May 16, 1986 is the day that broke my life into two discrete parts—before my parents died in a car accident and after. The time I was a kid who only thought about singing my heart out and making my friends laugh—and when I was no longer that kid. When I lived in lightness versus a reality of emotions beyond my readiness. When I appeared just like everyone else and when even the cute clothes and gifts people bought to make me feel better could not hide my difference. 

Thirty-one years later—after a lifetime of support and love and embracing this moment as part of my life story, I continue to seek something special to remember my parents, my people and how far I've come on this day. Some may say it's just like any other day. I disagree because I've tried that approach. I've shown up for a regular workday, only to feel empty and disconnected. Instead, I recognize and accept this is part of my life by doing something that is meaningful to me--and that has made a tremendous difference in my healing. 

Over the years on May 16th…

I took a day off from school and went to a good crying movie. 

I walked in Washington Square Park in the rain in my bright purple cap and gown—thinking of how proud my mom and dad would have been. 

I planted flowers with my Aunt Marilyn so we could bring something new and beautiful into the world. 

I recounted memories with close friend, Dave Adox, in the Grand Central StoryCorp booth on the 20-year mark. 

And for the past few years, I've shared photos and feelings with my community of people who knew them and knew me then, with friends and neighbors I've met in recent years who were surprised to learn this part of my history. This has become the ritual that feels the most right for me—and it's what prompted me to write this piece now. 

For those of you who may be deciding whether or not to create a ritual or way to honor anniversaries in your life, here are the reasons why this approach works for me: 

1. Move beyond busy-ness to reconnect with the loss
No matter how together you are and how long ago you experienced this loss, it was a great loss and will always be there in some way. It's ok and in fact, necessary to find some time to fall apart, to feel the emotion and acknowledge the depth of the pain. When we're in our day to day busy-ness, we don't have the time to do just that. Clearing the decks and allowing yourself that space to be that person you were when you first felt the hurt can help you continue to move through it, wherever you are in the process. When I think about being that 11-year-old girl, who dragged her best friend away from the crowds and into the bathroom to say, "Who's going to take care of me?"—I'm back. And sometimes that's exactly where I need to be. 

2. Honor how far you've come
You're that person who experienced the loss PLUS years of growth and processing and support. I use the anniversary as a moment to look back on those early days with pride to say, "I was there. And I didn't know if I would make it out of there. It was hard to see any light. But now I'm here and there's so much to love about where I am—and I created that." To build from there—if you have the power to get out of that unthinkable place and create a beautiful life, what other incredible things are you capable of doing? 

3. Time to be grateful for your people
A wise friend once commented about my childhood, "It sounds like you had a community of people gathered around you who held hands and said, 'This girl will succeed.' And they did all they could to make it so." This image continues to be my answer to that little girl's question, "Who will take care of me?" "Everyone.", I tell her, "Everyone." From friends and neighbors in my hometown who flooded our home with love, laughter and piles of babka, to new friends who email and text to say—"I'm thinking of you today." The people in my life are what make it the life I want to live and I'm reminded of this every time I share thoughts and feelings on this day. 

4. Teach our kids it's ok to grieve and to be sad
When my kids were small, I often would try to put on a brave face instead of showing whatever hard thing I was going through. While I still don't share it all—I've let more emotion shine through so that my girls can see that we can go through hard things and come out the other end. I want them to know that crying and expressing emotion can actually be a sign of strength and a necessary part of life. My older daughter hugged me while I teared-up reading a poem at my grandma's grave and my little one held my hand when I was missing my friend Dave who passed last year. We talk about my parents often throughout the year. I also bring them into whatever ritual I choose on the anniversary so they can be a part of it and understand what it means to our family. In our culture, we're not great at teaching children that death is part of life, but because of my experience—I think my kids are developing a language and empathy around grieving and loss that I hope will help them cope later in their years. 

Part of my ritual is to accept how each May 16th evolves—whether it's hard, beautiful, powerful or just fine. No matter what it is, on that day, I build a bridge to connect these two parts of my life and that bridge is the knowing that I was and am deeply loved. Even though my life is split in two, I am whole. 
 

An armadillo prepares for his northbound road trip

Last weekend my husband, J, and I went off to Florida without the kids to help organize and pack up my grandmother’s home. Grandma passed away in July, but my family members are the proactive types so the place was already looking pretty clutter-free. Marie Kondo or her disciples had been there, and I started our visit grateful that we weren’t walking into a hoarding situation.

