The 12 Nights of Kindness

Have you heard of The 12 Nights of Kindness? Also known as Secret Santa, I came across this concept years ago. Beginning December 13 and ending Christmas Eve, the tradition is to leave a small treat paired with a poem based on the 12 Days of Christmas on a neighbor's porch. The whole idea was to teach kids that giving was just as fun as receiving.

I embraced the concept of helping kids learn the joys of giving, and proposed the idea to our own. It turns out that twelve nights sneaking around the neighborhood wasn’t a hard sell. Our kids were thrilled with the idea of playing a holiday version of ding dong ditch with Mom’s permission, and we adopted the tradition as our own.

Now, our oldest daughter was away at college and our oldest son was a busy high schooler, so that left our two youngest as santas. Our 10-year-old daughter much preferred to be an elf, given that she was female and Santa was, well, male. But that left her 8-year-old brother as Santa—an elf's superior. Well, that wouldn't do either. To keep the village peace, we became elves instead of santas.

As a family of six with one in college, we were on a budget. Armed with a shopping list, my first stop was our local dollar store. This turned out to be our only stop—everything we needed was there. Taking home our supplies, I got to work printing the poems while the kids prepared the bags.

The next matter to settle was deciding who would be the lucky recipient. A few months earlier, neighbor Tom lost his wife to breast cancer. I couldn’t imagine what the holidays must be like for him, and we all agreed his home could use small doses of nightly cheer. The matter was settled.

On the evening of December 13, my two youngest elves bundled up and we headed out into the frosty air. In the darkness of night, the silent snowy neighborhood transformed into an enchanting winter wonderland. Our boots trudging softly through the shimmery white snow was the only sound heard as we made our way to Tom’s house. While I watched from the street, the kids snuck up to his porch, rang the doorbell, and ran to hide until the coast was clear to return to me in the shadows.

Returning home, we warmed our hands around a mug of hot cocoa and our hearts around the notion that our little gifts of kindness might cheer Tom. With our first night now behind us, we eagerly looked forward to each evening, and treasured memories in the making.

The next eleven nights flew by and soon it was Christmas Eve, the 12th day when we had to reveal our identity. 

Truth be told, I was nervous. Not having experienced loss myself, I worried that our nightly treats had been a bit too much for Tom’s fragile emotions. But there was no backing down now. We had to finish. 

That afternoon we festively arranged a dozen homemade cookies on a plate, covered it with red cellophane, taped the final poem to the top and—not trusting my children to walk two blocks with a plate of goodies—we drove to Tom’s house. We climbed out of the car, gathered on his front porch, and I rang the doorbell.

When Tom opened the door, our next task was to sing:

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas,

and a happy new year!

Although I’ve been accused of being tone deaf, I was determined to set a good example for my children. I exuberantly sang the first few words until realizing I was solo—my choiring elves just stood there with mouths frozen shut. I had no choice but to finish on my own, tone deaf and all. That’s when I saw tears in Tom’s eyes. Oh, dear. Was my voice that bad, or was our mission just one big flop?

I quickly decided the most graceful way to handle the situation was to explain we were the elves responsible for the surprise treats, and then leave Tom to his own devices. After all, it was Christmas Eve and here we were intruding on his very tender emotions. 

But I soon discovered I had nothing to fear at all. Tom was crying because he loved the nightly gifts, and now they were coming to an end! It turned out that not only did he enjoy the element of surprise, but the nightly anticipation was a wonderful respite from the constant sadness. 

Mission accomplished.

That first year proved a wonderful experience, and we continued the tradition choosing a different neighbor each year. Until 2009, when tragedy struck our own family. At summer’s end that year, our now 15-year-old elf was killed in a car accident. Caught in my own fog of grief, I had no desire to carry on the family fun with our youngest, now 13. With a broken heart, our beloved tradition came to an unexpected end.

In the years since losing our daughter, our family has learned to laugh again but I’ve never forgotten how bleak those first holidays felt. I’ve also learned that helping others helps my own heart to heal, and how the power of small acts of kindness can go a long way. 

Last year when our grandson was 9, we reinstated the old family tradition. He was the perfect age to become a secret elf, and I knew it would offer us all a nightly dose of good cheer. It proved good fun and once again enriched our holidays just as it had in years past.

This year’s unsuspecting recipient is a neighbor dying of cancer. She loves the holidays, and her home is often decked festively year round. Her warm, bright greeting to the neighborhood will be sorely missed in the years ahead. In the meantime, I hope our nightly surprises bring cheer to her final holiday season. 

Perhaps the real beauty of The 12 Nights of Kindness is that it transcends all ages and situations. One need not be a newly bereaved to benefit from such a tradition. It’s a fun family experience that offers an important life lesson in compassion, and leaves everyone with memories they’ll treasure for life.

