The Dead Dads Club

“There’s a club. The Dead Dads Club. And you can’t be in it until you’re in it.” - Christina Yang, Grey’s Anatomy

A little peek behind the dusty curtain: I texted my managing editor Robby a few days back to let him know that I was burned out and overcommitted, and as a result this week’s newsletter (topic still undecided) would be shorter and fluffier. Then I glanced at the calendar and saw a standing invitation to celebrate my dad’s birthday on Friday. All well and good if my dad were here to celebrate it. Alas, not well and not good. Days earlier, one of my best (and oldest) friend’s mother, a surrogate to me growing up, had succumbed to her battle with cancer. Between these two stark realities of death’s chokehold, it seemed as good a time as any to write about my involuntary friend, grief. In putting finger to key, I remembered a very specific feeling — one I struggle to define in a single word, brought about through taking on a deluge of others’ grief. Perhaps you, too, know this feeling. It was comforting, yes, but that word doesn’t wholly encapsulate an emotion that I felt when I first shared about my dad’s death or when I shared a post about stepping into my mom’s new home or when I shared it was his birthday. Deeply personal, yet undeniably universal.

Writing about grief is very cathartic. I’m happy to talk about it. Happy with air quotes, certainly, but happy. So here goes something. 

Shiv Roy learning of her father’s passing on Succession.

I’m sitting in a suite at the mythic Sunset Tower Hotel. I have the most stunning bouquet of anthuriums and hydrangeas sitting behind me. On the banquette, I have draped the clothes that I selected at yesterday’s fitting, which include a hand-knitted crochet leaf-patch polo top that I’ll wear tonight. The windows in both rooms are open and the pink curtains sway in the breeze. The room is littered with the most fabulous Loewe products for me to bring home: soap, candles, sunglasses, a bag and an anagrammed paddle ball set (so chic). Tonight I’ll have dinner at the famed Sheats-Goldstein Residence with Dwyane Wade, Greta Lee, Charlie Puth and more. Hours ago, I had the tastiest spicy frozen margarita down the street. I told the group I had to dip out early. “We’re gonna get the check in a second,” a friend told me. “We can all leave together.” But I can’t wait another second. I have to get on a family Zoom. It’s my dead dad’s birthday. I hurry back. The empty champagne bottle still hasn’t been collected. I sign into the waiting room and wait. It’s a mind fuck.

Having a dead dad? I don’t love it. I don’t. It’s just not how it was meant to be. I can’t explain it, but I know he’ll read this, all of it, wherever he is. “I enjoyed the podcast,” he’ll say. “Dad, it’s a newsletter,” I’ll try and explain. And so it will go! Or rather, would go.

Only it doesn’t go anymore, not since I squeezed his hand and he took his last breaths back in January. I don’t like typing that, much less thinking about it. At least most of the time. Sometimes the memories feel comforting. A gentle reminder. Because it happened. “Cause that’s a fact,” I can hear Hannah Hovarth saying as she delivers her monologue in the Season 5 finale of Girls.

I found this note that I wrote to my dad. I don’t know when, nor do I remember writing it at all. My God, my penmanship. “Dear Dad, as you know there have been many problems with my behavior lately. Well I am working on it so very hard. I basically want to tell you more than anything in the world. You are my world. What makes me smile in the mornin’? Thinking about you. I love you dearly. Love Evan Katz.”

I’ve learned a lot about grief these last few months. I’ve read The Year of Magical Thinking and listened to Anderson Cooper’s podcast. I’ve cried rewatching The Lion King (1994) and bawled watching Aftersun. And I’ve had extensive, deep and emotionally raw conversations about grief with many of you. And one of the many things I’ve learned is how much the act of expressing grief helps us. I was going to write “helps heal us,” but I’m not sure that’s really what it does. But it definitely does something. I put a call out to other members of the DDC (the Dead Dads Club) with no real expectation. Over one thousand responses later, I’ve learned a ton. I’ve read so much about how everyone’s experience with grief is different. I gotta tell you, I’m seeing it differently. 

10 realities I’ve recently come to understand:

1. Grief brings out the writer in many of us. “I did not expect all this to flow out of me right now,” one person wrote, echoing a sentiment I heard repeatedly. “You've now provoked words that I didn't know I had to describe this change,” wrote another.

2. There are so many dead dads. Even more dead parents. And then there are dead siblings, dead children. There’s just a lot of death. And it’s seemingly obvious, but I’m still struck by just how not alone I am in… this. I texted my friend at one point and asked: “Is everyone’s dad dead?”

