“You can’t write your way out of this,” says my therapist, and I know she’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Anyway, the words won’t come out properly, so it’s not like I have a choice.

She says she’s not crying as much as she expected. Apparently her therapist told her, “You’re going to have to actually feel your feelings.”

We repeat the phrase to each other and laugh at ourselves because we aren’t crying until we are crying – and then we start laughing again because we’re crying about not crying and does this count as feeling your feelings?

At the gym, the coach shows us the workout: lifting again, the weights carrying some of our grief. But today all of her muscles hurt and she didn’t sleep well and she’s just so angry that she finally has time to take care of herself only her body won’t cooperate. I know what she means, but it’s not my child who died, not my body that aches so deeply. We do what we can and cry again. 

“I’m so tired of crying,” she says, and I agree, “yeah, six weeks is way too long to mourn a child” and “what are you thinking anyway?” because apparently right now all we can do is cry, then laugh, then cry again.

With that, the coach erases the whiteboard, grabs her phone and orders us all something from Starbucks. We change our shoes and head out for a walk, which doesn’t fix everything – or anything – but at least we are outside, together, sipping hot drinks in the sun.