At a holiday party a few weeks ago, I met a woman who, after hearing that Ezra died, said those 5 dreaded words: Everything. Happens. For. A. Reason.

Here’s some advice, lady: never, ever tell a woman who has had a child (or 2, or 3) die, that everything happens for a reason. My children didn’t die for a reason. Or for some karmic magical twist of faith. They sure as hell didn’t die so Ruby could join our family. My children died because of genetic abnormalities, and rare complications from pregnancy. It was not fate. And it certainly was not for a reason.

I wish I’d had the guts to say that to her face. Instead, I can rant about it here. And maybe educate others to not say those 5 dreaded words. If you don’t know what to say, you can simply say “I’m so sorry” or “My heart goes out to you” or “thank you for sharing your story”. Even if you believe with every single bone in your body that things happen for a reason, resist the urge to say so.

The night of this party, a friend serendipitously sent me an article. It states my point so eloquently. We are coming on the first anniversary of so many traumas- delivering our stillbirth son, Leo on January 24, suffering a heart attack on January 30, followed by open heart surgery on February 1, and our 3rd anniversary of losing Ezra on February 5. How dare anyone say these events happened for a reason. I encourage you to read the article below…


Tim Laurence, a journalist and psychotherapist, has written a very insightful article where he discusses how much it’s really possible to help someone who’s grieving. He argues that it’s very important for us to be very careful what we say to people dealing with personal pain — the empty phrases we’re accustomed to offer can often hurt rather than help them despite our best intentions.

Tim himself knows what he’s talking about, having suffered huge personal loss at a young age. We think his insights are therefore well worth considering. Take a look.

’Not everything happens for a reason’: The magic words to say when everything’s going wrong

…I’m listening to a man tell a story. A woman he knows was in a devastating car accident, and now she lives in a state of near-permanent pain; a paraplegic, many of her hopes stolen.

I’ve heard it a million times before, but it never stops shocking me: He tells her that he thinks the tragedy had led to positive changes in her life. He utters the words that are nothing less than emotional, spiritual, and psychological violence:

“Everything happens for a reason.”

He tells her that this was something that had to happen in order for her to grow. But that’s the kind of bullshit that destroys lives. And it’s categorically untrue.

After all these years working with people in pain as an advisor and adversity strategist, it still amazes me that these myths persist despite the fact that they’re nothing more than platitudes cloaked as sophistication. And worst of all, they keep us from doing the one thing we must do when our lives are turned upside down: grieve.

Here’s the reality: As my mentor Megan Devine has so beautifully said: ’Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.’

Grief is brutally painful. Grief does not only occur when someone dies. When relationships fall apart, you grieve. When opportunities are shattered, you grieve. When illnesses wreck you, you grieve.

Losing a child cannot be fixed. Being diagnosed with a debilitating illness cannot be fixed. Facing the betrayal of your closest confidante cannot be fixed. These things can only be carried.

Let me be clear: If you’ve faced a tragedy and someone tells you in any way that your tragedy was meant to be, happened for a reason, will make you a better person, or that taking responsibility for it will fix it, you have every right to remove them from your life.

Yes, devastation can lead to growth, but it often doesn’t. It often destroys lives — in part because we’ve replaced grieving with advice. With platitudes.

I now live an extraordinary life. I’ve been deeply blessed by the opportunities I’ve had and the radically unconventional life I’ve built for myself.

But loss has not in and of itself made me a better person. In fact, in some ways it’s hardened me.

While loss has made me acutely aware and empathetic of the pains of others, it’s also made me more inclined to hide. I have a more cynical view of human nature and a greater impatience with people who are unfamiliar with what loss does to people.

Above all, I’ve been left with a pervasive survivor’s guilt that has haunted me all my life. In short, my pain has never gone away, I’ve just learned to channel it into my work with others. But to say that my losses somehow had to happen in order for my gifts to grow would be to trample on the memories of all those I lost too young, all those who suffered needlessly, and all those who faced the same trials I did but who did not make it.

I’m simply not going to do that. I’m not going to assume that God ordained me for life instead of all the others, just so that I could do what I do now. And I’m certainly not going to pretend that I’ve made it simply because I was strong enough, that I became “successful“ because I ”took responsibility.“

I think people tell others to take responsibility when they don’t want to understand.

Understanding is harder than posturing. Telling someone to “take responsibility” for their loss is a form of benevolent masturbation. It’s the inverse of inspirational porn: It’s sanctimonious porn.