3. There’s something therapeutic, for many, about imagining what it would be like if he were still here now. The life he would have led. 

4. No matter how many days or years ago it happened, it still can — in an instant — feel like yesterday.

5. Everyone has a quote about grief that pings loudest for them. There’s “The Body” episode of Buffy or the Roy family losing their patriarch on Succession. A lot of you cited BoJack Horseman’s eulogy for his mother: “Suddenly, you realize you’ll never have the good relationship you wanted, and as long as they were alive, even though you’d never admit it, part of you, the stupidest goddamn part of you, was still holding on to that chance. And you didn’t even realize it until that chance went away.”

6. There’s a very specific pocket of grief around society’s deifying of fathers. This works in strange ways because it forces you to miss or mourn in some instances your dad, but in others, the concept of a dad.

7. Grief makes us more empathetic.

8. Grief isn’t a singular life event. “I have a dead dad, and not to be an overachiever, but I have a dead mum too,” Molly wrote me. “I had no living relatives by the time I was 23. The upside is I'm the only person for whom Christmas is affordable.”

9. Some people are ready to open the door to talking about grief right away, a helpful tool in their process. Others will take years. Some, a lifetime. Some never. There is no normal way this should be done.

10. People overwhelmingly want to talk about grief. The concept. Their experience with it. “Can I ask how he died?” a stranger at a recent group dinner asked me. He has a dead mom. I replied, “Can I ask you: Has anyone ever responded to that question, ‘No, you can’t ask!’?” He laughed.

Below, a smattering of quotes submitted by you all that stayed with me. There were so many more I could have included. So many people wrote, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I hadn’t heard those words in months. To that, I reply, “Thank you. I am too. For me and for yours.” There were also so many similarities. “My dad died of cancer in 1994 when I was 9,” Rebecca told me. “Obviously losing a parent as a kid is much different than as an adult, but navigating being a club member as a kid, then as an adult, is certainly a journey. And a very different one in the age of social media. Father's Day is a real trip.” The next email, the very next email, from Kathryn: “Dead dad club member here! Lost my dad suddenly when I was 9 and just turned 29.”

I want to thank you for sharing so many stories with me. Good ones. Bad ones. None were ugly. I plan to do more with this and have every intention for your words to be used in some form for something. More on that eventually. For now, I hope you too can find some solace in these vastly profound meditations on a thing that you either know or will know.

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“I'm so sorry that you're a part of the DDC. Believe me, we do not want more member. This is a club we don't want to welcome anyone into.” — Alicia

“Once your dad dies, people come to you when they lose their dads. As if, somehow, you’re now certified in Dead Dad-ing. They ask you questions. ‘How long did it take for you to heal?’ And you lie because the truth is too crushing, too consuming to utter. You don’t heal. It doesn’t get better. You just learn to tolerate the pain.” — Seth

“I just saw your Insta story and I'll admit, I'm usually not one to engage beyond the platform but this time it feels different.” — Nicole

“A friend told me grieving is like the ocean: sometimes the waves are small, and sometimes they are big. I know there are a lot of blasé metaphors when it comes to death and sadness but in times when the waves feel huge, it’s comforts me to know that there are times ahead when they will feel smaller.” — Anna

“I’m getting married in a few weeks to the most beautiful man. I don’t think I realized how emotional I was about it, and the fact that my dad won’t be there. I’m sure you’re feeling it too with your impending nuptials. I know writing this piece is going to be incredibly emotional for you — even filling out the Google Form was a lot for me — but I truly hope it helps you process. It helped me more than you know and more than I expected, so I just wanted to say thank you.” — Alan

“I saw your post while sitting drinking a coffee in my childhood home, taking a break from sorting through all of the things my dad left behind.” — Jennifer

“Dear Dad, it’s been 28 days since you left us. I miss you. Mum is ok. She’s so sad but I can’t take that away. I’m here with her. We fight sometimes but it’s because we miss you. Because we have to figure out how to exist without you.” — Emily

“My dad is 84 and hasn't passed, but he’s passed on me as a daughter. I’m grieving a lot, so looking forward (relatively speaking) to seeing this.” — Tess

“Thank you for your Dead Dads Club Q&A. I lost my dad 5 years ago and these past few days have been especially hard for me for some reason. I don’t always believe in signs, but I think your questions came at the perfect time. Thank you for letting me voice my feelings and heal a little bit more.” — Mytro

