Recently, two beloved friends lost a parent each. Both played important roles in holding me together after my dad died. In the process of plans and plane tickets and memorials and house-selling and moving, life was senseless. I wish I was present for you the way you were for me. I know you don’t require reciprocation. I am so sorry you know this moment.

The death of my father has had a unique, mercurial identity. An ever-present emptiness. A film of metaphysical opacity. Life has taken on a daily both/and; I am happy and I am hurting. I am present at my work and I am distracted by grief. I laugh with my son and I want to cry. In death, impossible contradictions are the only things that make sense.

Well-meaning others acknowledge the death of my father. Have advice and condolences. Some of whom have lost somebody, or many bodies. And still nobody knows it in its visceral, aching intimacy. My grief is wholly personal; as I imagine is yours. I won’t pretend to know your experience. And I am in solidarity with your being in the midst of it.

My grief has been an animal with wiry hair and sharp claws. It scurries around too fast for me to catch it. It’s good at hiding. It whispers from dark corners and screams when the light gets in. Sometimes it will be a song on the radio. A picture that pops up unexpectedly. An anniversary on the calendar. A simple question of “How are you doing?” Then the animal devours the moment, leaving a bloody trail of psychospiritual viscera. And the moment passes, life continuing on with its internet memes, news stories of atrocity, and mundane conversations about the weather.

I have noticed a few truths. It helps me to write about the experience. To sit in solitude and consider my mental, emotional and physical health. I am compelled into more honesty and vulnerability with people in my life. My survival demands that I get help where and when I can. A spirit of life and love invites me to live the practice of letting go of everything that does not bring light into my life. Because the animal inside needs darkness. And it will eat me alive if I let it.

To my friends and loved ones who can only nod and say “I know.” I see you. I hear you. And I love you. We do this alone, and we do this together.

A good friend gave me this. And now I give it to you: