The worst part of my job is that I can’t fix what’s wrong, and I know it.

So much of what I do is simple. Sitting beside. Offering arms. Listening. It sounds easy - in fact it sounds easier than offering advice. The truth is, keeping our mouths shut is, unfortunately, difficult. Speaking is often a knee-jerk reaction to personal discomfort, which I am certain you have seen in action by other well-meaning but uncentered friends and family. It fills silence, it pretends to be useful, it is a bandaid on a gunshot wound.

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When I am at my best, I am present, listening, free from whirling thoughts. I am not trying to fix. When I am not at my best, I am scanning my resources - what can I tell you, what thing might I offer that will make it better? And when I am at my worst, I let a suggestion slide out, only to shake my head at myself and hope it wasn’t too disruptive.

It seems like every day I see or hear the question - now what? How am I supposed to live now that my person is gone? Often I want to respond, say something comforting - perhaps share with them what I know about the land of Grief. I want to tell them what life might look like someday in the future, or wise words passed down from another grieving person.

When they ask “how do I live without”, what exactly are we supposed to say in response?

What if, instead of a bunch of jumbled words, we sat beside them, held their hand if they wanted and said “I don’t know, but I do know that I will stay with you until you find out.”

And then you stay seated, breathe with them, and show them with your presence what it looks like to live, in each separate moment, without.

If you have found this piece and it’s title, and hoped I might share with you the way to live without, I am sorry but there may be no perfect answer. If we were together, I would do as I mentioned; be with you in your grief. I would be with you as you expressed anger, and fear, and frustration, relief if it is present and scared to be seen, or any other manifestation of your grief. I would sit still with you, unafraid of your big feelings, until somehow you found your way.

In the absence of my presence, perhaps this piece is also finding those who are looking for ways to support the person they love that is hurting.

May I suggest sitting still with your mouth closed and your arms open? May I suggest being honest about “I don’t know?” And hear me when I say I know how hard this is, how unnatural it feels to not be able to fix, but I encourage you to try it, and see what happens.

This is, of course, very general and there may be needs that we can fulfill…but when asked the question “how do I live without” the answer may be that, sometimes, how meets each moment, and we learn by living and sitting still.

PS - If you happen to be a fellow death and grief worker, come learn and grow with me at the Death Worker Summit. It is free to register here, and I am one of the speakers. Let me know if you’re coming!

Also - if you are curious to know more about me and how I serve the world, please visit me at www.mourningspace.com

I am going to tell you a secret - in the death and grief algorithm, every day there are people that say things like “no one talks about…” or “I wish someone would have told me…”. We death workers read this and (sometimes, usually when we haven’t had lunch and our patience is thin) get frustrated. We stay talking about this, but until you have on your griever ears, along with a broken heart, it’s hard to pay attention to those sharing important information from the other side.

So this is me, waving cheerfully, asking you to come sit and talk with me about grief, especially if you have yet to experience the worst of it.

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Let me share with you a landscape - one you won’t quite understand until you traverse it yourself, but one that’s good to learn about before you go.

The very first, and possibly the worst thing you should know about the land of Grief is that it is vast, and to travel there means you may be gone awhile. This sounds scary, and it very much is at first, but the landscape changes the more you explore.

What I mean is, grief lasts more than a week or a month or a year. Maybe years, maybe in some form for the rest of your life. Phew. That one can really blindside us, and it can also, accidentally, make us really bad friends or family members when we try to tell someone who has crossed into the land of grief that really they ought to be done by now. Can we agree to be kinder and more curious starting today, in hopes that we are given the same gift when we find ourselves in the land of Grief?

In the land of Grief you may experience big feelings, and discomfort in your body as your body acclimates to the terrain. Maybe you can’t sleep or eat, you may have headaches or even the sensation of being stabbed in the guts. You may feel like you are drowning, and you may be so angry that you curse the ground and wail on the trees. I didn’t make this up - these are direct reports from various people who have gone before you and have told their story. Isn’t it terrible we don’t know that our friends and family are suffering like this? Not to mention the idea that one day we may be suffering in the same way and find no safe place to bring our discomfort.

It is also true that in the land of Grief, sometimes you may get caught up in meandering, maybe even play. You may get distracted by something beautiful, or find yourself swimming in one of the many rivers, relaxed and at peace - AND THEN - the guilt rushes in. You believe that in the land of Grief, that is all there is, and to participate in anything else does a disservice to who or what you are grieving. You think to yourself - I need that pain back. If I am not feeling like I am being stabbed in the guts, it means I have forgotten them.

I’d love to share with you what the more academic people than I call the Dual-Process Model. This just means that sometimes you’re sad and sometimes you participate in the more restorative moments of life. You will go back and forth, but both are important to the process so it’s actually quite useful to take the joyful moments when they come.

You should know that in the land of Grief there will be people, and they will surprise you. Some people you love will be cruel on purpose or on accident. Sometimes people you love will ignore you because they aren’t sure how to relate to someone on your journey. And sometimes, out of the woodwork will come a stranger, or an ancillary member of your friend group with the exact right tool for the job - whether it’s soup or house-cleaning or money or something else. When people show us who they are in these difficult moments, we get to figure out if we give grace, if we set boundaries, release even more people (which brings even more grief) or some combination thereof.

The implied last bit of news here is that people have survived the land of Grief, and lived to tell about it, although it is true they have been changed forever. We might say even say they have been initiated into grief-eldership.

Thank you for hearing me out now, before you find yourself stuck and surprised in the land of Grief. Can we make a world where we do talk about this, because it is so important? It makes us better community members, and arms us with knowledge. I will reiterate that learning and participating are two different things, but this is the way of life. Let us continue to sit together, in the grass outside the land of Grief, and get to know it together.

PS - If you happen to be a fellow death and grief worker, come learn and grow with me at the Death Worker Summit. It is free to register here, and I am one of the speakers. Let me know if you’re coming!

Also - if you are curious to know more about me and how I serve the world, please visit me at www.mourningspace.com

A son who lost his mother. A grandchild who lost his grandfather. These are some of the people responsible for the rise of the AI chatbot of your deceased loved one.

Let me begin by saying I have compassion for people in pain, and realize it is a part of the human condition to escape discomfort and suffering. Losing a loved one tops these charts, so I understand the search for any kind of relief. Tech solves a lot of our problems, so why wouldn’t we look there, especially if that is your wheelhouse?

We have already been using AI as a listening ear, and to validate the feelings we experience while grieving. AI is available 24/7, we are not concerned about being a burden, it rarely says the wrong thing. We feel seen in a way our community doesn’t always know how to do, and when we are desperate we can reach it immediately and for free.

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I recently took a call from someone doing market research, tasked to gather the thoughts of death care professionals on these chatbots. I engaged in the conversation purposefully, with both scepticism and an open mind. I have a ChatGPT paid subscription*. I do not believe that we will ever again live without AI (although props to Pope Leo XIV for trying). I am resigned to a reality where AI stands in for people and community (sometimes). But I can’t say I love it, and I am doing my personal best to manage my own consumption (which was higher than I’d like for a time) - and to keep my wits about me when being sold the newest version.

I was given a founder’s story; the reasoning behind a start-up. Someone had died. It was painful. Could there be another way? Can we solve the problem of losing a loved one?

What if we could feed a model with all of your stories? Your writing? Your views and values? What if there was a questionnaire that captured your answers to life’s most important questions? What if we could feed it your voice, your inflections, your turn of phrase?

If we did that, your family - even generations later - can pull you up in an app and have a full-on conversation. They can do this via text back and forth - or they could hit a button that says “call” and voice chat instead.

Your voice, your views, captured in our phones for anyone to talk to.

Would we even have to miss you? They say, if I only I could hear them say “I love you” one more time.

When I wondered aloud how good for grievers this would be, I was reminded that it was born from grief. People who lived it and understood it were the ones finding tools to move forward. What I thought, but did not say was this:

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I want to be sensitive here. I know so many people that experienced devastating loss. I know so many parents who lost their children, my husband included. My heart breaks for these people; I truly wish them relief from suffering. I want to say I can’t imagine what it would be like but, occupational hazard, I imagine it all the time. Even the imaginary pain is unbearable.