To teach your children how to be givers of kindness and learn the joys of giving, or heal your own heart by helping others, all the instructions and printables are right here.

Above all, the nightly trips to a neighbor’s porch is more than just a little holiday fun. It holds the promise of magical memories for all ages, and leaves all involved with the gift of kindness and a heart full of cheer they’ll treasure all year.

Happy holidays!

You don't see me, but I am here

My heart is filled with peace. This morning I received a lovely message from a newly bereaved mom who bought a copy of Grief Diaries: Surviving Loss of a Child. 

"I am so thankful for it. I'm only half way through but love so very much how every part of the process is broke down with each family." She goes on to say, "I feel like I'm going crazy so much of the time. Just existing, trying to get through the day by staying busy. The nights are the worst." 

It brings me peace to know our books help others, and this mother's words nail it for many of us. When I lost Aly, I felt like I was going certifiably crazy. The nights were the worst because bedtime meant there was nothing left to distract me from pain, allowing sorrow to engulf me like the flames of hell.

But if I can offer one thing to anyone with a hurting heart, it is this: eventually your heart will be able to hold joy at the same time it holds sorrow. True story. Joy doesn't replace the sorrow, but it does help to balance the sadness. Hell doesn't last forever—hard to believe now, I know. But until sanity returns to your world, hold on to the idea that hope can be healed and restored. 

At the back of many of the Grief Diaries books is my chapter on Finding the Sunrise, a how-to of the very steps I took to restore sanity to my world. I didn't want to do them and had to fight hard to find strength, energy, and the courage. But like any exercise routine, practicing those steps will get easier with time. Until then, don't give up! Baby steps will eventually make all the difference. 

In the meantime, please know that although you feel broken and isolated from the rest of the world, you aren't truly alone. You might not see me, but I am here, and so is the rest of the Grief Diaries village. XOXO

Grief in the workplace, a new frontier

Meet my friend, Herb, a 57-year-old financially secure bank executive. In 2008, Herb's wife Michelle died from cancer. Ten days after Michelle's passing, Herb returned to work.

"It was St. Patrick’s Day, March 17. Late that first morning, while seated in my corner office on the second floor of our headquarters in San Antonio, the bank officer walked into my office. As I looked up to greet him, he noticed I had tears in my eyes. Not knowing what to say, he simply turned around and walked out of my office, closing the door behind him."

Herb's office encounter isn't unusual. In fact, most bereaved employees find themselves similarly isolated. But the problem is much larger than employees simply not knowing what to do or say.

Meet Kristen. Kristen is the managing editor of Human Resource Executive magazine. On October 20, 2015, she was at her company's own HR Technology Convention in Las Vegas when she received a phone call from her neighbor.

Earlier that day the neighbor had noticed Kristen's cat roaming outside alone. Jim, Kristen's husband, adored their cat, and the neighbor was concerned as she hadn't seen Jim in a few days. Kristen had talked to Jim on the phone just that morning, but asked her neighbor to check on him just in case. The neighbor agreed, and found Jim's lifeless body in his bed, dead from an apparent heart attack.

In a state of shock, Kristen had to return to her hotel, pack her bags, and catch the next flight home—alone.

"Because I had used up all the time I was entitled to under the Family and Medical Leave Act caring for my father with hospice, I was left with my allotted 3 days of bereavement leave —still the national standard—before returning to the diversion and demands of my job."

Kristen became determined to address the elephant in the room and last September contacted me for an interview about grief in the workplace. We connected on that grief level, a language we both understood, and talked for quite a while. Following our interview, I emailed Kristen some strategies to use in her article.

I had forgotten about my conversation with Kristen until the article was published in Human Resource Executive magazine this past March. Kristen sent me the link.

As I read through Kristen's article, I was surprised to see she highlighted the strategies I had sent her and delighted to see myself cited me as the source. Even more important, I realized I was reading the foundation of a curriculum about handling grief in the workplace.

Over the next 6 months I worked hard to develop the strategies into a full fledged curriculum to be taught from an academia standpoint.

On October 6, 2017, I'm teaching the first Employee Crisis Response Curriculum called Grief in the Workplace at a local college. It outlines step-by-step strategies for HR leaders, managers, administrators, and directors to learn how to respond to an employee's crisis. Further, it offers strategies that minimize disruption and maximize workflow— and along the way improve corporate culture. The class offers 3 solid hours of information and strategies every workplace should have in their procedure manual.

It's important to distinguish that this curriculum isn't about outsourcing the grieving employee to the EAP. It's about employing internal strategies to balance the needs of staff with needs of the shareholders.