“I lost my dad when I was a kid. It's been nearly 20 years. Even when you think you’ve grieved all the grief, there are days where it feels like there’s a hole in my heart.” — Michelle

“My last words to him were ‘love you Dad!’ as he headed out to play golf. He had asked if his polo shirt was ‘too pink’ but I said no. I think he’d be proud of me and what I’ve done with my life, and I hope he knows I did nearly all of it for him.” — Alan

“My dad died when I was 4 in 9/11, so I have been in this club for most of my consciousness. I never know which side is worse: missing a person you have never known and never experiencing having a father, or those who have been able to love and create memories with a dad, only to lose them too soon. It’s something I do think about a lot, as I am sure many do. — Sloan

“My family and I are coming up on the 1 year mark (7/1) and the stone was installed this week. Seeing a stone there was a jolt, despite knowing he was gone.....seeing the actual marker had a permanence I wasn't expecting. He never had the chance to meet my boyfriend and I wonder the type of relationship they would have developed this past year.” — Ben

“While our hearts may break, at least we have an outlet of shared grief.” — Vanessa

“I don't know about you, but when I first heard my dad died, I felt like a little kid again who needed her dad. I thought I understood what death was, but it turned out I had no idea.”  — Stephanie

“My dad died suddenly almost 9 years ago on a fishing trip alone — he drowned, and we have pieced together what may have happened, but will never actually know. People tend to avoid the conversation or avoid asking where my dad is, and meanwhile I am always hoping someone will ask so I can talk about him, even if it's upsetting, because otherwise it's like he's just totally gone from the world forever, you know?” — Elizabeth

“Although I'm not technically a member of the club, I thought I'd offer a perspective of the way we lose a parent without them dying. I lost my father to a very taboo addiction in 2017 and haven't seen him since. He was a great father for so many years, but his lifelong demons eventually won. I've recently become a mum and it sometimes feels very strange that this little person who is genetically 1/4 my father will never meet him. I don't even think he knows he has a grandchild.” — Emma

“My dad was pretty flawed. He messed up in some major ways. He was doing his best, though, I think. I loved him and know that he loved me. He was a cook, a gardener, and a writer. He told me the things he was best at in life were parallel parking and floating in the ocean. I once read an article that called him ‘droll and soigné.’” — Julia

“It's been 15 years over here, as of April 5th, that a man was too busy fiddling with his GPS to see the stop sign located on a corner with a clear open view of the roads and collided with our Dad with such ignorant speeding force that he was gone almost instantly. ‘Minutes’ from onset of injury, as his death certificate would later tell us. For months and months after, my Gram would wake up before the rest of the house (or so she thought), call the first responders to thank them, call the police to ask if this man would face any consequences for taking away her son. During one of these morning coffee call sessions, a first responder revealed to her that a woman had stopped at the accident, and held my Dad's hand as he passed; her phone number was scribbled down in Gram's notebook and she was added to the call roster. Many voicemails later, she would eventually answer, and accept my Gram's tearful thank you for being there when none of us would have ever made it in time even if we immediately knew what happened. It wasn't until two marked cars from the town he worked in parked outside our house, and two officers with hats removed entered our home, that my Mom says, ‘Just tell me. Just say it.’ and they reveal what has already happened and where he is already being kept and that he is already gone. With family all converging on our modest, too-small home, a group of us pulled ourselves together just enough to visit the site. It had only been about 2 days since, I think, and the grass and sand were still littered with Dad: Wawa soft pretzel wrappers, Arizona Iced Tea cans, toothpicks, and glass and plastic. So much glass and plastic. I spotted one identifiable thing, snatched it up and quickly hid it in my bag. I didn't take it out again for weeks to clean out the dirt and a hiding bug. Are you familiar with Jeeps? My Dad got his first Wrangler in the 80s and never looked back. We grew up, a family of 5, squeezed into those things and bumped along because he refused anything other than manual transmission. I can feel and smell every iteration of Jeep; the seats, the bar covers, the plastic windows in the soft tops, the uncovered metal floor. And every once in a while, I remember where I hid it last, physically hold and feel the plastic Jeep Wrangler hood latch I found on the side of the road 15 years ago, and give myself some quiet time to think of Timothy Joseph Mead.” — Jessica

“It’s so fucking WEIRD to lose a limb and keep moving through life but I personally feel so unafraid of death as a result.” — Caitlin

“Without the grief I would not be me.” — Sam

“I feel like I don't belong in the Dead Dad Club because, yeah my dad is dead, but I do not feel like I've gone through the proper initiation. My dad passed away when I was 5 — I am turning 28 later this summer. I have very few memories of my dad, and while by all accounts he was a kind, interesting, badass rock and roll tour manager who I would have loved to live my life with, I simply don't know this person. You can't miss who you never knew/what you never had, right? My heartache comes more from growing up without a dad, not grieving the loss of one. I wrestle with my membership in both clubs. The DDC is the one I think people associate me with more, and when they become a member they turn to me as a guide. On death anniversaries or on Father's Day I try and tap into this identity, but it just doesn't fit. It isn't a spitting contest of who had it worse, but I feel I can't compete. Connecting with these friends as they experience the death of a parent, and reading, watching, listening to, DIGESTING so much content from people like yourself has been really cathartic. A helpful way to grieve in a way my 5 year old self could not. So thank you.” — Eve

“I lost my dad in January 2016 after a brief but difficult battle with Mantle Cell Lymphoma. He had a seizure in the lobby of the hospital after an appointment, and well… that was pretty much it. Bizarrely enough, this wasn’t the first time I had someone pass away in front of me quite traumatically. Grief is a weird thing that everyone goes through and not many have the spirit to talk about, yet it’s the only testament we have to how much we unconditionally loved someone.” — Marlea

“He was a larger than life man. Retired army colonel. CIA/special forces (even had one of those red phones in his office). Filled with ridiculous stories and people across the globe that loved him. He was also an alcoholic. A shit father to his girls that were always very far away from him most of my life. Married multiple times and terrified of being alone. He almost married the Peruvian assistant he had at the end of life, for fucks sake. And she was ready to do it! A dying man who wasn’t rich and was about to become a quadriplegic due to another muscular disorder could still get the ladies. Massive. Loving. Complicated. Narcissist. Losing your dad is a lot.” — Lesley

“Some days I feel resentment because grief lasts so much longer than people’s compassion and empathy do.” — Mary Kate

“I recently experienced the four-year anniversary of my father’s passing on —funnily-enough, April 20th (HEYO!), 2019. This is no laughing matter, I miss him dearly and do not joke about his death, but I’ve learned a sense of humor and irreverence is what gets me and so many through.” — Kyle

“I sum it up this way…

Dear dad,

I didn’t get to know you.

I hated you for leaving us.

I hated you for not being the man for my mother.

…

I heard stories about you.

You were quite the man.

I have love for you.

I wish I had gotten to know you.” 

— Tsewang

“I lost my Dad (Trevor) during COVID in 2020 - but not in the new classic way - he was bitten by a spider in Cambodia on his solo ‘finding himself’ travels around the world in July 2020. In the depths of the world’s despair I had to find a way to get his body back to London from the other side of the world. Having lost our Mum (Heidi) to suicide in 2015, it has been a truly traumatic and frankly ridiculous journey, but with the help of a viral fundraiser (which came with its own moral complications) to get our Dad home, myself and my little sister (Elise) have found our way with it all. No matter how you lose a parent, there’s no right or wrong way — there’s never enough time.” — Jared

“I have such conflicting feelings about my dead dad because I never liked him when he was alive. He was a very strict parent, a blatant racist, and just a mean guy. I will never know if our issues were just due to my teen angst, or if they would have worked out as I got older. I barely remember my dad now. I don't think I even miss him, which seems like something I'm not supposed to say. But it's been almost 20 years now, and while I think of him sometimes, it's almost the point in my life where I'll have lived more of it without him than with him.” — Tricia

“[My departed parents are] like guiding lights in a way and when I do things they would want for me or make me feel like I’m living in congruence with their values, I feel close to them.” — Kelly

“My father died in 2019. He was a loving, creative, kind man. Interestingly, before he died he performed a debut show about his cancer diagnosis and the mere months he had left to live. This performance was filmed and a screening was scheduled. He died the night before the screening but, as he would’ve wanted, the screening went ahead. So picture this, the night after my father died, we left his body at home to go and watch him perform a one-man show about his death.” — Simon

“I wanted to express that I really appreciate how you have made visible elements of your loss experience via social media. I think it is so important that there are spaces that allow for grief in all its forms and recognize how helpful it can be for other grievers to not feel alone. Thank you for your courage in sharing what you do and making grief visible.” — Kailey

“I was 22, my dad was 63. It was Thanksgiving morning. My mom jokingly told me to check on my dad to make sure he was still breathing. I walked into his bedroom. He was dead. It was so traumatic and it's been a long road.” — Alicia