I can also imagine grasping at anything that makes me feel like I could have my person back, even for a few minutes a day.

But do I want to have that available to me? Do I want to fight the urge to download? Do I want to live in a society where this is normal? Not really.

I am worried about the long-term ripple effects on our society, a society historically terrible at navigating grief . Is this going to make things better or worse?

I mentioned that I wasn’t sure how healthy it was to “talk” to our deceased loved ones in this way, which made way for a conversation about continuing bonds - an argument you can expect them to use in perpetuity.

I engage in this practice. I buy my aunt her favorite Skinny Vanilla Latte on her birthday. I talk to my grandparents. I pray to my Ancestors regularly. I encourage my grief support clients to maintain a connection and relationship to their dead friends and family. I am working on installing a Wind Phone in my community, the sole purpose of which is facilitate conversation with those no longer with us. But here’s the thing - when you pick up a Wind Phone to call

Let me rephrase. They don’t talk back in a way I can hear with my ears.

My people talk in the wind. They move the weather. When I asked my grandfather for a deck of playing cards, he provided in less than a week. Sometimes they speak through music, or a phone call from a live friend. Sometimes, every once in a while, one visits me in my dreams.

My grandmother showed up recently and said “Hey Baby” the way she did in life. I had forgotten that she said that, and what it sounded like. In fact, I don’t know if I have heard her voice in over 20 years. I sobbed in my dream and woke up sobbing. It was beautiful and very real.

I also know it isn’t like this for everyone. Not everyone sees signs, even those that are desperate for one. Maybe they would prefer some other-wordly hello but in the absence of this, they will take the AI. I don’t want to take this tool away from them if it’s the one thing that gets them through the day.

I will tell you what I told the person on the phone. These companies should employ psychologists, good ones that aren’t paid to agree with them. They should have safeguards, which they already do but I am not sure are enough. They should listen to the objections as much or more as the grieving people they will be marketing to.

And you, future customer - you should be ready to see this out in the world and know how you feel about it and what it’s worth to you, before your family asks you to start recording your life story for submission.

And, for the love of all humanity, do not replace real community, friends, people who love you, for AI. Humans are messy. We aren’t great when people are grieving - but we can learn. And maybe that’s the real problem to solve…

- With love from your Death Doula 🧡

*I have since cancelled my subscription

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My name is Joko. I am a death doula, mostly for the living. I am an expert in death care, having worked in mortuaries and cemeteries for 27 years, and transitioned last year to the more purpose-fueled work of supporting caregivers as they navigate the end of someone’s life.

I took a risk and left my corporate job for entrepreneurship. Supporting my writing supports my family, and allows me to continue doing the work I am meant to do. A pledged subscription, follow, or share means the world.

Thank you for supporting my work.

(yes that’s a Milk Carton)

I got my first tattoo at 18. It was a tribal tramp-stamp (sorry, as a GenXer that’s what it’s called) - a yellow and orange wavy sun with purple flair on either side. This wasn’t flash, but it was absolutely the tattoo you’d expect me to get as a Bay Area teen starting on the path of body modification.

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I showed off this tattoo, posed in photos so it would be visible. I celebrated myself as a tattooed person! And yet…

It was just one, it was generally hidden, and I could have stopped there. Does one regulation tramp-stamp make you a tattooed person? Yes by definition, no by…what? My own opinion, and maybe yours.

I turned out to be one of those people who didn’t stop after one, two, three, or twelve. When feasible, it’s a line item in my YNAB budget. But I noticed something - each new piece made me feel like “ohhhh, maybe this is the one!” thinking I’d finally feel like one of those cool people I saw in tattoo shops or on the street - but then I got used to it, it became a part of me that was unremarkable, and therefore lost its significance.

It didn’t matter how many I had, it was always the next one that would tip me over the edge into the identity I was cultivating.

After my sleeve was finished, logic said I could quit arguing with myself about my identity. No matter what I believed about myself, it was obvious that I had put in the time and the money and the skin - my dedication to the craft spoke for itself. I know that I am a heavily tattooed person now…but it is still true that each next one makes me feel changed, like I am still becoming.

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I worked my first funeral when I was 12 as an Altar Server at a Catholic Mass. I went to Mortuary College at 18. I have spent my entire adult life as a death worker. This is not visible, but I carry decades of knowledge around death and dying; each experience and license and role as real as each tattoo. So when I decided to transition from traditional funeral home work to death doula, I told myself my 10,000 hours allowed me to say this with confidence.

But there was something I had not yet done, something in the back of my mind that taunted me. There was a part of me that believed that I could not yet call myself a death doula.

It didn’t matter how much confidence I had in my ability to serve people in such a fraught time or in my decades of experience; I hadn’t experienced the one thing that would make it official - I had never been present as someone died.

I know, right?!

I was interviewed this year and was asked about my experience with death in the moment of its arrival, so had to confront this truth in a very uncomfortable way. I already allowed it to make me feel less-than, and her reaction helped me justify my own imposter syndrome.

While gracious, she was surprised. When you hear death doula, you make some assumptions, and this one seems chief among them. It really was the tattoo that would make my identity real, and without it - who am I? Is the rest enough?

Here is the truth.

I am a good death doula, celebrant, space holder and grief worker. When I served the family that would eventually make it so I never had to say that one “embarrassing” fact again, I noticed the confidence I carried into each conversation, every hour I served them that wasn’t someone actively dying, and every way I prepared both myself and them for the inevitable.

I have that “tattoo” now, but I didn’t need it. I am long past having to prove myself to anyone, least of all myself.

That does not mean I am not still becoming. That does not mean I won’t pursue continuing education and feedback. It means those things will make me even better at the role I already own.

I am a death doula. And today I vow to never allow something as trivial as the “next thing” stand between me and my identity.

What are you worried about regarding your own identity? What do you do every single day and yet still believe you don’t get to claim it? How do you compare yourself to the guy on the street

that seems to embody what you hope to be - even if you are just as “worthy”?

We don’t have time or energy to worry about that anymore. There is no substitute for hours on the job or time under the needle. If you have it, then it’s yours and that’s the fact that matters. This is your permission (and mine) to live knowing you’ve earned it - now go live it.

With love from your death doula,

Joko

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I apologize if I make you cry, but pet loss is like that.

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Tank is dying. He hasn’t moved much in days, and has positioned himself near the door to the garage in our backyard. My husband and I have decided that it is time to start digging so that, when the time comes, we will be prepared. Tank watches us with one sleepy, sick eye as we select a spot by the fence, near the hollyhocks, and get to work. We shovel and cry. Messy, hands hurting, digging a hole the size of a person because Tank is a Rottweiler and easily 100lbs. As we dig, it occurs to me that this is functional grief. We are grieving and doing something with it and it feels really good even though it also sucks so hard. This is the definition of good work.

We are done before dark, and Tank has not moved, just watched – knowing and peaceful. We have spent time talking to him, taking breaks for cuddles and attempted treats. He isn’t hungry and won’t be again. We are, and go inside for dinner. When we finish and check on him, he is gone. We cry more, say goodbye, place him in the hole and cover him. Before he is gone for good, I slip off his collar and decide I will make a shadow box for my husband in Tank’s Memory. It is now that I know that this is what I want for me. For people to gather with shovels, to do the good work of grief.

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Trigger warning - this essay mentions Anatomy dissection.

In May of 2023 (shocked face - why is that only two essays ago?!) I wrote about the science of death, because someone had asked me a technical question. In writing the answer, I told my story the way I have done for years. It has recently occured to me there is another way to tell it.

These are the bones (ha, sorry) of the story I usually tell:

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I loved anatomy in high school. I remember being the first person to reach for one of the sheep brains presented in a bucket by my Anatomy teacher, while everyone else made faces and barf-noises. I loved dissection, because I was able to see how everything worked, and take note of how beautifully intricate it all was.

Speaking of - If you want to see something that looks like a miracle, check out all the tubes you are carrying inside of you; tubes that formed from cells into a complete architecture that carry everything important to keep you alive!