That said, there was still much to be done. We had to photograph everything, figure out what each family member wanted, pour over file and photo boxes, clear out the epic pantry (that was always stocked with Oreos, peanut butter, Dove chocolates and anything else that could make a grey day sugary sweet)—and most importantly make the tough decisions about the armadillo, the elephants, the hippos and the porcelain seal pup (who is still up for grabs if there are any seal pup fanatics out there).

J and I formulated a plan of attack (and as my sister pointed out—that’s one of our favorite activities!), but before we got started in tactical mode, I took some time to reflect over my morning coffee. I set a clear intention for the trip. Being home now a few days, I’m certain this is why I feel so good about our work and what we accomplished.

My intention: be a partner, a helper, a facilitator, bring the wit and be the person to truly be there for my aunt and uncle who took the lead in my grandma’s care for so long. I wanted to relieve the pressure. Clear the path. Create healing space for our entire family.

As we moved through the weekend and I questioned a decision or our next move, I used my intention as my filter. What would my next step be if I were a partner, a helper, a facilitator or brought the wit to this situation? My intention enabled me to move through whatever was holding me back in that moment. Sometimes the solution was to spend that extra time taking photos out of frames so that dozens of extra boxes did not turn up at a family member’s door. And sometimes it was perfectly placing the armadillo in a spot that would be met with surprise (maybe even shock and horror) upon receipt. Whatever it was—I felt I had a compass guiding me through a difficult task, that my north was a destination of pride at all we could do in a few days and our reward was hearing my aunt and uncle's laughter over dinner at my grandma’s favorite Jewish deli.

When I think about the weekend now, I smile remembering my sister and my aunts and uncles who will soon receive deliveries of 70 year old photos of my grandfather in uniform, the smart and love-sick letters he wrote to grandma dated one day apart, the Barbara Streisand anthology and of course the armadillo, stepping into the role of exclamation point for a plan well executed.

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As a coach, a mom, a wife and a human being, I'm always striving for balance. That said, I have a not-so-secret love for getting things done. I love being productive, checking things off my list, doing things for my kids, my house, my family and my business. Doing three things at once. Using Google calendar to schedule the things I need to do. And if I’m not doing, I’m thinking, “What should I do next?”

For the first half of the summer, I felt like I was in the flow, getting a ton accomplished—and even making time to have fun with friends and family—and then I got the news that my  Grandmother passed away.

She was not the kind of Grandmother who shared treats and wisdom in the background of my world. She was the kind of Grandmother who moved in with her grieving 11 and 15-year-old grandchildren after their parents died. She moved into our house and in her late sixties attended Back to School Night and negotiated with the angry teenage version of me. She was the grandmother who let me into her bed at night no matter what happened between us that day.

So when she passed, time stopped. Feelings and memories filled the space of To Do lists and project plans.  I sifted through pictures, wrote a eulogy and talked to our Rabbi and friends for support. At the funeral, we all said what we needed to say and then spent the rest of the weekend being together. My 4 and 7-year-old girls unleashed their hugs and love for our entire family like a pair of therapy dogs at work. And man, were they good at their job!

Then everyone went home. Life went on as it should. The kids went back to camp, everyone else returned to work and I went back to doing. I launched my blog,  created new partnerships and planned my social media blitz. I did everything I wanted to do the week before, plus a month’s worth of work as a bonus. I was tired and stressed, but I felt a magnetic tug to my ever-growing list of tasks.

Finally, I had a moment of clarity and decided to drop into a yoga class. I hadn’t done yoga in over a year, but I loved the idea of moving my body while quieting my mind. Multi-tasking, sold!

Once I could get out of my head in class to stop focusing on doing everything right or my proximity to my neighbor, emotions came rushing to the surface. Tears fell from my eyes on and off through warrior and pigeon and tree poses. When we laid down for meditation, the music sent a lightning bolt through me. Our instructor asked us to “stay in the moment at the end of our breath.” I found that space and that quiet moment and it all came pouring out of me. Everything I covered up with doing. All the pain I numbed with meaningless tasks so I didn’t have to feel the loss.

While everyone in class meditated in their own moment, our teacher gently put her hands on my head and sat with me for mine.  She was with me. I was with it. I let it burn through my every cell, capture my breath and paralyze me.

After several minutes, we opened our eyes. I felt release, relief, calm. 

I was filled with a longing for more quiet space and a curiosity for what it brings into my life. More time to remember the people I've lost and to savor the people I love. Whether I practice walking away from the blog post for a day before I hit publish, pack lunches in the morning instead of at 10:30 pm or simply choose to do less, it's my job to create more quiet moments to renew and to be me.