“I watched my Dad get sick, and turn from a strong, virile, beast of a man, who gave the best hugs and could shield me from anything, to someone I was feeding from a tube in his stomach. I was 17 with the world ahead of me, and while everyone else was thinking about SAT and ACT prep, I was waiting for the chemo to work. In a sick twist of fate, I got to be there when he took his last breath. He held on though, until all of his kids were present. His watch stopped when his heart did. I still have it. I've now been alive longer without him than I had him, and it wasn't until almost 17 years later that I made peace. Now I get the privilege of knowing who he was, and what he meant.” — Matt

“My dad died in 1992, when I was 23 years old. We hadn't spoken in 5 years because of a stupid argument. It's as much his fault for that as mine; we're both stubborn. A few years ago, I did one of those DNA tests and found out he wasn't my biological father. When I asked my mother about it, she told me he left when he found out about me. I never contacted that side of my family with the reasoning 'if he didn't want me in his life, I don't want him in mine'. His information never popped up, but others did. In October, someone did, because they were curious how I shared 34% of DNA. It was his sister. One of the things she told me is he killed himself around the time I turned 8. So, I guess that's two Dead Dads for me. After that, I've had a hard time processing and had to go back to therapy. Plus, my dad has been visiting me in my dreams. We watch old TV shows together.” — Dawn

“I think it’s made me less accepting of people who can’t deal with inconvenience or a less profound loss. And I don’t love that about myself.” — Jennifer

“I just walked myself down the aisle this past weekend. I did so much better than I thought and I’m really proud of myself and also kind of newly devastated. I lost my dad suddenly, 5 years ago this October. It pains me to tell you, as someone new to this unlucky club, that it does get easier, but I’ve found that with that realization comes its own separate grief of not grieving in the same way. Does that make sense? Anyways, I like to keep a note on my phone of things I would tell my dad if he was still here and that I like to think I’ll tell him someday. That might be something you find helpful if you don’t already.” — Justine

“I know you’ve been inundated with responses so I don’t really even know why I’m getting in touch. It’s probably because now that 1.5 years have passed since my dads death, everyone assumes you’re okay and grief has cascaded through and back out of your life. Maybe it’s an excuse to talk about him. I don’t know. My grief is complicated because my dad wasn’t a very nice person and he died by suicide. I’m trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s a universal part of the DDC to long for one more day, one more moment even, just to say the things and look into their eyes. Because now that they’re gone, you wonder if they were ever real? But they have to be because that pit in your stomach thinking about not getting to say goodbye can’t just be hunger or maybe a gas cramp? It’s real right?” — Carli

“I just joined. Like a couple weeks ago. I even helped him die. I did his hospice care.”  — Alexis

“I live in Japan and got a sudden call from my sister that he was being put in a coma. I didn't want to believe the worst. I wanted to believe he was going to get better. That I'd see him again. So I didn't fly home. I saw him one more time over FaceTime but he was in and out of the coma and delirious. So I just talked at him and told him I loved him. After about a week I was on a train to work and my mom called to tell me he had ‘passed’. I can still hear her voice, just the way she said it. My poor sister had been there at the end when they took him off the machines. I wish I had been there for her. I wish I had gone home. I wish I had held his hand one last time. It's been ten years and I still don't feel closure. I still cry whenever I remember he is gone. I now have a 6-month-old son and it breaks my heart that they will never meet. They have the same middle name: Rhoades.” — Rae

“I just turned 30 and have been a member of this club since just before I turned 9. My dad committed suicide 2 weeks before my birthday, and now my grief is old enough to buy itself a drink.” — Sarah

“I don't think it's anything we ever get over, and I think the grief does get smaller and/or more manageable, but I think we're sentenced to a lifetime of missing our dads. Also, did Succession traumatize the fuck out of you like it did me? That is EXACTLY how my dad went, except he wasn't on a plane.” — Anne

“To mark 20 years, we asked friends and family to tell us their favorite Bob story. We heard from so many people that we actually printed a book. It is a gift. All of his kids and grandkids have copies. It’s surreal and real all at once. So many strangers in this shitty club and it’s individual and unique. Your village is everywhere.” — Julie

“I know it’s crazy to miss things that haven’t happened but I do. I miss the possibilities I guess.” — Margaret

“I understand him better, now, after his death. Grief has a way of enlightening you, even if it's not in sadness. I only felt sadness for a brief moment. What came after was a lot of clarity.” — Kris