Grief isn't limited to a cubicle. When crisis happens to one employee, it affects the whole office.

Which is what this curriculum is all about.

It's about Herb. And Kristen. And the Herbs and Kristens of the world.

"Bereavement in the workplace is still a new frontier."

Yes, it is. But it shouldn't be.

For local companies, click here to find how to register your managers and administrators. Continuing education credits are available for those who need it.

That cool part is that it's all just the beginning. Later next month I'll teach this curriculum around the world via a new global webinar platform to be announced next week. Further, we'll begin training the trainer—people who can teach this curriculum in their own local colleges and corporations.

In today's competitive job marketplace, employees are looking not just at wages and benefit packages. They're looking at corporate culture—how well a corporation takes care of employees. Our curriculum teaches corporations how to do that in times of crisis.

Creating and teaching corporate curriculum is the next step on my journey toward making the world a better place for future generations.

Cheers!

Dear Grieving Gracie

Dear Grieving Gracie,

As I read through yesterday's comments, I heard a lot about feeling shunned by someone's behavior toward them. Is it possible that awkwardness, sadness and not knowing what to say to someone who has lost a loved one, silence even, may be mistaken as shunning? -Betty

Dear Betty,

You bring up an excellent thought. I do believe that many people feel deep sadness for our loss, and don't know what to say or do, causing them to stay silent or hold back. This is easily mistaken for shunning. The problem lies in that bereaved people can't tell the difference. The wound of an emotional heartbreak isn't visible and has nowhere to go, so it just stays there as an indescribable rawness with no mobility.

As an analogy, a broken leg is a visible wound. Although immobilized by a cast, when it hurts the patient can move about in an effort to find a comfortable position. With a broken heart, there are no muscles or surrounding joints to flex that will bring relief.

Further, visible wounds trigger instant compassion, but invisible wounds do not. We don't know what we don't know, right? If I can't see your pain, how do I know you're not just seeking sympathy (says Pastor Osteen)?

Some people in society play the victim card because it's a manipulation tactic they were taught as a child. But that victim card has nothing to do with grief. It isn't a light switch we use to manipulate those around us. We have no control over our profound sadness, nor do we have a date to look forward to when the cast is removed and life returns to normal.

Going back to the bereaved's inability to tell the difference between shunning or someone who shares our deep sadness but doesn't know what to say, my recommendation is to hug. Give a hug. Receive a hug. No words are necessary. If the recipient recoils from the hug, shrug it off and find a hug somewhere else. Hugs are a sign of true friendship. 

Warm regards and big hugs,

Grieving Gracie XOXO

Dear Grieving Gracie

Dear Grieving Gracie,

Do you ever have trouble with people once you tell them you have a child who died? I don't know if it is the way I say it, but it has happened enough where people I meet start talking with me and I tell them about me and my family. At some point I tell them I had a son who passed and almost immediately they walk away or lose interest in getting to know me any further. I am hurt and angered at the fact that most people push us away because they don't want to know what it is like to lose a child. I understand that what we are going through is inconceivable by people who have never experienced losing a child but shunning us is like pouring salt in my wound. Please help me understand this? -Kim, bereaved mother

Dear Kim,

Being shunned is a common problem all bereaved mothers face, no matter how long it's been. It really hurts to be shunned but it comes from a place of people simply not knowing what to say coupled with deep fear.

They don't mean to hurt us, I truly believe that. But the pendulum has swung so far the other way that those of us who mourn the loss of someone we love are accused of indulging in self pity. This notion is far from truth, and why we're working so hard to bring the pendulum back to a level of compassion where it belongs. It's an uphill battle, but I refuse to allow this way of thinking to be passed along to future generations.

My honest opinion is that you should never deny your loved one’s existence at the expense of someone else's comfort. That would be denying who you are, because your loved one is part of you. No matter how lovely someone is, if he or she doesn't want to get to know the whole you, that is a flaw in their character you can't fix. Sad, but true.

Our circles of friends are determined by how accepting they are of us as a bereaved mother. Our inner circle is comprised of those who are capable of holding that sacred space when we are experiencing a sad moment. They love us in spite of our fetal position on the floor.

The second circle sits outside the inner circle, and is comprised of dear friends who love us, and we love them, but they aren't capable of holding that sacred space in our time of need. They're the ones who suddenly need to get home to water the flowers when we mention our child. They love every part about us, except our grief.

The third circle are those friends who know and like us, interact with us and our families, but aren't comfortable being alone with us out of fear that we might mention our child.

The outer circle is everyone else we engage with, and are gracious to, but aren't part of our intimate lives and likely don't know our story.

