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Hunter,

As we grapple with the devastating news about Beau, we've been trying to
figure out the best way to reach out and tell you how sorry we are, knowing
that there is nothing that can be said or done that will fill the hole in
your family and in your heart. Dave and I are thinking about you guys every
single day and we hope you know that after the memorials and tributes are
over and people have dispersed, we will not forget Beau and we will support
you in any small way we can. Beau will remain an example for all of us who
want to improve the lives of others and his memory will inspire us to do
better.

I wanted to share something I read yesterday that Sheryl Sandberg wrote
(below) about her experience with such a profound loss, because in it she
said hearing from others about their experiences helped her deal with her
own grief during the last month. I hope it might do the same for you.

Best,
Lesly


"Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty
days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that
lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal
activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the
completion of religious mourning for a spouse.

A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the
most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I
am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losingDave
<https://www.facebook.com/daveglaunch>. Now I do.

I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the
void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your
ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These
past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I
know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as
well.

But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.

And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back
some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is
profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own
experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were
my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and
advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it
helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this
tragedy.

I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I
feel like I am thirty years wiser.

I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother,
both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry
and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the
empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep.
She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has
explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my
children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her
own eyes.

I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I
think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would
be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A
friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people
could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would
scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that
I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real
empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging
that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find
happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will
never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new
normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and
speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the
best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am
asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month
ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the
person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.

I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that
Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the
hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to
the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a
few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this
while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way.
Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.

I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is.
That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under
you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from
too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from
under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face
emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that
we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.

I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need.
Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner.
I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much
of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged.
They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so
much to support me and my children.

I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant
<https://www.facebook.com/AdamMGrant> taught me that three things are
critical to resilience and that I can work on all three.
Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word
“sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault.
Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get
better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life;
the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.

For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to
feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those
connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their
eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how.
Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the
hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues
that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that
meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those
I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and
I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they
felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not
sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was
around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the
fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of
all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the
elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of
the room.

At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to
Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the
classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the
parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say
something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time
so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they
understood.

I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted
before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day
and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no
longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates
birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said
through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have
each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined
to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday
before.

I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A
colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her
support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been
putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much
as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I
will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with
their families.

I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have
done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the
brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years
stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out
of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.

I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that
Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried
to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and
said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option
B.”

Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be
raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And
even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always
mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there
is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.