I’ve always felt uneasy about how one should really feel about “celebrity” deaths. When an actor, writer, or musician you love dies, going through a full-on mourning process seems inappropriate. Maybe you had the opportunity to meet them or interact at an event, but at the end of the day you didn’t have a personal relationship with them, and they wouldn’t know you if you passed them on the street. I can understand feeling bummed out, but most reactions are extreme to me, especially when the person’s body of work still exists for the world to continue to hold dear.

I think I understand it a little better now, though my feelings around it are still complicated. When Rachel Held Evans passed away, it wasn’t that I broke down crying and spent the day grieving. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to live my life without her. It felt more like a weight. Because of her loss, we all have a greater burden to bear as we try to pick up the mantle she left behind.

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My church’s caring ministry is affiliated with GriefShare, an international grief support program. The first holiday season after my dad passed away, I went to a GriefShare Surviving the Holiday seminar. Going in, I didn’t think I had a lot to gain from it; I had already gone through several “firsts” with my dad’s birthday and father’s day, so the first round of holidays without Dad didn’t seem like a big deal.
However, as I went through the seminar, I realized I probably wasn’t as prepared as I thought, and I ended up gaining a few pearls of wisdom that I’ve taken with me over the years:

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Pablo Neruda was a Chilean poet, well known for his political activism and exile. You’ve probably seen his romantic quotes on Pinterest, or books of his love poems featured prominently in bookstores and gift shops around Valentine’s Day.
Neruda also wrote poems about lost love, and about grief. No surprise, really since most of the people we consider to be “the greats” in creative fields were struggling with loss in one form or another. We can share commonalities and write what we can, but sometimes it takes an artist to put feelings to words.

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Growing up in a Christian home, it was never even a question of whether or not I would take my future husband’s last name. When you believe that marriage is a union under God and that two people are becoming one, sharing a last name is just part of the package. Of course I would take my husband’s name.
As I’ve gotten older, the thought of keeping my last name (or hyphenating) has crossed my mind once or twice, mostly in terms of my career path. As a female writer, it complicates things a lot when you have one body of work pre-name-change and another body of work post-name-change. But being single, I haven’t been in a position where I’ve had to think about it too much; there isn’t much for me to do except write with the name I have and cross the name changing bridge when I come to it.
That said:

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As someone who has worked in fashion retail for nearly four years, it’s safe to say that I enjoy clothes, cosmetics and everything in between. It’s also safe to say that I enjoy the shopping that goes along with the fashion industry.
“Retail Therapy” is a very real thing. Sometimes the only thing that makes one feel better is a new pair of shoes. Of course, in my case, new shoes, new necklaces, new lipstick and new perfume doesn’t actually make me feel better. It makes me look adorable, and that might temporarily make me feel good, but it doesn’t solve anything.

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t’s very common for widows to lose 75% of their friends after their spouse’s death. When a couple is friends with another couple and a group of four becomes three, it upsets the “balance” and the intact couples will bail. Then there’s the matter of married women fearing that widows are “predators” who are after their husbands. It sounds absurd, but it’s a real thing. It has happened to my mom.

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I’m really into opera.
It’s one of those super dorky things about me that I shout from the rooftops. I gave speeches about opera in high school. I wrote research papers about opera in college. I frequently spend my weekends going to Met Live in HD performances at my local movie theater. When I’m at a red light and the car next to me is blasting bass-booming hip hop, I crank up “Un bel di” and laugh at the confused stare I get from the adjacent driver. Who needs Kanye when you can have some Puccini, right?
It’s weird, I know. Just roll with me for a minute.

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Vivian, our Too Damn Young founder, recently wrote a response to the recent Huffington Post article, “What It Is Like to Date a Girl Without a Mother.” She found it to be simplistic, demeaning, and stereotypical.

So did I.
I am not without a mother, but I am without a father, and the assumptions the HuffPost article made are ones that have been made about me time and time again.
“She will pretend she doesn’t have emotions.” “She will feel a sense of embarrassment when someone asks about her parents.” “Holidays will always be hard for her.” “She will cry a lot, but you won’t know when she does.” “She will hide, she will not accept your love right away, and it will take her a while to realize she is more than deserving of it.”
As a girl who has lost her father, add some token ’emotional detachment’ and ‘daddy issues’ to that list.
I resent being reduced to a list of obstacles to overcome.

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One of my close friends has been through the wringer this past year. Her mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and has spent the year going through treatment. This past month her brother was in an accident and will need to go through extensive physical therapy.
I just attended this friend’s baby shower. It was a beautiful gathering of friends and family celebrating new life entering the world.
New life. When celebrating a baby, you don’t think about life’s fragility because babies have their whole lives ahead of them. However, juxtaposed next to the rest of what my friend has been through recently, it’s hard to not recognize that in the blink of an eye, the vision with which you see the future can be jeopardized.

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It always feels a little odd to mourn someone you never knew or never met, but the pain of their loss isn’t any less real.
For me, when Harper Lee passed away, it was like I lost an old friend. She wrote the character of Scout Finch, who was a representation of herself, and might as well have been a representation of me.

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