Shunning happens in every circle except our sacred inner circle. Only there will we find true compassion and comfort in our time of need. For those in the other circles, they'll learn soon enough when their time comes, and although they weren't capable of being there for us, we'll be there for them. We lead by example.

This is a problem faced by many, and isn't limited to bereaved mothers or spouses. My belief is that you don't have to understand something to have compassion. I truly hope that through our collective efforts to bring that pendulum back down where it belongs, future generations will find better support.

Warm regards and big hugs,

Grieving Gracie XOXO

Joy in a Box

Joy is a gift, and treasured gifts usually come in a box. But can a box hold the gift of joy?

Right now, this very minute while you're reading this post, a very special box is making its way around the country. This isn't any box, nor is it an empty box. It is an extraordinary box that contains 22 books.

But they aren't just any books. They are books about love and loss. Between the covers are stories that contain more questions than answers. And disturbing secrets of the most heinous kind.

This very special box contains books featuring true stories about unsolved crimes. By 22 writers.

But they aren't just any writers. They're mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, sisters and brothers who are writing in heart-wrenching detail that pivotal moment when their very own loved one was kidnapped or murdered—or both.

Over the past few weeks that extraordinary box has been quietly making its way from writer to writer. At each stop, the box is opened, tears are shed, the books are signed and repacked—along with a little piece of each writer's heart—and tenderly handed off to UPS to be delivered to the next address on the list.

This incredible project was set in motion by Ryan Backmann, founder of the nonprofit Project Cold Case in Florida, who took it upon himself to pay for the #TravelingBooks to make their way one stop at a time to all 22 writers who contributed to the book.

The goal? Simply to have all 22 sign each book.

When the box's journey comes to an end back at its starting point, Ryan Backmann will then send one book containing all 22 signatures to each writer as a cherished keepsake.

To watch this box containing stories of love and loss, stories containing more questions than answers and disturbing secrets of the most heinous kind travel the country from writer to writer just so each mother, father, sister, brother, husband and wife can—in the end—hold a book that has been touched by all 22— is an incredible gift they've given each other.

And to me.

When I help people use their voice to bring comfort to others by sharing their own story, they become the balm for someone else's wound, the sun in another’s cloud, the light in someone’s darkness. Not only is that a gift to those in need, it is a gift to me because it fills my heart with joy.

"I received our Grief Diaries: Project Cold Case #TravelingBooks today, and from the moment that I opened the box, I felt like all twenty-two of us were all together in one room. What an amazing feeling of love and strength that overwhelmed me. The contents of the box delivered to me not only signifies the battles we have all been through, and the genuine and undying love we all have for our loved ones, but it signifies a delivery of hope that our stories will be heard near and far and all around the world." -Lisa Sanchez, Michael Sanchez' sister

Yes, joy does indeed come in a box.

A giant dog, two BFFs, and the value of life

Two weeks ago today we embarked on a journey that might seem insignificant to others, but taught me a great deal about life and love. It was Saturday afternoon, the day before Easter. The whole family was home when we noticed Capo, our large 9-year-old Maremma sheepdog, suddenly listing to the right and falling when he walked. He was in no obvious pain, but something was clearly wrong. Was he poisoned by a wayward mushroom that popped up overnight? Did he have ear infection-induced dizziness? What was going on? Come Monday morning, testing at the vet concluded a working diagnosis of a stroke. We brought Capo home with medication and hydration to support the storm and began watchful waiting to see if he would pull through.

But at age 9, we were at crossroads. Should we put him down? Or do what we could to save him? 

I thought back to when my dear sweet hubby had a stroke nearly five years ago. At age 46, he was quite young and yet his stroke was devastating. Would he pull through? If so, what kind of life did we face? I couldn't help but compare man to dog, and I wondered what kind of message we might send to our 9-year-old grandson, Capo's best friend, if we chose euthanasia (for our dog, not my hubby). 

As the damage from the stroke swelled Capo's brain, he lost all ability to walk. He slept round the clock and had no interest in food, so we force fed via oral syringe as a vehicle for medication and to provide energy for his body. We carried his giant size outside and supported him while he urinated. We cared for him, wondering whether it was the right thing to do. 

And here was the deciding factor in our story. Just because Capo's role as the family guard dog might be over and he could no longer earn his keep, does that mean his life wasn't worth something?

What about the laughter and joy he brought to our day? And the love he brought to our hearts? What about the BFF he shared with our grandson? 

Life can be rough, and as a family we deeply cherished the laughter, joy, and love Capo brought to our world. Wasn't that enough?

Yes. It was enough. As long as Capo wasn't in pain, we would do what we could to sustain him for as long as we could. Because even in his limited state, Capo still filled our hearts with laughter, joy and love. We forged on, caring for this giant dog in the face of an uncertain future.

