We don’t know how to set something down with reverence. We either white‐knuckle it until it rots in our grip, or we smash it so there’s nothing left to miss.

We treat grief as something reserved for death alone, when in truth we live with it every day — in our endings, our beginnings, and every choice in between.

This is why our grief capacity stays so fragile. We keep skipping funerals for our own lives.