. To give her security, love, trust, home. To lay by her side and guide her to whatever comes next.

My heart breaks without her, and the silence of her absence is all-consuming.

I miss her every single second.

Maggie (Mag-Pie, Mags, Maggie-Moo, Moo Moo, Moos, Moose, Margaret), my life was infinitely better because you were in it.

Say hi to Dune. I hope he was waiting for you with a steak dinner in whatever woods you are both now playing.