The first week was rough. The second week brought little daily improvements. Capo surprised us by standing on his own one day. The next, he started drinking water and seemed more alert. Goodbye IV bag. He began walking without falling. And wagged his tail. Goodbye medical harness. Capo showing interest in food. Capo eating on his own! Goodbye oral syringe. Capo walking about with better strength. Capo trotting. Capo barking at a neighborhood noise. Hallelujah!

Two weeks ago we didn't know whether our gentle giant would live, and yet we couldn't put him down just because his life held no seeming value. That first week when we repeatedly questioned whether we were doing the right thing, our hearts reminded us that Capo does hold value in a way that is far more precious than carrying his weight as family guard dog. He brings unconditional love, laughter and joy.

Today marks two weeks from the starting gate of this journey, and Capo is running, eating like a lion, and has resumed his place at the helm of our property (when he's not inside at our feet).

Lesson learned: The value of life is something far beyond a role. It is the ability to give love, laughter and joy. Some might argue that Capo is just a dog, and therefore not comparable to people. But even dogs can teach us lessons. Isn't that worth something?

Dying to Play Social Media Game Blue Whale

"How do people survive this?" 

These are the words of a mother whose son died by suicide 15 days ago. 

I know, suicide is too sad to talk about. What if I told you there is a shocking new social media game called Blue Whale where participants win by dying?

There is.

The truth is that I debated long and hard about writing this post because there is just nothing uplifting about suicide. But when social media and Facebook Live are being used as a platform to gain 15 minutes of fame in brutal ways including suicide, I become guilty by association by turning the other cheek.

So I'm going to talk about it. 

Thankfully I'm not alone. Netflix has taken the courageous step of devoting a whole series to the subject. "13 Reasons Why" follows the life of a teen boy who struggles to make sense of a classmate's suicide. Although the series is embroiled in controversy for its graphic scenes, whether you agree or not, Netflix deserves kudos for being brave enough to spend millions on a subject nobody wants to address except by those who find themselves facing the real-life aftermath.

Also, big kudos to my friend and fellow author Chuck Andreas. Chuck shared his poignant story of unexpectedly losing his beloved wife Gloria in 2014 to heart disease in "Grief Diaries: Through the Eyes of Men," including the part where he felt lost, hopeless, and—yes—attempted suicide. Chuck has since turned his pain into purpose by speaking to kids (and adults) about his story with hopes of sparing others from taking the same steps. He's even gone so far to inspire and author "Grief Diaries: I Survived My Suicide Attempt." That takes guts. And yet who better to raise awareness than those who've walked the journey? 

When we find ourselves caught between a world who finds suicide too sad to discuss and yet we're up against a social media suicide game that's spreading around the world, what can we do? How do we stop the madness?

We can open the dialogue. 

We can talk about it and educate ourselves on how people young and old find themselves in a suicidal spot so we can learn the red flags and take action before they do. 

Talk about it. Be brave. Help stop suicide. 

And if you know someone who has lost a loved one to suicide, hug them for a really long time. XOXO

The Fear of Rejection

One of the joys of my day is walking alongside people who are either writing for the first time in our books series or writing their own. Like any first-time parent, nerves can easily poke holes in our courage and we drive ourselves batty with questions. Will anybody read it? Will they like it? Criticize it? Laugh at it? When we put ourselves out there in such a public way, it can be very scary.

It suddenly feels like we're the new kid on the playground wondering if anyone will play with us. We feel vulnerable to rejection.

Whether it’s your first or tenth book, treat yourself with respect and remember why you’re writing it in the first place. Some writers merely want to preserve their hard work, and what better way than to publish it in a book? Some enjoy the credibility it brings (even if nobody buys it). Others hope to make the New York Times Bestseller’s list. It’s really important to give yourself grace and remember that writing is very personal, as is your reason for writing, and your goal for authoring. You don’t need to meet someone else’s approval to author a book. Do it for the love of it.

First and foremost, do it for yourself because not everyone will love your book. Taste is wide and varied in the literary world. Some love sci-fi while others indulge in romance. Some prefer self-help and seek comfort while others seek to escape inside someone else’s fantasy.

In short, if it is meaningful to you, then it's worthy. But listen to your heart. If you aren’t sure about moving forward, why pressure yourself? Unlike a pregnancy, there is no timeline. Some books take years before they’re finally in print. If you never move forward, that's okay too. Just don't let nerves about how your book will be perceived stand in your way. Do it for the love of it. In your time.