Honestly, I probably felt a cool superiority in not being grossed out but I also found it all to be so fascinating. I could see the beauty in the gross.

Because I was not afraid of these things, and in fact leaned into the learning, I decided to go to Mortuary College. My parents were big on trade schools and here was a trade that I felt I could both do, and do for a long time without threat of job extinction. (Oh hey, I was right…)

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Over the years, the things that interest me about this work have changed. I am less about the science of the physical body (although, still pretty cool!) and more about our minds and spirits.

And as I have reflected on the story I usually tell, this is how I might say the same thing, but different.

I loved Anatomy class because I am a person who leans in to the things that cause most to recoil. The dark, hidden away parts that we don’t want to face. The things that might really be beautiful if we get past our resistance, fear, and repulsion; because somehow I understood that on the other side of these things is a deeper understand of life, and our part in it.

Maybe I wasn’t seeing the beauty in the gross, I was seeing the beauty in the things we avoid.

This is the through-line of my work. I now serve the world by holding your hand as you (probably a 40-something year old mom with kids and aging parents) face the things we all would prefer to avoid, but can’t - because this is life.

I am talking death and dying, but also grief. Feelings and emotions and periods of life we would rather just…not.

Unfortunately, we often don’t get a choice. I can’t make it less scary, I can’t make it less intense. I can’t even make it less gross, if that’s what it is. What I can do is be with you as you do it, and share what I have learned from others who have walked through the dark places before you.

I show up beside you so that you see it can be done, that you are not alone - and I share the beauty that I see along the way.

I can help you to see that it is these dark places that help us appreciate the light. It’s the salt with the sweetness, the cymbal crash in a symphony, the poop that makes the flowers grow. These are all cliches, perhaps, but that doesn’t make them untrue.

So if you were to ask me now I got into this work I would tell you this:

As a young person, I realized that the beauty of life has a lot to do with the things we don’t often care to look at, and I am here to tell you what I see. I offer a different perspective, and a supportive presence when you have no choice but to look.

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PS - I don’t use ChatGPT for Substack. The dashes are mine! I love a dash! Just in case you were wondering…

I know you don’t like funerals. Maybe you have only been to bad ones, or ones that didn’t feel useful. Maybe you resent the fact that a ceremony like this has a cost associated. Maybe you feel like it is way more of a hassle than it’s worth, or that it is not important anyway. Maybe all of it…maybe something else.

To this I say - What if?

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Humor me, just for a minute.

What if they could be great? What if everyone left feeling uplifted, transformed even? What if the value of the event had nothing to do with the cost, and therefore you spent only the amount that was comfortable, including $0? What if the hassle was worth the importance?

I believe in funerals so much, I had one for my career, and I am going to tell you why it was one of the most memorable experiences of my life.

When they asked me if I wanted a goodbye party I said,

No, I want a funeral!

Nineteen years in one place is a long time, and deserved to be honored. I am an expert at endings and crafting funerals and I work with other experts, so this was our chance to make something great. To celebrate the life of my job, vs the life of a person.

I was excited! I was going to sit down with a Funeral Arranger, make plans, craft the afternoon and lay out an actual funeral with all of the elements. This was the framework: chapel service, flowers and personalized elements, prayer cards, an officiant, eulogy, song and reception to follow. Once we had these elements in place, we filled in the particulars.

My co-worker would MC. I would say my own Eulogy. For the prayer cards, I would adapt a well-known funeral poem. Another co-worker would sing “The Way We Were” (sob-face) and there would be an open time for people to share thoughts on their experience with me over the years. Afterward, we would gather together to share sandwiches (dang I love sandwiches) and stories.

At times I just wanted it to be over. I worried people would come, then worried we may not have enough seats. I was ready to get on with my life, but also sad to see the way that the people were already moving on. I was amped up on the excitement of it all but a wreak of fear and wtf had I done, along with the inner-knowing that my time there was up.

It was messy and gut-wrenching and amazing and omg what a day.

I will be self-serving for a minute. People said wonderful things about me. I knew I had been decent enough to work with, but I really did not understand the full impact of how my presence made a difference. As I sit in reflection now, even as I can’t remember the exact words that people shared, I remember how they made me feel.

I was given the gift of knowing that people enjoyed having me around.

That they saw I was their advocate, and that I cared about them.

That showing up every day meant I was showing up for them, too.

And that my time will be remembered.

And honestly, what more can you ask for?

Ya’ll - people cried! And not just me. And people laughed and were mad and were joyful and were happy to be there. This is the human soup that makes life worth living.

And people understood,

Why a funeral.

Funerals are how we express our feelings when chapters close. We are with our people (which by the way, there is an epidemic of loneliness and so anytime we are with our people, we are fighting this) in a space reserved for messy grief and the wonder of life.

I wish I could bottle the feeling of a good funeral, because then you would know. Everything that comes with being human lives in that space and, my gosh, when we lean into it? It is the most life-affirming thing!

So have a low-cost, simple funeral…and have a living one (one you are present for) while you’re at it so you get to participate and hear what people say! But don’t let the word drown out the usefulness of such occasions.

We have them because we need them, and you can have the one that is right for you and yours.

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By the way, I guess this means I am back. I will have a lot to share about why I left my career of 19 years, but a part of that reason is you. I could not do that work and be here or build Mourning Space, while also giving my all to the people who deserve a purpose-driven leader.

My purpose is elsewhere, but I am grateful for every opportunity and every person that made me who I am today. I am because I was, and I look forward to seeing who I get to become.

Would you help?

Visit and Share Mourning Space. Refer my services to a friend in need. Engage with me on Social Media. You may even want to make a donation to support my work.

However you decide support me on my journey into the unknown, I am so very grateful. Even if it just means maintaining this membership or sending my Substack to a friend.

I appreciate you and will see you back here soon!

PS - no AI was used in the making of this Substack. While I use and appreciate AI, I will not be using it here. There should be spaces free of wondering what is me and what isn’t, which is why I didn’t include the adapted funeral poem, for which I did ask for AI’s suggestions. This is me, dashes and all.

I loved that someone asked a science question when I asked what information folks wanted me to share. The reason? That is why I chose this profession – the science. It turns out that is not what has kept me here, but it is still woven into what I love about this work.

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Trigger warning – I do discuss anatomy and biology, which can be disturbing to some.

In high school, anatomy was my favorite subject and I loved that I was able to take it in both my Junior and Senior years. I thought the insides of all bodies were beautiful and complex. It’s not often we get to see the systems as they are, but when you can and are able to get past the ick factor – you see the absolute miracle that it is to have a body.

Think of it. The egg and the sperm combine to form a unit and grow. Cells multiply and do what they are told, developing the special part of the whole they are caused to create. A baby forms, then grows…and keeps growing. When you contemplate this process, it makes one awestruck.

Most of us just see the external physical manifestation of the process, but in the sciences, you get to get granular; see not just what was created to do a job, but how it operates. I love it. I love the tubes that carry our blood from one place to another. I love the alveoli in our lungs that exchange gas. I love the brain with its intricate pathways. It is all just so darn cool.

It is also helpful that I was never squeamish. Perhaps I was the least squeamish of anyone in my high school class. I wanted to see and to learn - and while it occurred to me that I was supposed to think of it as gross, I just…didn’t.

So. I went to Mortuary College to become a death care professional and embalmer. It was a trade, and my parents were big on trade schools, and I recognized that not everyone could do it. Perhaps, I thought, it was meant to be how I participated in the world. I should say, two decades later, while embalming has its place, it is neither something I often do, nor something I want for myself.

I’ll tell you why – because I hesitate to disrupt the process that has been so thoughtfully put into place. Our cells know what to do, they have been designed not just to create, but to break down. It is beautiful in its simplicity and who am I to interrupt the process? I am just as awestruck at the way we decompose as I am in the way we develop, although if I am honest, that process is much less pleasant to witness.  

Now before you leap to the conclusion that I am just a weirdo…ok, maybe…but also, it’s just a cycle. I appreciate the beauty and necessity of all cycles. If you have taken a photo of fallen orange leaves or a barren winter – maybe you do, too!

