In the seven years of publishing this newsletter, this is the first time I dare broach the topic of grief. Seven years — not once.

As I’ve told you before, I’m never sure how much personal information to share, but I’m writing this in hopes that it helps someone who may be reading right now.

Two family members who meant a lot to me passed away within a month of each other. Since February, my family and I have been trying to navigate the waves of grief that strike at the most bizarre moments.

Logically, my brain knows that death is a part of life. Emotionally, not so much.

I can tell you exactly where I was and what I was doing the second I got the news that a close person died: I am 13 years old getting ready to go to my friend’s birthday at the Cheesecake Factory when I see my mom’s facial expression as she hangs up the phone. I am 20 years old staring at my college textbooks in my room after I read a somber text message. I am 32 years old working on this newsletter when my husband says, ‘I need to tell you something.’

The memories are so vivid that when I bring them to the forefront of my mind, my body reacts as if it’s happening in this very moment.

For the last few months, I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea that life is equal part love story and equal part tragedy. Each is a different side of the same coin.

I once heard author Nicholas Sparks say this in an interview:

“To me, love and tragedy are linked. You can’t have one without the other. And the greater the love, the greater the tragedy.

“You see, every day millions and millions of people around the world die, and we all go on, we all show up to work, we don’t care. But the moment that it’s someone you love — your sister, your spouse, your grandparents, your friend — it’s like your world collapses. And the greater the love, the greater the tragedy.

“So, by definition, all love stories have to end in tragedy.”

As the author of The Notebook, A Walk to Remember, Dear John, and A Message in a Bottle, Sparks describes his genre of novels as “tragic love stories.”

As they say, art imitates life, and Sparks’ life has been full of tragedy. When he was 23, his mom was in a fatal horseback riding accident. His sister had a brain tumor and died in the hospital. His father died in a car crash. His wife had a miscarriage early in their marriage. His second son Ryan was diagnosed as severely autistic.

“I think for most people, this is part and parcel of life,” he says. “At the same time, it’s often moments like those that make you question things. And so to me, it just reflects the truth.”

No one can avoid grief. It’s only a matter of time.

The most impressive people to me are those who have undergone tremendous amounts of tragedy yet they’ve managed not to get hardened by it. Unfortunately, the reaction that comes most naturally is to turn toward the dark side of the self — anger, volatility, and withdrawal.

It’s (much) harder to maintain a light-hearted approach to life and radiate even more kindness in the face of impossible sorrow.

Keanu Reeves is someone who is no stranger to tragedy. He has become a legendary actor, producer, and director, but he also has a reputation for being a genuinely good person. He's become known for his random acts of kindness, of which there are many.

Despite everything he's been through, Reeves teaches us that tragedy can be used to create a beautiful life filled with joy and kindness. He says, "If you have been brutally broken but still have the courage to be gentle to other living beings, then you’re a badass with a heart of an angel.”

Reeves has had many opportunities to lose hope and give up on love — yet he hasn't.

"I guess living without love, without experiencing it or being able to give it is pretty strong punishment," he says.

In the end, he's concluded that even in the face of tragedy, you can still thrive. "No matter what’s going on in your life, you can overcome it," Reeves says. "Life is worth living.”

To best illustrate this point, I’ll leave you with this incredible description of the grieving process by a Reddit commenter who described himself as an “old guy” who has lost parents, friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors. (I first came across this in the newsletter, My Sweet Dumb Brain.)

“I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter." I don't want it to be something that just passes.

“My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

“As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

“In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

“Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

“Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”

— Polina

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