“Grieving my Dad was my biggest fear for most of my life. When your big fear arrives and releases itself on your life, it provides you an unwanted freedom. I wasn’t afraid of the dark or rollercoasters or dying. I was afraid my dad would disappear. And he did.” — Laura

“I’m rethinking kids because I’m in my mid 30s and don’t want my child to lose their parent in their early 20s like I did.” — Kelsey

“Growing up without a father was difficult, and having it happen around my birthday always made that time of year harder for me. I did not have him when I was 13 and celebrated my bar mitzvah. I had a cheeseburger at the movie-themed party (I was obsessed), which is apparently the same thing he had at his bar mitzvah. When I turned 16, I realized I had lived half my life without him. When I turned 17, I had lived more years without him than I did with him. When I turned 33 last year, I realized it had been 25 years. 25 fucking years. Losing my father made me extra sensitive to the topic and idea of losing a parent. Like during that scene of About Time when Domhnall Gleeson realizes it will be the last time he sees his father, Bill Nighy, and even during the start of Guardians of the Galaxy. PostSecrets on LiveJournal definitely helped me place my grief in knowing there were others in this club and I had a specific postcard that stuck with me. If I find the postcard, I will send over. These moments still feel raw and fresh, 25+ years later. When I launched my agency two years ago, I wanted to honor my father in selecting the name. I toyed with Perry Good PR and then my friend Este suggested Perfect Pear. It was alliterative, a pun, and honored my father. I miss him to this day and am sad thinking about all of the moments that he was not physically there, though I know that he would be proud. My grandma always says that when the sun is shining, it’s my father smiling down. It's a little thing but makes me smile on sunny days.”  — Phil

“I find myself having less emotional bandwidth because so much of it is tied up with grief. Confrontation used to be easy for me but now I’m so exhausted by grief I find it really hard to find the space/energy to have hard conversations.” — Kelly

“I often feel guilt for enjoying things in life knowing he’s not around to enjoy them with me as well.” — Liz

“I lost my father 11 years ago to leukemia… he was so sick I was forced to accept his loss and traded his pain for mine. He was a Libra and he left me with two Geminis… my mom and brother, one with borderline personality disorder and the other a heroin addict who, while my father was dying in the hospital, was so fucked up the hospital had to call security. My family always fought but my dad was always the peace keeper… even in his death when the nurse asked us to make that decision… I was ready to trade pain and they were ready to keep him on to keep fighting a battle he was already losing… and in that moment he made the decision for us… he comes to me as lady bugs only when I need him… to anyone that doesn’t believe, spend some time with me and they start to. I drove past my parents’ old house that my brother’s girlfriend died in because she was stuck here and the new home owners mentioned ‘seeing a girl wearing an oversized hoodie in the middle of the night’, even though they didn’t know about what happened… and even though that’s a whole other story, the housekeeper came outside, we spoke and she mentioned she was cleaning the living room the other day and heard a man’s voice say ‘leave me alone’… when my parents fought he would always leave his office and go into that room and in English and Armenian he would repeat those words… I’m writing this because I have a lot to say and being in this shitty club is so shitty but I also want to remind anyone that’s in it too… that energy doesn’t die; it just changes form.” — Alyne

“I get this weird jealous feeling when I see other people with their dads. I hate going to weddings because my dad won’t be in mine.” — Shelly

“Some days are great and the next day I’m walking down the street and Kacey Musgraves’ ‘Rainbow’ comes on and I’m absolutely sobbing.” — Hannah

“I find myself craving connection through grief, holding friends who have experienced the same tightly. Not trusting platitudes from people who can’t relate, words like ‘at least’ grating on me. I feel flattened by, and full of, love. Thanks for these prompts and letting us pour our broken hearts out, Evan.” — Tanya

“I’m a licensed psychologist and grad school taught me shit about grief. I’m so sad for how awful we treat those who are grieving and how we make them feel as if they have to get over it. We don’t have to get over it, and we shouldn’t. I know I won’t.” — Courtney

“Even when it makes me sad, it makes me happy to think about him and remember he was here and how grateful and lucky I am to have a dad like him. Which is basically how I feel sending this email. Crying to a stranger on the Internet. Because any excuse to remember someone you loved is an excellent one.” — Kathleen

“Grief is so isolating. It’s nice knowing there is a community of people who understand this feeling. Thank you for opening a door for people to reach out.” — Emily