But I find the antidote to that is just keeping a sense of humor. And staying humble. And laughing a lot. And doubling down on smiling. We’re all just muddling through, after all. We’re all just doing the best we can. We’re all struggling with our struggles. Nobody has the answers. And everybody, deep down, is a little bit lost.

Today—March fourth—was my mother’s birthday. And I always celebrated my mom’s birthday. Just the two of us. I’d tuck a flower behind my ear, the way she always used to, and I’d bake a cake from scratch, and I’d buy candles, and I’d sing happy birthday to her. And then I’d talk to her like she could hear me. Just out loud—alone in a room by myself.

It takes a certain kind of courage to be brave in love.

Back at my hovel, sitting on my little love-seat sofa, I felt a longing for my mom so intense, it felt like it was filling up my lungs. If she’d been here, I would’ve rested my head on her shoulder and she’d have stroked my hair. I would’ve pressed my ear against her chest, shushed by the rhythm of her breathing. And then she’d have tightened her

It was so tempting—even still—to feel bitter that I’d lost her so soon. I had to work to turn the other way: to remember to feel grateful that I’d had her at all. I’d thank her, and then—yes—I’d cry … because happiness and sadness are always so tangled up. And then I’d put on a Cary Grant movie—and usually eat the birthday cake, sometimes digging

Isn’t it lucky when we’re drawn to people who can teach us things we need to learn?