Personal responsibility implies that there’s something to take responsibility for. You don’t take responsibility for being raped or losing your child. You take responsibility for how you choose to live in the wake of the horrors that confront you, but you don’t choose whether you grieve. We’re not that smart or powerful. When hell visits us, we don’t get to escape grieving.

This is why all the platitudes and focus on ”fixes“ are so dangerous: by unleashing them on those we claim to love, we deny them the right to grieve.

In so doing, we deny them the right to be human. We steal a bit of their freedom precisely when they’re standing at the intersection of their greatest fragility and despair.

The irony is that the only thing that even can be ”responsible” amid loss is grieving.

I’ve grieved many times in my life. I’ve been overwhelmed with shame so strong it nearly killed me. The ones who helped — the only ones who helped — were those who were simply there.

I am here — I have lived — because they chose to love me. They loved me in their silence, in their willingness to suffer with me and alongside me. They loved me in their desire to be as uncomfortable, as destroyed, as I was, if only for a week, an hour, even just a few minutes. Most people have no idea how utterly powerful this is.

Healing and transformation can occur. But not if you’re not allowed to grieve. Because grief itself is not an obstacle.

The obstacles come later. The choices as to how to live, how to carry what we have lost, how to weave a new mosaic for ourselves? Those come in the wake of grief.

Yet our culture treats grief like a problem to be solved or an illness to be healed. We’ve done everything we can to avoid, ignore, or transform grief. So that now, when you’re faced with tragedy, you usually find that you’re no longer surrounded by people — you’re surrounded by platitudes.
So what do we offer instead of “everything happens for a reason”?

The last thing a person devastated by grief needs is advice. Their world has been shattered. Inviting someone — anyone — into their world is an act of great risk. To try to fix, rationalize, or wash away their pain only deepens their terror.

Instead, the most powerful thing you can do is acknowledge. To literally say the words:

I acknowledge your pain. I’m here with you.

Note that I said with you, not for you. For implies that you’re going to do something. That’s not for you to enact. But to stand with your loved one, to suffer with them, to do everythingbut something is incredibly powerful.

There is no greater act for others than acknowledgement.

And that requires no training, no special skills — just the willingness to be present and to stay present, as long as is necessary.

Be there. Only be there. Don’t leave when you feel uncomfortable or when you feel like you’re not doing anything. In fact, it’s when you feel uncomfortable and like you’re not doing anything that you must stay.

Because it’s in those places — in the shadows of horror we rarely allow ourselves to enter — where the beginnings of healing are found. This healing is found when we have others who are willing to enter that space alongside us. Every grieving person on earth needs these people.

I beg you, be one of these people.

You are more needed than you will ever know. And when you find yourself in need of those people, find them. I guarantee they are there.

Everyone else can go.’




On October 15th, I shared a post on Facebook:
“Ethan, Daisy and I are very excited to introduce you to the newest member of our family, Ruby Rose Bessey born September 26, 2015. We are in love…”

I think we almost broke Facebook! The outpouring of love and support was incredible. I could truly feel the genuine joy that our greater community felt for us. Due to the slightly vague nature of my post, a good friend said that she thought there was probably a lot of people doing math that night… because just 9 months ago, I was still pregnant with our son Leo. Nine months ago, having a heart attack was the furthest thing from my mind. And little baby boy clothes filled the dresser.

But here we are.

For those of you who have followed our story, you know we have been very open about our experiences. From losing our son, to shifting our vision for our family, to delivering our still birth son, Leo, to suffering a heart attack a week later… if you scroll back through my blog, it’s all there.