So, in answer to the question someone asked about what causes us to break down – it starts with autolysis. Oxygen is no longer available to our cells and acidity increases. Enzymes digest cell membranes, and cells are broken down. Our immune system no longer exists, and microbes can spread freely. The gut bacteria we are so careful to balance in life is left unchecked, and starts to digest what is available...and so it goes, until a body is no longer.

Obviously, this is the abridged version but enough hopefully for me to get my point across – the body is amazing! In its creation and undoing. In doing this work, I am staying present for all of it. I am calling attention to all of it. I am asking you to, if not embrace, then recognize the wonder of it all!

I am grateful for my time in Anatomy class, because it was there that I began to lean into the awesomeness that is any living body on Earth. I am grateful that I am not squeamish, so that I am able to help when others can not, with both living bodies and deceased ones*. I am grateful to be in the place to advocate for cycles, including the ends which tend to get a bad wrap.

We do not have beginnings without endings my friends – and all of it can be beautiful if we look past what can appear unpleasant but is, in function, transformational.

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PS - With one very notable exception - I could never be a dentist or dental hygienist, because I am totally squeamish about that!

Good morning and thank you for being here - from the bottom of my heart. I know that you have an endless source of education and entertainment options and, if you are here, you have made a choice to spend time with me. I hope it is a choice that makes your life better, so if there is something I can do in that regard, please let me know.

This month I begin a new project - in fact I will be tackling a bucket list item. In order to do that I will shift gears here and use the month to answer your questions. That means it will be less narrative and more educational, but with your specific needs in mind. If there is a topic you would like me to cover, please reply to the email and I will put it on the list!

For today, I am going to cover what feels like an extra sensitive topic. May can bring up a lot of feelings around Mother’s Day and I am going to answer a question about the holiday. This will be my one and only Substack on the matter this month.

Below I share information on supporting an adult who has lost a mother. A warning, I do briefly discuss child loss, which I know can be triggering and offer some links as additional resources.

Q: On Mother’s Day - how can I support someone who’s Mother has died?

The first thing to understand is that it doesn’t matter if the death happened years ago or if it is fresh - there is no time limit on grief and no telling where someone is currently falling on the grief scale. Pay attention to how they are acting and what they are saying, and take your cues from them - do not approach someone with the opinion that they should be “over it.”

Keep in mind that anger, depression, scatter-brained behavior and a short fuse can all be signs of grief - whether or not they even know it themselves. If you notice this in your friend or partner who has lost a mom, give them some grace.

You should allow space for them to share their stories if they feel like opening-up and practice accepting anything that comes out - good or bad. Sometimes people share things that aren’t so positive about their Mother, but that is a part of processing. This does not mean you should bash their parent as a way of being “empathetic,” rather you could acknowledge their feelings or ask open-ended questions so they might give their feelings some air.

If you knew their mom, you may share your own stories. By sharing a special memory or remembering how they made you feel, you are validating the importance of their mom in your life, too. If you don’t know their mom - ask her name. This one is simple but powerful. There is so much in a name and by asking, it shows you are leaning in to their loss, not pushing it away. This is often where I start when someone brings up the mother that they miss.

You may want to be available to do something meaningful - take part in some activity that calls the parent to mind, or even visit the gravesite. Mother’s Day is one of the most active days in cemeteries across the country, and your friend or partner may need support if they go.

And finally, when talking with your friend or partner, do not complain about your own parents. In most cases, they just want their mom back and would do anything to be annoyed by them one more time. Best you keep that to yourself for a bit.

What I have not touched on is how Mother’s Day may also be difficult for mothers who have lost children, and for adults who are cut off from their mothers - not to mention children going through the same.

Some of what I have mentioned is still applicable and if I could give you just one piece of advice for any of these situations it would be to use what I gave you last week - unconditional positive regard. Let them express themselves without judgement, and remember to be kind - not right.

This website is amazing as a resource and if you want to feel less alone, this article may be helpful.

May you get what you need this Month, and always.

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Do me a favor - if you are able, please take the next few moments to stop reading and take in your surroundings. Turn down your other senses while turning your hearing up. I know you are busy and in the middle of doing other stuff but just humor me! 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 - go!

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And we are back! This is what I think happened based upon my own personal experiment - you noticed that wherever you were was a little louder or had a little more going on than you thought. Maybe some noises surprised you, maybe some were interesting, maybe some were irritating. And then you got bored or impatient or wanted me to get on with it already and came back - or maybe and no judgement here you didn’t stop to listen at all.

I say no judgement because that would be pretty pot-calling-kettle of me. I do it too - we don’t often stop to smell the roses or, in this case, listen to our surroundings. We are compulsive doers and distraction seekers, which is why mindfulness is such a hot topic these days. We aren’t terribly good at it, so we have to give it a name and create this intention of practicing mindfulness in order to get back to ourselves.

What if the situation was not about listening to your surroundings, rather you were being asked to listen to someone speaking to you? Would it be easier or more difficult to a) stay quiet and b) hold your attention?

Unless you are a trained professional or naturally very quiet, you may already have an idea of where I am going with this. It is a common condition to “listen to respond” and we are often reminded we have two ears and one mouth for a reason - but it’s sooo hard! We know this logically, but putting it into practice can feel impossible!

It was difficult for me to realize that I couldn’t help everyone - even if I knew how to solve their problem. It was during my death doula training that I learned about unconditional positive regard - which means respecting someone as a human being and affirming their worth by giving them the gift of my acceptance… that I should meet them where they are without trying to change them. That doesn’t mean they won’t make different decisions based upon the time we spend together - in fact they very well may! But it won’t be because I told them they had to - it will come from them making a decision themselves.

What people want (including ourselves) and what we want to give people are two different things.

We want to fix people. We want to share our opinion. We like to help, which often means we like to hear ourselves talk. We want to make a difference and, sometimes, we just want to be right.

What people want (what you want) is to be heard. What people want is to be accepted. What people want is to be around people that don’t make them feel wrong, or cause them to feel guilt.

People want to be supported and educated, not lectured. Most often people don’t want you to solve their problem and would be better served by solving their own.

In order for us to give people what they want, we must practice listening for its own sake. Not to do something, not to fix something, not to get on with it, but to be in the moment. What if we could accept the moment for what it is, without rushing to get to the next, and what if we gave the person we were with our full attention and acceptance?

Instead of filling space with our words, what if we were quiet and just…listened?

I keep it real though - maybe when you listen to someone you will have your to-do list in the back of your mind and maybe you will even get a little bored. You know what? That’s cool. But, once you notice, maybe instead of giving in to impatience, you lean into giving the kindest and most helpful thing you may ever give someone you love - the gift of your attention and unconditional positive regard.

And maybe, when they ask a direct question because they want to know your opinion, you share what works for you…or perhaps you provide resources that could be beneficial. That’s also cool, and giving someone tools for their toolbox may be a great gift.

What I am suggesting is not easy, but it is worth it. Conveniently we have been built for this and when all else fails…remember what they teach us! We have two ears and one mouth for a reason - and may yours be put into practice!

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.

Antonio Machado

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I was introduced to this poem this week and it surprised me with it’s potency. I even took the time to learn it in Spanish, as I felt like it preferred to be spoken in its native language.

It speaks of the path we each walk, and of the present moment, and I liked it because it allows for the individual to make their own choice - it places destiny with the self.

Often times doing this work, I run into people’s strongly held beliefs and in those moments I have a choice of how to respond. I now ask myself - how do I give what I have, but remain myself? How do I comfort but not conform?

Here is what I know. I have my own beliefs that I rely upon daily, and I trust that I am on the path I am meant to walk. I am also aware that there are others on their own path, and I honor those individual journeys. I have the ability to acknowledge several truths at once, and I am grateful to be in a place to serve - even people who do not believe as I do.

When my path does happen to cross another in these very vulnerable moments, I know it is my job to give what I have to offer - a dang good eulogy and to harness what I call àṣẹ to bring comfort and hope.

People feel it. I see it in their face, or I feel it in their departing handshake. And when I do, I am reaffirmed that I am where I am meant to be, doing what I am meant to do.

I am taking this opportunity, kind Travelers, to say - I have hope and I am fulfilled. My beliefs and my work sustain me, and help me to make a difference in the lives of others. I am at peace and I know this road will take me exactly where I need to go.

May your road do the same.

Àṣẹ

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On a recent drive from grandma and grandpa’s house, I thought it would be fun to interview my 12 year old on what he thought about all this *gestures to my mortician job and the fragility of life that surrounds us always.*

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I had thought we might have some kind of philosophical discussion, or that he might have some insights into my own life that I don’t even have, and perhaps he did. I am glad we had the discussion, because it does inform me on what he has picked up on directly or indirectly from his lived experience with me as a parent.

What follows is an excerpt from our discussion and if you are one of those that listens along instead of reads - I did ask him to read his answers but he tapped out! With that said, he did give me permission to collect this information and share it with you, so please enjoy…

What do you think that I do? You do funerals and manage funeral homes

What work do I enjoy doing? Being a death doula - that’s been your thing now

What do you think a death doula does? Helps people dealing with death

Do you think that is important work to do? Yeah because sometimes people don’t always know what to do when somebody dies.

What is your relationship with death?- Thuy died (his Godmother)…

Do you think my job has made you more or less scared of death? Neither. It doesn’t really effect my views on death.

Do you feel like you have a better understanding of it than other people? No

Other kids? - Other kids, yes.

Is there anything you have learned about interacting with people who are grieving? Be nice to them and try to help them deal with their loss.

What did you think about living in a funeral home? The only thing I didn’t like was that I wasn’t able to run because of the people that were downstairs. I did like that I could go downstairs to get candy. I thought it was cool - you remember those bowls with like the butterscotch things? I liked those.

Was it scary? No. There was that room with the urns, and the other with the coffins. I didn’t know what the urns were, I thought they were just vases. I knew what the coffins were but they weren’t scary. (Editor’s note - coffins?! We don’t really call them coffins in American funeral service, so that was interesting. He tells me it’s because of Vampire movies)

Are you afraid of death? No.

You’re not?! It’s not really a fear. It happens…I am not afraid of it, it just happens.

Do you think it is important to have conversations about death? No, not unless somebody dies and you need to talk to somebody. (Editor’s note…wellllll spoken like someone who doesn’t know what it’s like NOT to talk about it)

What do you think about people making arrangements for their own funeral? I think it’s good if you want something specific to happen and you aren’t sure if they will do it for you. If you want something to happen, you should make that plan in advance.

Do you have a preference between burial or cremation? I would rather be buried without the coffin than be cremated. I feel like it’s weird that people get put in boxes because you can’t just decompose in a box. I just want to decompose into the ground. (Editor’s note - he’s not quite accurate but I get the sentiment) I feel like cremation is fine if you want to keep a remanent of someone or…you know when people go somewhere and throw the ashes? Cremation is ok if you want to be a part of somewhere that you had an attachment to.

How hard of a conversation was this to have right now? It wasn’t hard

Was it weird or uncomfortable or anything? No.

And that’s all, folks. A conversation in the car while one of us is driving and the other is playing his Switch and indulging his mom.

I didn’t want to tell you up there and blow the ending, but it was kind of a boring conversation. So boring, I almost didn’t share it with you.

But then I realized - that is the point. It’s boring because it’s normal. While we haven’t had this exact discussion, death is a topic of conversation constantly. Because he hasn’t learned to shy away from it, it’s as natural as talking about the weather. With that said, I am interested in his choice of burial - he and I have a similar preference.

Death is a way of life around this house, and I hope that by sharing this conversation, I give you permission to have your own, boring death conversations with your kids, should you choose.

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I have learned some wonderful things during my time in funeral service and have seen some transformative, healing moments. I have also had the opportunity to watch people unravel - times of high stress can open the door to the worst versions of ourselves. Sometimes we aren’t sure who we are going to meet until the day of a death occurs - but by then it may be too late to create or enforce boundaries.

Let’s back up.

The end of a life can mean many things. Here is a short list of what this could bring up for someone who’s loved one is dying:

Loss of stability

Inability to resolve past hurts

Loss of emotional support

Loss of income

Confusion and uncertainty

And the list goes on…

At the best of times, any one of those things is likely to send us spiraling or create frantic energy that often faces those we love most - or those we are in a place to interact with. Pile a few on, then add the overall grief one feels when their person dies and you have a recipe for raw emotions, frayed nerves and decisions made from the standpoint of fight or flight.

When viewed from this lens, it gives us some space to find compassion, but sometimes that is difficult to tap into when someone’s bad behavior is making things difficult for you.

The whole reason I do what I do is to create visibility around the end of life, hoping that if we understand each other better and create a shared language, we will in turn act better and give each other what we need. This is the goal - my end in mind. In the meantime, reality says people are gonna people sometimes and it’s good to be prepared.

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What does preparation look like? Make a plan that allows for flexible (or not - you know your family) boundaries as needs arise and change, for both before and after a death occurs.

When someone is dying you should probably know who is legally in charge because that has a lot to do with decision-making. “In charge” can be different depending on if it’s the person or their assets, not to mention which state or country you are in. As a death care professional I can tell you - understanding this is often priority number one. You may not know what boundaries you are even in control of if you don’t have a full understanding of what your responsibilities are - or aren’t.

Make a list of people and behaviors welcome in the dying person’s space, in collaboration with the dying person and the care team - whoever that may be. Once you have that list, lovingly and clearly state the parameters. Once we get to that end I have in mind, these wishes will always be respected. At this moment, give it your best and know that you have done what you can do to create an optimal space for you and your loved one.

After the death has occurred and the funeral (celebration of life, party - whatever word makes the most sense) is being planned, get yourself an advocate who can try to manage people for you. A close friend or caring family member may be looking for a job and “funeral doula/bouncer” may be the perfect role. Get yourself a signal and when someone is approaching your boundary, have your FD/B step in.

Of course scheduled private time or even a private event all-together may give you an even clearer boundary, and I know sometimes those may be necessary.

The one thing that everything hinges on is your ability to express your needs and your personal boundaries. Tell people both what you need and what you don’t want. When you aren’t clear, you leave your boundaries up to interpretation and even those with the best intentions may not get it right. If you want the best opportunity to have your boundaries respected, you have to voice them - yourself or by proxy.

We get this wrong a lot - death creates opportunities for people to trample all over or completely run away from a boundary - but more so when they are invisible.

Think about the end of life. Plan for it. Learn the language and speak it to others, and when people get it wrong and are amenable, gently redirect them.

People are people. Let’s assume positive intent - because most people are trying to get it right or are willing to (eventually) be proven wrong. But because we live in reality and not my idyllic goal - sometimes you must draw and enforce your boundaries. May we rapidly get to the place where all healthy boundaries are respected.

Do young women still read Sylvia Plath? I know many of us of a certain age sure did and The Bell Jar is one of those books that meant something. In our teenage melancholy, we saw ourselves reflected in her life and situation - awkward, bumbling, intelligent and on a mission.

The Bell Jar will always have a place in my heart, if for nothing else then the fig tree analogy. You may know what I am talking about, but if not or as a refresher, here is the excerpt -

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From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

How many times in my life have I felt like I was sitting in that tree, paralyzed by choice and the resulting indecision, often because I was trying to balance wishes and reality? At my age there is a laundry list of choices I have made and an even larger list of the choices I abandoned, some of those more painful than others. Recently I was interviewed by another Substack author, Tiffany Madvig of Self-ish, where I shared the grief I felt in giving up my dream of being a stay-at-home mother. If there was one memorable fig that I mourned once it fell, it was that one.

I think of what it means in life to make choices - how we feel when we have to make them and how our experience changes depending on our season of life or our mental state.

When you are young, the figs are bountiful and stretch higher than your imagination. There is often the thought that you can go anywhere and be anybody - and if it doesn’t work, you can do it again - figs aplenty! But then, you want to make plans, you want to settle down, you want clear direction, and the situation gets scarier. Instead of abundance, we see that sometimes to get one thing you must give up another. And as the ideas we give up fall away we wonder - have we made the right choice?!

