Months after Sam’s death, and shortly before he was gone too, my father, always trying to cheer me on, reassured me that I’d find joy again. I disagreed. I didn’t want joy—I couldn’t even fathom it. I was consumed with grief, and wanted to be dead too. He worried about this, I’m sure, which added to his grief.
What I’ve learned about joy over the years:
It’s one of the hardest things you have to do—find joy again, after loss.
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