Lead with your heart, and all will be well. XOXO

Grief in the Workplace - The Last Frontier

Kristen Frasch, editor of Human Resource Executive magazine, was at a national conference in Las Vegas when her husband's lifeless body was discovered at home. Because she had used up all the time she was entitled to under the Family and Medical Leave Act caring for her father during his hospice, Kristen was left with her allotted three days of bereavement leave before returning to the demands of her job.

"I had to return to my hotel room, pack my bags, try and sleep, then grab a taxi to the airport the following morning, go through security and sit through almost six hours of flight time before touching down and driving to meet my sons, who were waiting to escort me to the body of the man I would love forever. What’s followed since has been mind-numbing, energy-depleting, sleep-depriving, appetite-suppressing, chest-quaking and nauseating, not to mention sometimes scary."

Kristen interviewed me last fall for an article in this month's issue of Human Resource Executive. Grief in the workplace remains an uncharted frontier for many employers. I'm honored to have contributed to such an important topic and be cited as the source (see Suggestions for Managers/Co-Workers in the tan box).  

A bereaved employee returning to work after loss is an elephant in the room. Creativity and productivity take a hit. Nobody knows what to say, and the employee becomes a person most people tiptoe around.

"In all honesty, many moments were spent staring at a computer screen, remembering what needed doing but asking many more questions about processes and decisions than I had before. Other moments were spent on pure adrenaline, fulfilling all my editorial responsibilities with a determination and directness that probably said to staff and co-workers, “This woman is so strong!” when that was the last thing I was feeling."

Kristen's story opens the dialogue on the uncharted waters of grief in the workplace, and offers ways to support bereaved employees while keeping an eye on office productivity and the well-being of everyone. 

Click here to read the full article this month's issue of Human Resource Executive magazine.

Happy birthday, my child

Dear Lovey,

It's hard to believe that 23 years ago today you birthed from my womb into our waiting arms. I can't help but wonder what you would look like now, what you would have accomplished, and what goals would be in your cross hairs next.

Would you have reached your dream of the Olympics? Would you be graduating from Stanford?

One thing is for certain—in the short time you spent here, you taught us to use compassion to make a difference. I've tried to model myself after you, and like to think you would be proud of the person I've become, even though my heart is heavy on days like today. 

More than ever I yearn to wrap both arms around you, steal a kiss from the top of your head while secretly taking in the smell of your hair. I want to feel the softness of your teenage skin. I want to make jewelry with piles of pearls, crystals, and elements spread across the table between us. I want to rock out to music together on the way home from the pool.

These are the things I think of every day, but they're especially tender on days like today.

Most days I want to spare the world my pain. But in moments like this I want the world to know that grief is okay.

I want them to know it is okay for me to be sad, that my heart hurts years later and I will cry, but they should not be frightened of that. 

I know there will always be some who lack compassion and cast judgement against my sorrow, but they do so only out of fear for their own grief not yet experienced.

One day they too will learn that great sorrow stems only from great love.

So Lovey, on your birthday today I make you two promises. First, I will never be angry at those who tell us to get over it. Their judgement is cast out of fear, and I cannot be angry at fear. Second, I vow to cover the brokenhearted who are stung by such words with love and compassion so they don't feel alone. 

Because loneliness on this journey surely turns a tender heart bitter.

And a bitter heart in a living person is more tragic than a tender heart in a dead person.

Lovey, you had a premonition that we would soon be separated. I don't think you were afraid to die. I think you feared for the grief I would face.

But there is no need for you or anyone to fear my grief.

It is the worst journey imaginable, yes. But I am a better person because of it. 

It has taught me to see outside my own world.

It has opened a vein of compassion that never runs dry.

It has taught me patience and grace in the face of judgement.

My world, blessed with loving family and friends, has grown even richer with new friends who are old souls of the very best kind.

It's your birthday today, and yet I feel like it is I who has been given gifts—gifts of purpose amid pain, gifts of kindness amid judgment, gifts of helping others to help my own heart to heal.

I am not afraid of the grief I now bear. For without grief there would be no need for hope. 

And hope is the best gift of all.

Happy birthday, Lovey. I love you.

Love,

Mom  XOXO

The Power of Kindness, Endorphins & One Judgmental Judy

Yesterday a woman said she would only donate to Project Kindness if it benefited Americans, not the orphanage we're delivering supplies to in Costa Rica. Although her judgement hurt, she wasn't wrong. I get it. There are plenty right here in our own back yard who could use these supplies. 

Yet her words stung. 

But I forgive her, because she just didn't know.

She didn't know that I've spent the last 30 years tending to those in our own backyard. I've prayed with addicts on dark streets at night. I've given socks to homeless people with bare-footed babies in December. I've fed hot meals to lines of hungry people. I ran supplies down the hospital corridor when I was a teen. And fought fires and saved lives out in the field in my thirties.