Sometimes we want to do it all, and we even take a run at it. We know logically that stuffing ourselves is actually a terrible option - we don’t enjoy any of it and it just makes us sick but that doesn’t prevent us from trying. After all, FOMO is real and it has a nasty habit of causing us to sign up not just for things that look appealing, but for the figs other people have convinced us would be the most delicious.

On the flip-side when we just sit there, unable to make any decision at all, that often points to debilitating anxiety or depression. At points in our life, we are really concerned with what we are losing, and it becomes scary to make decisions, knowing there may be no going back. It is in those moments we may remember that reaching out for something is better than starving, and often we need it as fuel to make the next choice.

And then of course, there are the choices that we do end up making, out of want or necessity, which made us leave other choices behind. Even when we love the results of the decisions we have made, sometimes there is no getting away from the nagging “what ifs.”

All of this to say - when we make choices, we get feelings!

Over the years, this analogy has changed for me, but it is always one I come back to. Figs as choices - but sometimes I look at other ways we might observe or act upon that tree.

Now that I am in my 40’s, I can honestly say I still have the “what ifs” but I am at peace with having less choices! It seems you can relax a little when some are off the table. What is left is this moment, and what I have noticed is that there are still plenty of figs above me, and they have been patiently waiting for me this whole time. I won’t get all of them, because there are still more choices than time or resources, but I will get the ones that are meant for me.

Choices are hard, and there is grief in recognizing what has fallen away. We write about it and we talk about it and we cry about it because there are seasons in our life where we must.

I do that, but these days I also look upon a fig tree as a blessing and a symbol of confirmation. There was one on the grounds of the Bed and Breakfast we purchased then lost to foreclosure. A choice and a loss all wrapped into one, but an experience I wouldn’t want to trade. There is another on the grounds of a cemetery where I transferred to work, confirmation that I made the right decision to move my family from one city to another. Choices made…and a life I am living!

I hope that when you are wracked with indecision, or mourning the loss of what could have been, that you make the space to feel your feelings…and that the next fig you choose will be sweet.

This weekend I spent quality time catching up with a friend I hadn’t seen for a while. Over tea, she tells me that she had the opportunity to dabble in death doula-ing, as her neighbor had passed away just recently. Naturally, I wanted to know more - both to understand what she considered death doula-ing, and to give her kudos for stepping into that unfamiliar space to help someone she cared about.

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She caught me up on their relationship - the neighbor had lived alone and was self-sufficient, even though she had never been in the best of health. The neighbor did know that my friend was a safe person to ask for help when she did find herself in a pickle, and recently they had spent an afternoon together after my friend had cause to save the day.

It was one of those afternoons you reflect on later and think - I am glad I had that time. That day was a celebration of vulnerability, compassion, service above self and even a little gift giving, as they each unknowingly bought each other flowers on their trip to the grocery story.

It was also the last day they would spend time together. A week or two later, my friend felt called to come home on her lunch break. This was a-typical, but something made her decide that she wanted to pick her roommate up for lunch that day, instead of the grab-something-on-the-fly she usually did. She arrived to commotion in the neighbor’s driveway, and soon all would learn that the neighbor had died sometime the night before.

She did the things you do when you get such jarring information. She called the people that needed to know so they didn’t hear from some stranger, and sat with the information that her neighbor - her friend - had died.

This is when the death doula action kicks in. As my friend and her roommate processed what had just happened, they decide they should go next door with offerings and attempt communication as a way of aiding her transition.

If a death doula is defined as someone who helps a person before, during or after death, this would definitely qualify as a service they may offer, and I was happy to hear that, in the absence of any other help as she died, my friend was willing to step in to see how she might be of assistance to her neighbor after the fact.

This idea is not unfamiliar to me, in fact it was my own reaction when a friend died in 2020 - but what I am not sure of is where the idea came from…so I have spent my own time this weekend reflecting and learning.

What I think of first is “Remember Me,” a Christopher Pike novel I read as a kid and in it a woman is killed, and is confused for a time. She does not realize she has died. There are countless books and movies that describe what happens after - and explore the idea that we linger… Beetlejuice comes to mind, too.

With that said - why I think this act comes into our awareness is the trickle of certain parts of various faiths into the public consciousness. This act is very much reflective of the Jewish tradition of Shemira, where a shomer (m) or shomeret (f) watches over a body as both a guard and as a source of comfort. It is believed that the soul stays near the body for a time and it is the shomer’s role to stay present or read psalms as a source of comfort.

My friend, having no access to her neighbor’s body, still felt called to sit at the home where this neighbor had died and talk to her. She brought wine, which the neighbor had loved and some food, then told her neighbor what had happened and that she was safe and cared for. She was acting as a shomeret, bringing comfort to a soul that may be hovering, not quite ready to leave the earthly realm.

Some people will read this and it will resonate. Others will think it is silly. What I like to remember in this moment is that one thing for sure happened - my friend took an act that helped her own grieving and didn’t hurt anyone. If the neighbor’s soul was there or if it wasn’t, this ritual was important time spent for my friend…this is the worst case scenario and it doesn’t sound bad at all.

In the best case scenario, the neighbor was still there, and was touched by the kindness of someone who loved her. She was comforted by my friend’s presence and eased gently into her transition. A great payoff for a slightly irrational act…and maybe we aren’t meant to act rationally 100% of the time?

What do you do when you don’t have time to grieve like you’d like to - when life gets in the way of death?

A.P.

Dear A.P. - thank you for reading and thank you for asking the question. I had not heard it phrased that way before, but it sure did make an impact when I read it.

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I am a Virgo, which means I like order and things being *just so*. When things are put in their place and surfaces are shiny, I feel on top of the world! If only I could keep it that way. I am also a busy person; a parent, an employee, a boss, a student, a writer - and I travel for work. I would say about half the month I am on the top of my game. Laundry gets done daily, I can keep up on clutter and things are managed. But then something happens, either I over extend myself or I have to leave town…sometimes even for something fun, and everything goes to crap.

Things get put down and stay there, then get covered by other things. The laundry room collects all the clothes in the house, which are then laundered and put on the couch for eventual tackling. The kitchen - whatever. The kitchen just does what it does and no one knows how it happens. And then, A.P., when the house is disheveled and the content must be created and the Substack post must be written - I get angry.

Actually, first I get lazy. I lay in bed and wonder how it’s all going to get done. I scroll social media to distract myself and sometimes even binge watch something on Netflix, which is when you know I have really burnt myself out. Eventually I get up and I start - and then the dog needs something or the kid needs something or a phone call distracts me and ah! Then I get angry. If only I didn’t have to do several weeks worth of work in one Saturday, things might feel more manageable!

In a perfect world, things would never get like this. I’d get enough little things done each workday so I could take an hour on a Saturday to clean the kitchen (😡) plus whatever else, and then happily do my little side projects without feeling like I was neglecting my living space.

In the real world, sometimes we don’t have a choice. Sometimes, our obligations get in the way and we are left sitting in a mess and having to do real work to handle it, complete with unpleasant emotions making things worse.

What does my highest, best self do when the going gets tough?

Which is also my answer to your question.

I would hope that people would try to make time for grief. Get yourself to a support group, read books that apply to your experience, journal, cry, see a therapist - all that good stuff…but sometimes life just gets in the way.

And then you get depressed, and/or angry - not to mention sick, which is something else that happens to me when I go full throttle and don’t take good enough care of myself.

Eventually, you will be put in a position to have to grieve, because it doesn’t go anywhere, it just gets buried and festers. The good news is that all those same resources are ready and waiting for you, and you don’t have to do it alone.

I might also try this one gentle nudge as a preventative measure - everyone can find one minute at the end of the day to write or say a sentence, something that vibrates at that grief level. You could say, ‘I miss my mom today’. Or you could say ‘I wish I could tell my mom -’ these are just little ways you can open the door to grief, giving it a little air so it doesn’t have quite so much opportunity to grow in the dark.

We are busy people, and we have a lot of things pulling at us. This problem is real and prevalent, so if you find yourself in this position know that it is common. When you find yourself ready or needing to begin, take a breath, ask for help and take it one step at a time.