But adoption is different. This isn’t just about our family, and it feels inappropriate to share details. I can tell you that our daughter, Ruby, is adopted. The doctors were very clear that it would be dangerous for me to get pregnant again. Adoption is a heart wrenching, bittersweet process that brings together strangers in a very intimate way. Previously, when I was pregnant, I took prenatal vitamins. I never ate sushi, or drank alcohol. And despite all my efforts, I learned that sadly, I don’t have any control over the outcome of the pregnancy. You can imagine how hard it is then to have even less control. With adoption, adopting parents have no control over what a birth mother is eating and drinking and smoking. Access to prenatal care can be spotty. It’s all a huge leap of faith. And as a very wise friend of mine pointed out, Ethan and I have no reason whatsoever to trust leaps of faith. So, I have no idea why we thought we should move ahead with adopting. But we did. And now we are home with a beautiful little bundle of amazingness. Daisy has a sister. We are a family of four. Really, a family of 7. Daisy’s been talking a lot about the babies we have lost. She is so wise beyond her years and truly understands the inner emotional roller coaster Ethan and I have been going through since adoption became a reality for us. We love Ruby as though she grew in my belly. Her little sounds, her loud cries, her tiny onesies do remind all of us of the babies that did not get to grow up in our home. And while a few out there may think “oh good- now this family can heal and be all better”, most of you know that there will never be an “all better” for us. Ruby is not a bandaid to make the pain of our losses go away. I would never ever put that on any child. She will grow and thrive in this family- and Ruby will always know that although she did not grow in my belly, we got to her as soon as we could to bring her home. And the home we brought her to is full of love, and sadness, and joy, and gratitude. So much gratitude.



Speaking of gratitude… A huge thank you to Brianne with for capturing some beautiful images of our family… and for the wonderful women at KV Coaching who gifted us this session.


I’m two months post-op. Just 9 weeks ago, I found myself lying on the bathroom floor thinking I was going to die of a heart attack and it seems hard to believe that two months have already gone by. I don’t think I’ve ever had two months of my life where I have done so little- just simply resting, sleeping and trying to piece together all that has happened since January.  My strength is growing, confidence in my heart is slowly getting better- overall, my body is healing. It is truly amazing how resilient our bodies can be. But how about our emotional well being? Is that as quick to heal?

There are times when my arms physically ache to carry our baby. I must admit, what touches my heart more than seeing infants or pregnant bellies, is when I see siblings interacting. I just want that so badly- especially for Daisy. She craves a sibling with every inch of her body. And so Ethan and I are once again considering other ways to grow our family. We know that we can not have a biological child- it could be very dangerous for me to get pregnant again. So our thoughts turn to other ways of adding a child to our home- adoption and surrogacy. There are so many children in the world in need of love and protection. We know we can provide that. We’ve been doing research on domestic and international adoption and on surrogacy and embryo donation. We are trying to decide if we have it in us to start this process. I feel very protective of Daisy and want to be sure we are intentional about any child we bring into our family.

The whole reason I started this blog 2.5 years ago was to see if there was anyone, anywhere who could help us with Ezra’s diagnosis. Over the years, it has turned into a cathartic way for me to both document our experience and keep our community updated on how things are going.  And now after our most recent losses, I am thankful for the opportunity to once again reach out and see if there is anyone out there who can help us. I have heard about serendipitous scenarios where a woman is seeking an adoptive family for her baby and is connected with a couple looking to adopt. Or where a woman is interested in being a surrogate and is looking for a family who cannot get pregnant on their own to work with. I would like to think that by putting it out into the universe that we would love to add to our family, somehow a connection can be made.

It is important to me to express how incredibly grateful we are for our Daisy. I recognize that there are many, many couples who struggle with having even one child.  Some may think, “these people should just be happy with the child they have”. And we are. Every. Single. Day. Ethan and I constantly say to each other how very lucky we are to have Daisy in our lives. She is our miracle child. And if adoption and surrogacy do not work out, our family of 3 will continue to hold each other close and be thankful for each day we have together.


In my last blog post, I asked the question, How much loss can our spirits take? As it turns out, last week I guess my spirit had reached it’s limit.

Friday, January 30th. Ethan, Daisy and I were piled in our bed daydreaming of warm, beautiful places we could go visit over winter break. We needed to get away. To feel the sun. To be together as a family and find our smiles.

It was just before dinnertime and I began to feel awful. Ethan opened a window for me to cool my suddenly burning body. I asked Daisy to go play in her room. I made my way to the bathroom, unsure if I was going to be sick. I then felt a crushing sensation in my chest and my arm went numb. I told Ethan to call 9-1-1.

Our next call was to one of our very amazing friends who swept in and picked up Daisy so she wouldn’t be there when the ambulance arrived. It took the ambulance 20 minutes to arrive at our home and when the EMTs came upstairs, I remember begging them to help me. That nothing could happen to me. One of the men curtly told me to “calm down, Ma’am… just take a deep breath, Ma’am… I can almost promise you, you aren’t having a heart attack, Ma’am”.

Because of the snow, they couldn’t get the ambulance up our driveway and I had to walk down to the truck. I finally laid down on the stretcher, they hooked me up to a machine and the EMT promptly apologized. “Remember how I said you weren’t having a heart attack? I was wrong.”