Yes, I started volunteering that young. I'm now 51, and it's never gotten old. 

After we lost Aly, my volunteering shifted from helping others to helping myself. Spreading kindness became the balm that soothes my broken heart. Just like a runner needs to hit the open pavement for a daily dose of endorphins, I need to give. Spreading kindness is my endorphins.

Also just like a runner, I don't always take the same route. When giving to others, a change of scenery is good once in a while. 

Judgmental Judy also didn't know that Aly's birthday is just on the horizon. I feel the sorrow deep in my bones. To handle the added layer of sadness that comes with certain days of the year, I need to up the ante to find my endorphins. Delivering supplies to the poor around Aly's birthday is the perfect way to spread kindness and help my own heart to heal.

But why Costa Rica and not East St. Louis? 

Because Aly was mesmerized by Latin America. She studied the Mayans, the Incas, and Easter Island every chance she got and it was on her bucket list to visit those places. But she died before she understood what fueled her fascination. 

Maybe, just maybe, when we deliver donations to Costa Rica, we'll find out. And if not, there is always next year. And the year after. Just like in America, there are plenty of people who need kindness in Peru, Brazile, Chile, and Honduras.

That's why Judgmental Judy's words sting my soul. She would only help Americans. My dear sweet hubby is Australian. Should he help only Australians? I'm a female. Should I spread kindness only to other females?

Of course not.

In between trips seeking to understand Aly's fascination, I'll continue to deliver kindness right here in my homeland. I'll hold babies born to addicts on American streets, soothing their wail as their wee body goes through painful withdrawals. And continue my work alongside our Grief Diaries village helping to bring comfort and hope to others through sharing our own stories of survival.

Maybe one day I'll run into Judgmental Judy and have a chance to explain the power behind spreading kindness both near and far. But I won't explain to her why we do this in February, near Aly's birthday. Or why we chose Costa Rica, a region Aly loved. 

There's a proverb that says to be careful with words, because once they are said they can only be forgiven, not forgotten. I may never forget the sting of Judgmental Judy's words, but I do forgive her absence of empathy and understanding—she has never walked in my shoes.

She doesn't know that spreading kindness is my endorphins. 

She doesn't know that helping others helps my own heart to heal.

She didn't know Aly, nor her fascination with Latin America. 

She doesn't know the lifetime of sorrow I now carry in my heart.

When we deliver donations to the poor in Costa Rica, I'll think of Judgmental Judy. 

And be glad for her that she just doesn't know. And hope she'll be spared from ever finding out.

5 Shocking Myths About Drunk Driving-And Why We Ignore Them

New Year’s Eve is a time of closing out the end of the year and ringing in the new. Filled with gaiety and parties, it also caps off the deadliest season for drinking and driving according to the National Institute of Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. The predictable toll from impaired driving results in a life sentence of heartache for everyone.

No one ever sets out to maim or kill when they make a choice to get behind the wheel while drunk, but that’s the thing about alcohol—it impairs our judgment. Partygoers who are too intoxicated to make the call for a taxi or Uber somehow escape the watchful eye of friends, bartenders, and store clerks. 

Consider the case of Brandon Thomas. The 17-year-old student was on his way home in December 2012 when a 22-year-old drunk driver drove north in the southbound lane of Highway 22 south of Calgary. By the time Brandon saw the drunk driver in his lane, he had no time to react and was hit head-on. The 22-year-old, who had no prior run-ins with the law, was arrested at the scene and then released while Brandon went to the morgue.

On a busy stretch of freeway at rush hour, how did the drunk driver, who struck two other vehicles in his three-quarter ton truck before killing Brandon, get so far on the road? 

That’s the thing about drunk driving—because of the myths that continue to surround alcohol, partygoers and their friends can easily fall victim to common deceptions. Because of the destruction left in the wake of those who succumb to the effects before planning ahead, the cost to our society is dear. With New Year’s Eve upon us, one of the deadliest weekends of the year, dispelling the myths that continue to surround drunk driving bear repeating—because the life saved may be your own.

Myth #1: Drunk driving is just an accident.

It’s not an accident when a person makes a decision to drive drunk, distracted, or in a negligent manner. It’s a crash that is fully avoidable. In a time when Uber and Lyft are just a finger swipe away, partygoers who fail to plan ahead really have no excuse to overlook responsibility. “It is a conscious choice resulting in a preventable tragedy,” says Bill Downs, president of the nonprofit organization AVIDD, and a father who lost three kids to a drunk driver in 2007.