Do you have a question? Please visit me at www.mourningspace.com or send an email to goodmourning@mourningspace.com. I would love to share my response in a future Field Guide article.

Photo of a baby Poe, who is perfectly fine!

*Trigger warning for those sensitive to the death of animals. Cancer, euthanasia, burial and cremation are mentioned below.

When I met my husband, Sam, Abby was the female in his life. A lump of a Rottweiler who loved to sneak up on the couch when no one was looking. I did not have much experience with the breed myself, but my husband was a Rottweiler guy. While he can appreciate different breeds - this was the one that spoke to his heart the loudest.

He also seemed to run into one whenever he needed to fill a dog-shaped hole in his life. There is no shortage of people who get a puppy, then life gets in the way of taking care of that dog through adulthood. That was how Abby came into Sam’s life; some businessman traveled too much and wanted someone to adopt her that would give her a better life - and Sam stepped in.

My husband is a good dog dad, and every morning he would wake up and take Abby to the dog park on the shoreline of the San Francisco Bay. When I moved in, I joined in on the walks, but she was never my dog.

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Abby died shortly into our marriage and for awhile, we were on our own - until the day a lady pulled up and Tank jumped out of her truck. In this moment, Sam knew he had found a new baby… and I knew that I was irritated.

Tank was two or three years old, once a gifted puppy to a young man who would go off to college, unable to take the responsibility of pet ownership along with him. Tank had been tied up in the family yard, and kids liked to ride past on their bicycles and throw stuff at him. Someone at the dog park knew Sam was missing Abby, and connected him with Tank’s family.

I remember that Tank peed on my Coach purse in those first days, and that made me even grumpier. I was still not yet a Rottweiler person and this dude was getting on my nerves. However, necessity is the mother of invention or whatever the saying is, so I got to work helping to train Tank and wouldn’t you know it, he was the best goodest boy ever.

No one that met Tank didn’t love him. He was a leaner, as rotties tend to be, meaning he was quick to run up to anyone and rest against their legs. He was tall and handsome, sweet and a perfect dog-park gentleman. When we moved into the bed and breakfast that my husband and I purchased, he came along and charmed the guests. When we moved again, this time to the home where we would start our family, he was loving and gentle with our son…and our cat Mow.

Here is where stuff gets real. We noticed Tank’s legs starting to bow and when we took him to the Vet we were given the news that he had bone cancer, which is common in the breed. Eventually, he was almost unable to walk and we watched him slowly fade away.

When we knew the time was getting close, Sam and I got to work. We picked a spot in the backyard by the fence and we got to digging. Tank laid on the back porch and watched us as we cried and shoveled dirt.

Here is the thing though, we were neck deep in that anticipatory grief thing I talked about last week and we already missed our loving boy. We were heartbroken as we worked but, as crazy as it sounds, it was the work that made me feel better.

It was in that moment that I understood why taking an active role in the death and dying process is so important. There is something about physically working through the grief that felt transformative. I was grieving and I could give it to the dirt, and the shovel carried the vibrations of everything I was feeling. It was the definition of good work. It is hard to describe how horrible and powerful and healing it all was - but it was all of those things.

When we finished our dig, we went back inside to eat something and Tank had dragged himself into our garage. It was then, after the hole had been dug and we had poured out all of that sadness, that Tank died.

We said our goodbyes, brought him to the hole and laid him inside, then spent the evening covering his body.

Ugh. I still miss that dog. We still talk about him and his photo and collar are on our mantle in a shadowbox, along with a photo of Abby sitting with Sam’s son.

A year or two later, I put it out in the world that maybe we were ready for a new dog…maybe even a puppy this time? But a friend of mine knew better. He had a friend who needed to re-home his Rottweiler and one day when we were together he showed me a picture and said “are you sure you don’t want this guy?” Welllll, it was worth a shot. I set up a time to meet Jonas the rottie and packed Sam up in the car, thinking we were just going to say hi and see if it was a good fit.

When we arrived, we walked into the man’s yard and Sam saw Joe (we cut off the “nas”). He bent down and cried, knowing this was his next dog. His owner also started crying and in that moment asked if we would take him. What a thing to see - two grown men crying over the love they had for this handsome boy.

We gathered up Joe, his bed, and his food and brought him home. Joe was such a funny dog. He was sweet like Tank but such a nervous guy. He was so afraid of the glug-glugging of our big water dish, and couldn’t handle the kitchen floor. He was extremely food motivated, so eventually we got him to where he could walk into the kitchen, but it sure did take awhile.

We loved Joe for who he was, big and awkward and loafish but with that big Rottweiler heart. We only had Joe for about two years when he too was diagnosed with cancer, and we were again faced with heartbreak.

Joe was in so much pain and so miserable, it was hard to watch. When it became clear there was nothing more to do, we had him euthanized and held him as they put him down. We then put him in our car and brought him ourselves to the local pet cemetery and crematory to be cremated.

I think, after so many losses, Sam was tired. While he loved having these dogs in his life, losing them was just so difficult that he wondered if he might ever be able to go through it all again.

There was a year and a half where there was no Rottweiler in the home. Having no person-sized log to step over in the hallways or the living room felt strange, but it felt stranger knowing that Sam was missing something that was ever present for him.

We had talked again about a puppy but he kept putting it off and second guessing the idea. The pro of a puppy is that we would have the whole life of the dog this time and could make healthy choices that might prolong its life. The cons were:

1) We were both exclusively rescue people for all of our dogs and cats

2) It’s a puppy and

3) Could Sam really handle another eventual loss?

I decided to take the risk - although I do not recommend this! My son and I found a Rottweiler puppy for Sam and put him in his arms for Christmas. Come to find out, Sam had been cautiously asking the Universe for a puppy, trusting that the right one would come at the right time. The moment Poe was placed in his arms he started crying, and didn’t stop for a week.

I have a lot of caveats in this story but it’s ours and I own it - and Poe could not have made us any happier.

Pet loss comes in many forms, and you may have noticed I put a trigger warning at the top, something I have not yet done although I am always talking about death and dying. There is something about pet loss that just…hits different. And the fact that it can be disenfranchised grief (not easily understood or validated by others) can make it worse.

This is our experience, and one we sign up for again and again - because grief is the price of love, including our fur babies.

Grief comes up in conversation more than you realize, but the more you hang out with me, the more you will start to notice your friends sharing their experience and hoping someone hears them. You will start to pick up on what people are saying - sometimes plainly and sometimes with a short, significant statement. Maybe one like…“my mother has dementia.”

When I think about what I am trying to do here, it’s really two things - first, I want to educate and second, I want to be one person out of many to talk plainly of these things, so more people feel confident to have similar conversations in our own lives. I want to encourage people to cultivate a common language around grief, so we don’t struggle as hard - not eliminate struggle but support each other through the process.

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One of the ways grief might pop up unexpectedly is anticipatory grief…

Anticipatory Grief vs. Conventional Grief: What’s the Difference?

Think of conventional grief as “grieving backward,” says Werner-Lin—mourning a loss that has already happened. Anticipatory grief is forward-looking. We’re grieving “what we still believe we might lose,” she says.

-Marissa Conrad, Forbes Health

Sometimes, what we are anticipating never happens - but often it does. We experience this when we know we are going to lose someone or something that carries meaning for us; a partner, a business relationship, a pet…or a loved one that is approaching or in the final stages of life. This can also be seen in a person that is dying, as they grieve the eventuality of their own demise.

There is this space between having and not having, a space where we play the future out as a way to practice how we may show up when the loss occurs. Will we be stoic, a mess, wistful, or rage? And what do we do now? How can we show up before the loss happens, or what must we do to minimize regret?

It is an introspective period and has the potential to be useful. It can be a road we want to navigate alone, but it may also be a time we speak our truth and see if anyone listens or validates our situation.

So - if your friend says to you “my mother has dementia,” what might you say in response? Now let me caution you, by speaking up you are voluntarily entering a minefield, but it is the job of us grief warriors (as I am calling us likeminded people) to bravely step up anyway. Risking offense in pursuit of kindness and compassion is worth it, in my opinion. And in this moment, open-ended questions are your friend!

