Dear Sweet Reader

If you are reading this book because you have experienced the loss of someone you love, please accept my deepest condolences. I know that your grief is as unique to you as your fingerprint. You are likely to be experiencing a broad range of emotions. Please know that all of these emotions are okay to be feeling — even if they don't always make sense. My wish for you is that you find some comfort and maybe even some hope in these pages. I would consider it a privilege to be your companion as you grieve your own loss. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to sit with you.

If you are reading this book because you have experienced some other kind of loss or for any other reason, thank you. The same goes for you. We are in this together, and I am honored to be here by your side. Possibly one of the most unexpected outcomes of witnessing another person's grief is the ways in which it can provoke or trigger your own grief — perhaps buried deep inside. You may not have even have known you carried that grief with you. If unexpected feelings arise while reading my story, know that this is normal. Whatever comes up for you is okay. Maybe it has been waiting for an opportunity to rise.

After someone dies, we flood those who remain — those who cherished the deceased most dearly — with love. We rush to support them in any way we can. We bring nourishing meals for the grieving, we send cards to let them know they are not alone, we share our memories of their loved ones to express how their lives mattered to us, and we absorb their salty tears on our shoulders. As a recipient of this outpouring of support and kindness when my dad unexpectedly passed away in 2010, I am eternally grateful. I felt loved and connected to those I loved in ways I had never experienced. I was surprised to learn that people cared enough about me to share my loss with me. I was also surprised to learn that people who I thought cared a great deal about me didn't seem to see my pain at all. As the date on the calendar moved further from the day of my dad's funeral, my feeling of being buoyed by that love and support faded. The afternoons where my dad had once shown up at my house to help me with my children and take my leftovers home for his lunch the next day were completely void of what I had come to rely on. All around me, people were going on with their lives as if nothing earth-shattering had happened.

I became intimate with loneliness. It seemed as if everything that had happened, from the horrific night my dad died to the moments I spent waving good-bye to the hearse after his funeral, had merely been a very bad dream. I was exhausted. I felt empty and alone. I wondered why we don't create more space for grief and the grieving in our society. I wondered why we don't talk more about loss. I wondered why people looked away when I wanted to talk about my loss.

Death plays an essential role in the unfolding of our life stories. Instead of embracing death as a part of the process of life, we typically fear it. When we face death or the loss of a loved one, we often hide behind obligatory smiles and say, "I am fine." We may look fine on the outside while we feel lost, afraid, hopeless, and alone. We say we are fine, but we are far from it. I didn't think I had a choice except to say that I was doing fine when someone asked me how I was doing.

"And how is your mom?" "She is fine."

"And your sister?" "Sarah is fine too. We're all fine."

I felt pressured to move on, to heal, and to get over it. I knew I was expected to be strong for my mom and be happy for everyone else because "that's what your dad would have wanted." If I only knew one thing about my dad, it was that what he aspired to in life was to be real — to remain true to himself. Despite what people told me, I knew that what he would have wanted was for me to be real too. To be real, and to honor my dad, I would need to face the fact that I wouldn't always feel fine, or be happy or strong.

Shortly after my dad died, in the midst of sorrow, confusion, and wondering how it could have played out differently — under different circumstances — my mom read a book that suggested we acknowledge a person's death in the same way we do his or her birth. It suggested that we not question this leg of the journey — not doubt it or dread it — and honor it instead. At first, I couldn't imagine that as a possibility. I keep returning to that invitation though, and I have come to sincerely appreciate it. If we were to truly honor and even celebrate death, to revere it with the same awe and wonder we do birth — not just as part of the life cycle or process but as a milestone in a person's life — maybe it wouldn't be so hard to live with loss. If instead of fearing it and fighting it, we embraced it as a person's last meaningful act on earth, we might feel less alone in our grief. Maybe more of us would share our stories about the ways we experience loss.

I share my story here imagining that you may recognize your own grief in these glimpses of mine. I hope this will serve as a reminder that you are not alone. Losing my dad certainly broadened my understanding of death and loss, but more importantly, experiencing this loss expanded my understanding of life and what it means to live. It taught me that there is always another way — another way of being, of living, and of doing. Where I once was closed off to the world around and within me, I have opened. Where I was too hard, I softened. Where I once gave way to fear, I made space for love. Where I once felt powerless, I am now empowered. Where I once saw a lack of love and resources to sustain me, I now see an abundance of love and resources for every person on this planet.

One of my all-time favorite quotes comes from Anaïs Nin. She said, "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." We begin as tiny little seeds filled with potential. As we grow into our lives, we harden. We tighten into tiny little buds. If we are lucky, we realize how tightly wound we are, and we recognize that we cannot bear to spend another day in that kind of bind. It can be scary to let go of our defenses and break free from that tiny bud. It can be really scary, especially when everything we have ever known put us in that bud. We feel safe there. We know how to operate from that bud. We may take a few steps forward and a few steps back before we are fully ready to bloom. We may read a lot of books and blogs about the ways other people have bloomed. We may be inspired. We may be overwhelmed.

The process of blooming, or really the process of life, is not an easy one to navigate by any stretch of the imagination. No prayer or platitude can eliminate the harsh pain of the things that hurt us. But when we...