A HEART ATTACK? I am 39 years old. I eat a very healthy diet. I used to teach yoga. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life.

They brought me to the closest hospital and a team of doctors were waiting. More machines were attached to my chest, more medicine was administered to stabilize me. I told everyone within ear shot that I had a 5 year old daughter who had been through enough loss and needs her mom. The cardiologist came up to me with a grandfatherly, loving smile, looked right into my eyes and said “you will be fine. I know I will see you again.”

I was then quickly transferred back to the ambulance for a very snowy drive down to Maine Medical Center in Portland. The plan was to go right into their Catheterization Lab so the cardiologist there could take a look at my heart and see what was going on. Because I had responded so well to the meds, they decided to hold off on the Cath Lab until the next day, so my heart would have a chance to rest.

On Saturday morning, the visit to the Cath lab provided a lot of information. Ethan did a good job of keeping our friends and family informed by sending out informational emails…

From Ethan:

This morning Emily was taken into the Catheterization lab and the procedure was done in about 30 minutes.  She has what they are calling a Coronary Artery Dissection AND a Stress Cardio Myopathy. The good news is that they didn’t have to put in a stent or a balloon and she didn’t need a bypass.  They found the area in the artery where the dissection was and it appeared that it had healed itself.  They did see that the artery was constricted and she was put on Heparin (a blood thinner). It’s unclear exactly what caused the dissection, but we are told pregnancy and birth can sometimes cause it with the introduction of hormones that can affect the walls of the arteries.  In any event, the dissection was causing a constriction and the catheterization showed that it had healed itself and would improve. The more tricky news is that in addition to the dissection they found that her heart was not performing at full strength.  Where a normal heart might operate at 60% efficiency, hers was operating at 30%.  So, they went in to deal with the arteries and potential blockages, and found her heart not doing well. The ECG shows what looks to be a Stress Cardio Myopathy, also called Takotsubo, also known as Broken Heart Syndrome: . As the name implies, when someone (almost always a woman) experiences tremendous stress or trauma, the heart might not be able to take it.  It could be a sudden death in the family or traumatic news… given recent events and what Emily has been through over the past few years it seems to be a fitting description.

So, it appeared I had 2 conditions affecting my heart- an artery dissection and also something called Broken Heart Syndrome. Seriously. I cannot make this stuff up. The doctors called me “a mystery” and an “enigma”. They said they have only seen a few cases like this- especially in such a young person. The good news was that it seemed my body was healing itself. I felt comforted to be under such wonderful care and hoped to be heading home soon.

On Sunday, a good friend came to see me, and a few minutes into our visit I started feeling pressure in my chest. I called a nurse over and they wanted to immediately move me back down to the Cath Lab.

Another update from Ethan:

This afternoon, Emily was moved back to the catheterization lab after having some symptoms in her chest and they found the artery was 90% constricted. The head of the Cath lab called in a heart surgeon, and the decision was made that Emily needed bypass surgery. She was taken in yesterday around 3PM and at 7PM the surgeon reported that everything had gone well and they had in fact done 2 bypasses.  By 8PM I could go see her and by 9PM they were able to extubate her (take the breathing tube out).  When I left last night, she was able to communicate a little bit and was in a great deal of pain.  Last night was very hard for her and I’m sure very uncomfortable. For those of you familiar with the procedure, either from a medical standpoint or from personal experience, it’s a fairly standard operation and one that people much, much older and sicker than Emily recover from fully.  For the rest of us, the thought of stopping the heart and going in through the chest to do what they need to do is terrifying.  Emily is receiving excellent care and all of my questions are being answered as best they can.

Double bypass, open heart surgery. Holy Crap. The week in ICU passed in a blur of blood draws, beeping machines, kind and loving nurses, compassionate doctors, pain, tears, gratefulness and fear.

At the end of this, I am left with a few different things. The least of my worries is my new, crazy big scar running down the center of my chest. Much more importantly, I now have a great deal of fear that my heart is just going to stop someday. That I won’t get to see Daisy grow up. That our family will face more loss. But, most importantly, I am left with an immense amount of gratitude. I am grateful we did not hesitate to call 9-1-1. I am grateful the doctors at our local hospital knew to transfer us to Portland. I am thankful the head of the Cath Lab was on call all weekend and we had the best of the best care. I am beyond grateful for Ethan’s love and his positivity, his questions and his advocacy. I am thankful for Ethan’s parents’ unconditional caring for Daisy, and for my siblings flying in to share their love and support. Every message, email, phone call… At the risk of sounding dramatic, I am just so very thankful to be here to witness it all.

