I remember this time last year, knowing full well that a number on a calendar has little to do with life’s actual ebbs and flows, yet still feeling a sense of relief. The year had been difficult in many ways, not the least of which was losing my dad. I thought, naively, that I had become an expert in loss. I thought that losing three dear friends and my father in a short period of time meant that I had quickly excelled at adversity university, and was eager to share my wisdom. What I didn’t know, at least not on a deep level, is that no matter how many books, teachings, or trainings are out there, understanding death is as impossible as counting grains of sand.

The stories we create are all we have in the end. Science has helped us have a more consistent narrative, but questions of a more soulful nature, cultivated by religion, philosophy and mysticism, remain disparate and vast. Sayings like, “time heals all wounds,” and, “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” make for nice bumper stickers, but in the throes of grief, you might as well try to fix a bullet wound with a band-aid. Generally speaking, people who’ve experienced loss know this, and those who haven’t typically have the best of intentions. But the words from people who aren’t afraid to ask hard questions, or the laughter from friends who like your morbid humor, or the hands of those who will just sit with you and cry, those become the real opportunities for healing.