And then, you listen. You give advice if asked, but your real job is to bear witness to your friend’s grief. Give them, and their mother, the gift of significance as my friend Bruce Goddard likes to say. Acknowledge that this space between is an emotional place, full of the unknown, and that you showing up brings light to places that may feel dark.

And if you are feeling anticipatory grief, about anything at all, know you are doing what people do - it is real, it is valid, and is yours.

I have always loved Joan Didion’s book The Year of Magical Thinking. Here she recounts the year after her husband John’s death, a year fraught with adversity, sickness and overwhelm.

This book is a gift for those looking to feel seen; people in acute grief that aren’t quite sure how they are going to survive. It is also for those who know someone in that state and who struggle to understand or know what to do to be of support. It is a cerebral book, and she speaks from the Didion position of privilege, but it is a very human book too, raw and worthwhile.

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One of my favorite pieces of advice comes from this book, and I often share it. She recounts a kindness from a friend – someone who didn’t pester her or ask what they might do to be of service, instead they sent soup and left it at Joan’s door.

This is a powerful gesture. When providing a meal, it doesn’t have to be soup, but what an intuitive decision from the gift-er. It is nourishing and hydrating. It feeds the person and the soul unlike any other food. It is easy enough to eat, and easy to store. At a time when any effort may feel impossible, when getting out of bed is a stretch, when one is dehydrated from crying and the effort of chewing even seems like too much, soup can save the day.

What I also appreciate about this is that the person did not ask what they might do, they just did something, and they didn’t wait around to be thanked. What we often don’t realize is when we ask someone what we can do, we are requiring them to think - and they aren’t very good at that in moments of acute grief. We would do well to remember this, and when we do take an action, it should be unobtrusive and ask nothing of the recipient. I am reminded again and again by those in grief that gestures mean more than words.

Joan talks about the blur, the lapses in time, the unnerving triggers and the confusion. She walks you through her year as the grief changes in form and shares what she learned in the process.

At one point she muses, and there is no answer, “I can’t see the upside.” If I had the opportunity to answer her, I would want her to know that the way she used her talent to serve us, the reader, was a gift from both John and Joan. It was the upside of her husband dying, if we were looking to identify one. By sharing her experience with others, she is making a difference – and it serves to contribute to their legacy.

It is the brave people willing to speak their truth that will help to eliminate the stigma of grief. To articulate it in such a way that others don’t feel so alone – rather they are comforted in the knowledge that what they are experiencing is a part of what happens. I am grateful Joan used her talent and her experience in the service of others.

I want to address one more point in The Year of Magical Thinking. She mentions early on that she had been warned to expect an artificial rose from the funeral home when they came to take her husband’s body into their care. The gesture was an irritant. She was clear on this point - she was not having it and you, potential griever, should be armed with the knowledge as well.

As an employee of a funeral home that regularly provide artificial roses (and sometimes real, depending on the location), I am reminded that not all gestures are welcome and it is true – opinions are varied and sometimes, our attempt at thoughtfulness is a miss.

When someone dies and we come to retrieve the person, we leave a rose on the bed as a gesture of kindness, something that is left other than a rumpled sheet. I recall one family who, upon our arrival at the home, requested the flower before we even entered the person’s room. She gestured to a vase on the tv – a collection of flowers, each signifying a life, someone who had died that they continue to memorialize in their home. This is an extreme example of the flipside of these flowers.

After reading Joan’s take, I questioned our gesture.

There is something for me about the ritual of making a bed after someone has been removed from it. It’s always felt like a little something I could do right away to show I cared. Pull up the covers, straighten the pillows, smooth any wrinkles and lay a flower lovingly on the pillow. It’s me doing something as an attempt to make that space easier to confront, knowing of course that the space where someone died is heavy. The death bed is complicated - those sheets and often the bed itself will need to be removed. The void that the person has left, literally in that bed, is painful and confusing. I honestly don’t know a way that the death bed is ever something that is easy to face. What to do when you are me, the person in charge of taking your loved one away?

My dear Mrs. Didion – for now I will continue to leave the flower, although I will do it mindfully and when I have the opportunity to gently inquire if the gesture will be offensive, I certainly will and act accordingly. When faced with no direction, I would rather do something kind and have it miss the mark, then stop all together knowing that some cherish the flower.

I don’t know if this is the right answer. To me, the right answer is to always follow the lead of the griever, I don’t want to perform the ritual just for me if it doesn’t serve a helpful purpose to the recipient. Sometimes I don’t know, so I do what I can. I can only hope someone takes my gestures in the spirit that they are intended, but I am also aware that I may at some point have to apologize… and that also has to be ok.

I am grateful to Joan for sharing her experience, and I am grateful it is there as a resource for those looking to explore the topic of death, dying and grief.

When the powers that be informed me my manager was being reassigned to a new team, I was devastated. I sent an email asking them to reconsider, knowing that it would be useless but wanting to be heard. I cried for days. Like…sobbed. I sat in my hot tub, which was my happy place at the time, and allowed myself to feel miserable while I listened to my favorite This American Life Episode 339 - Break up. The similarities resonated; a surprise situation that was beyond my control, along with a sense of loss and uncertainty about my future.

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Looking back, this was quite dramatic. Writing it out feels silly. I cried like the man died, but I am happy to share that 13 or so years later he is still alive, retired, and a friend forever. Over time, I realized that his step to the side allowed me to have new experiences, work with new people and gain new perspective - and I never really lost him at all.

The next time I felt like I had lost someone was when my (stay with me here!) trusted tarot reader retired. We were introduced through a mutual friend, and spoke about twice a year for several years. She was loving and kind. She cared about me and my family, and her guidance felt like it was coming from an old friend. In case you question the legitimacy of such a thing, she encouraged me to buy my Peloton when I was trying to convince myself not to. That was at the end of 2019 and when all the gyms closed down 3 months later, the Peloton and that community were my refuge.

When she stopped offering readings in 2020, again I felt a devastating sense of loss. It is always a weird thing when you pay for services from someone who feels like a friend, but it is worse when that “friend” is no longer available. I still grieve this loss, but the feeling is bittersweet. I remember her with fondness and I appreciate now what it feels like to miss her. It’s not a bad thing to long for someone; there is a beauty in the sadness. I do believe she was there when I needed her and when I was ready to grow and experience something new, she also stepped to the side.

My most recent break up was with my therapist. I started seeing him in late 2019 when I needed help parenting a teen, and it was perfect timing - we had an established relationship when the pandemic rolled around. I am grateful for his wisdom as he guided me through the messy Covid Years. He was there to help me contextualize the loss of my tarot reader, then offered support as I tried to find myself, as many tried to do after being locked at home and trapped with our thoughts.

In my search for a therapist, I wanted to make a thoughtful choice. I selected this particular person because, judging by the content on his website, I was fairly confident we aligned on several levels. I was right, and we did form a strong and caring relationship over 2 years of meeting weekly, then bi-weekly. I went through a lot of crap, and he forced me to honor myself and where I was in the moment. In 2022 when he told me he was moving, I was better prepared that I had been previously.

At our last session, we had a farewell ceremony and shared our thoughts on our relationship and it’s end. It was a special way to conclude our time together, and I appreciated the finality of the ritual. Unlike the previous two experiences, I didn’t cry much, in fact I tried to be stoic, but I did think that here I was again, losing one of my pillars of support.

As it happens, again I have found that his step north made room for another experience, one that is true to who I am today. I am reminded that every change is an opportunity for me to find the beauty in all relationships, and the growth in every new season of life. Every once in awhile I feel a pang of loss, but I am reminded that those feelings are just a sign that I am alive.

What I hope you take from my musings is that adults break up a lot, and it can have nothing to do with romantic partnership. Any time a relationship runs its course, you are going to feel something about it…and people are not always going to understand. I know that the examples I have shared, and the second in particular, will earn me some side-eyes but it doesn’t change the fact that what I have shared is true.

Experiencing grief that is not validated or understood by others is called disenfranchised grief. By sharing my experience, I hope to validate the feelings associated with adult break ups, bring attention to these very real and very normal situations, and encourage you to look for the beauty and the lesson in each relationship, current or laid to rest.