The end of the week, which came just one week after facing the unfathomable loss of our full term baby son (, found Ethan and I grasping to understand what had happened. And with an arsenal of medications and a new understanding of cardiac terminology, I picked up my broken heart and headed home.






When I started writing this post, I was 26 weeks pregnant. For the first 19 weeks, I wore baggy clothing to hide my rapidly growing belly. I tried to make excuses to my 5 year old for why I couldn’t pick her up and dance around the kitchen. I did all I could to hide suspicions from the sweet parents at Daisy’s school- I didn’t want anyone asking me if I was pregnant, in front of Daisy. We needed to protect her. Because 9 months ago I was also pregnant. And at 16 weeks, when we thought it was “safe”, we told Daisy. A baby sister was coming, we told her. Her face lit up like Christmas morning. We posted on Facebook an adorable picture of Daisy holding a sign saying she was going to have a baby sister. People were so kind and supportive. It’s like our amazing community breathed a sigh of relief- “they would be ‘okay’ because they were going to have another baby” many probably thought. There were also shakes of the head- like “haven’t you people been through enough?” “Why tempt fate again”….

But fate we did tempt. And sadly, it wasn’t to be. Two weeks later, there was no more heartbeat. No more Christmas morning, and we had to break our daughter’s fragile heart again.

This time was going to be different. We would keep the pregnancy a secret as long as we possibly could. My belly was big. Daisy even commented that my belly was growing. We waited until 20 weeks, until after I had done the anatomical screen and we saw with our own eyes how his heart and brain were growing. How his organs, arms, and legs were all where they were suppose to be. Even then we were nervous to tell Daisy. She expressed happiness, but it was guarded. Just like our hearts are guarded. “I hope it doesn’t die like Ezra and baby sister did…” This was the first thing Daisy said after we told her. Death. Our daughter’s first worry is for death.

Many people have a vision for how they picture their families in terms of whether or not they want children, and if so- how many. Some want one. Some want 4 or 5. We always knew we wanted at least 2 kids. We thought Ezra completed our family, and sadly after he died, we knew we needed to keep trying. Not to replace him. No one can replace Ezra. Not to “make it okay”. Nothing will make losing our baby son “okay”. But because our family, and our hearts desire another child.

I am finishing this post now- 10 weeks later and our family has suffered another tragic loss. Last Wednesday, I had a sense that the baby boy that had been thriving in my belly had fallen a little quiet. My struggle this entire pregnancy has been trusting that everything would be okay. That this child would be born healthy and strong. So I contacted my midwife and she came over, Doppler in hand. We immediately could hear his heart beat- strong and steady. Tears flowed down my cheeks as this is the most reassuring sound in the universe. The next day, he still seemed quiet to me. I called my midwife again and she recommended I go in for an ultrasound- just to put our fears to rest.

A trip to the L&D floor. The Doppler is rolled in. No heartbeat. The OB comes in with an ultrasound machine. There it is- his 4 chamber heart- once fluttery and active is now dark. It feels like the room is closing in around me. I was 36 weeks pregnant. He was a healthy, active little boy. We had allowed the fragile veil of hope to blanket us and in a matter of minutes, we find ourselves raw and angry and devastated. Yet again.

And then came the worst part. Having to tell our Daisy that again our baby had stopped growing. The sound that came out of her mouth was heart wrenching. It makes me shudder just to think of it. We are left wondering, how much loss can her little spirit take? How much loss can our spirits take?

We spent the next 3 days in the hospital using every medical intervention available to drag my body into labor. And then there he was… he arrived just as quietly as he left.

Leo David Bessey… 7 lbs 20.5 inches… he had strawberry blonde hair. Just like his sister. Just like his brother.

Leo was named after my great uncle,  Leonard Granoff. Uncle Lenny was kind, incredibly silly, and very loving. He and my great Aunt Shirley never had children of their own, but they shared a love for the ages. Back in the day, he played the drums in various Big Band groups. He called himself “a man of the cloth” because he worked at a fabric store. I miss his goofy smile, his stories and the way he called me Shana Cup (pretty face, in Yiddish).

Leo’s middle name, David, was my grandfather’s name and it was also Ezra’s middle name. The namesake of three important males in my life whom I miss every day.

And so now, our family of three has to figure out how to let go of the planning and dreaming we have been doing for the last few months. Daisy’s questions of “how old will baby brother be when I’m 12 or when I’m 16 or when I’m a mama” have been replaced with “why am I your only baby who has lived?”

The day after Ezra’s funeral, there was a storm that covered the world in a mountain of snow. Yesterday, a similar storm hit Maine. I lay in bed with the snow and the wind whipping around at my window feeling grateful for the wildness outside. And today the sun shone bright on the peaceful winter wonderland that was created. I can only hope that one day I will stand in the sun and feel a similar sense of peacefulness. For now, that time seems a long way off…



Ask any parent to look at a family photo and pick one child to delete from the photo forever- they will look at you in disbelief and shake their head. It’s impossible to do. And no parent should ever have to.

A friend of mine recently asked me how it was making our family’s holiday card. I had actually been thinking a lot about this,  having just ordered our holiday cards and because I know there are many families struggling with this- especially those who have recently lost a child. A holiday card is suppose to capture images of a family, smiling, happy and functional. And there is the problem. Of course, our holiday card has a picture of our family. And yes- there are smiles, and perhaps we were even happy and functional when we took the pictures, but the pictures are incomplete. Ezra is missing.

Families have different ways of incorporating the children they have lost into photos. Some hold framed pictures, others wear specific significant colors. Our holiday cards will always have a heart rock somewhere on them.

The other day Daisy came home from school very concerned about something a friend had told her.

“Mama-my friend said she doesn’t believe in ANYTHING! Not Santa, and not the tooth fairy.”

I reminded her that people can believe lots of different things. I asked her what she believes. Her answer was simple.

“I believe in everything.”

I appreciate that despite all that Daisy has been through, she is still willing to believe.

Everywhere we go, we look for heart shaped rocks. Logically I know that these are just part of nature’s mystery- that sometimes rocks are just shaped like hearts. But, there is a part of me that holds onto magical thinking and I let myself believe that these are little signs of Ezra’s love. And I appreciate when people send images of the heart shaped stones, shadows, and water droplets they find. It’s a reminder to me of how far Ezra’s smile, his love and his spirit has reached.

So, whatever you believe, I wish you a very happy holiday season. From our family, to yours.


I am surprised by how hard Robin Williams’ death has hit me. I think about what he must have been experiencing the moments before he decided he just couldn’t live a second longer. I think about the aching sadness his family must be feeling. And I feel the aftershocks going through the community at losing such a bright light that brought so much joy.

That man could make people laugh. SO freaking hard. He could also portray very complicated characters that were struggling with demons- and he did it with such authenticity that it wasn’t hard to imagine he was doing some struggling on his own.

Suicide is a complicated issue. I believe mental illness is a disease that requires treatment- medications, counseling, support groups. Whatever the formula- some form of treatment is crucial for survival. We can not ever begin to know how it felt to be in his shoes, to struggle for a calming breath or a peaceful night’s sleep. What we can do, and what I have truly enjoyed in the past 24 hours, is hearing the ways that Robin brought laughter to the world. Excerpts from interviews, clips from his movies… so much talent from such a complex mind. Such effervescence and child-like energy. I am so grateful these gifts are his legacy. I am glad that someday I can show Daisy his magic- Dead Poets Society, Good Will Hunting, Good Morning Vietnam… such amazing movies.

“Real loss is only possible when you love something more than you love yourself…”

Today, I was reminded of this line from Good Will Hunting. It means something completely different to me now than it did when I first heard it back in 1997. I was just graduating college. Good Will Hunting is still, to this day, one of my favorite movies of all time. A few years later, while doing my second year with the AmeriCorps NCCC program, I watched When Dreams May Come while on a project in Puerto Rico during Hurricane George. This movie completely messed with my head. I cried from the first 5 minutes of the film until 4 hours after the film ended. At that time in my life, I had never experienced anyone I deeply cared about dying. Yet this film tapped into a waterfall of emotions. Robin Williams had this ability.

My mother, my father, my very dear friend Shira, and my son… oh, my sweet son. All losses that came way too soon, and have shaken my core. That have made me look at the world through a totally different lens. Losses that collectively have changed the person I am, for better and for worse. Real loss.

And though I’ve never met Robin Williams, I know nothing about the man he was in the privacy of his home when the cameras were turned off… I do know that his death, too, is a real loss. For me and for the world.



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