Myth #2: Alcohol affects only seasoned drunks and young adults.
That’s another thing about alcohol—you don’t have to be a drunk to be drunk. It impairs the judgment of everyone, not just alcoholics and young 20-something males. Consider the case of Janakae Sargent. One night in November 2006, the 20-year-old Texas Tech University was easing into an intersection in the same moment a 48-year-old female ran a red light in excess of 100 mph, striking Janakae’s pickup. She died four days later from her injuries. The drunk driven had a blood alcohol content of 0.25 percent. Janakae had nothing in her system; not even an aspirin.

Myth #3: Intoxicated people look obviously intoxicated
Not all intoxicated partiers look drunk as they get behind the wheel of a car. Short-term effects of alcohol begin with relaxation and reduced inhibitions, which is what makes alcohol so tempting. In an effort to keep the buzz going, partygoers continue the alcohol. As the blood-alcohol content increases, brain activity slows down. Concentration begins to dive, and reflex and response time become dangerously slow. All the while, the drinker’s outward appearance looks deceptively fine. This is how they escape the watchful eye of friends, bartenders and store clerks.

Myth #4: Coffee or cold air will sober up the drinker
The only way to get sober is to allow the body time to metabolize the alcohol. On average, it takes approximately 2 hours to metabolize 4 ounces of wine, 12 ounces of beer, or 1.5 ounces of distilled spirit. Simply put, there is no magical shortcut to sober up. Until then, your brain remains under the influence.

Myth #5: A DUI can be resolved in under a couple of years
Sure, the drunk driver faces charges and court time but in instances of vehicular homicide caused by drunk drivers, these offenders rarely receive a life sentence in prison. The victim who is injured, or the family left behind when a life is lost, is handed a life sentence of grief and pain.

We all want to enjoy the final holiday of the year. Dressing up, cutting loose, and letting our hair down with friends is tradition for many. But if you haven’t yet planned ahead for the safety of yourself and others, I’ll leave you with the following poem. Written by Janakae Sargent at the tender age of 13, her mother found it after her daughter’s death—7 years later. Eerily describing the crash, Janakae had titled it “Life.”

LIFE - By Janakae Sargent

I went to a party where they were serving beer

I didn’t drink once that night because the results I fear

I know the effects of drunk driving now more so than ever

The choices some people make just aren’t very clever

I was leaving the party so I would be home by curfew

I saw headlights on the wrong side of the road

The other driver didn’t have a clue

That he was about to hit me, there wasn’t anything I could do

Now I’m in a hospital where everything is new

The other driver sent a card; I hear he’ll be all right

The doctors told me he didn’t need to stay the night

They also said I’m paralyzed from the waist down

That’s the thing about doctors; they don’t mess around

I’m lying in a bed that isn’t mine, and I have a few questions to ask

My future’s uncertain, my present dark,

and I don’t wish to speak of the past

I didn’t drink and drive, and I wouldn’t let my friends.

So why am I to be the one who will never walk again?

_____

Lynda Cheldelin Fell is the award-winning author of Grief Diaries: Surviving Loss by Impaired Driving, one title in her 5-star series dedicated to raising awareness on relevant issues. Learn more at www.LyndaFell.com.

A Christmas Poem

A poem for all my friends and family with heavy hearts.

T’was the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Lost in deep slumber, tucked warm in our beds,
our hearts were heavy as memories danced in our heads.

What are loved ones doing in heaven on this night?
Are they sending us kisses by the moon’s magical light?
Or do they dance among the gifts sitting under the tree
waiting for family to open with laughter and glee?

I tossed and I turned, caught up in my sorrow
And finally got up before the clock struck tomorrow.
What was I searching for in this quiet hour?
I didn’t know; I just felt lost in sad dour.

As I sat in the dark watching the tree all aglow
I pondered a small glass of top-shelf merlot.
Would it ease my sorrow, bring joy to my heart?
Oh, how I wish I could find some kind of jumpstart.

And that’s when I spied it, a book on the shelf;

it sat right next to my grandson’s red-suited elf.
The book beckoned me, and I knew in my heart
that the comfort it offered would sweetened my tart.

I opened the book and made some new friends
and followed their journey through bumps and the bends.
I read about their tears, fears, and feeling insane
and learned how they survive through the terrible pain.

Inspired by their determination to go on in spite of their loss,
I marveled that my heart now felt less cross.
How could it be that such stories, so broken,
could soothe my own heart from words written, not spoken?

I realized then why the stories touch me so deep inside.
It’s a gift from each writer to readers who’ve cried.
The stories, as hard as they are, offer little gifts of hope.
They say “We’re with you; you aren’t alone as you cope.”

I finished the book, and the top-shelf merlot.
My heart felt lighter than it did hours ago.
I made my way back to my cozy-warm bed,
laid down and pulled the covers up to my head.

As my family continued in deep slumber,
I marveled that angels in heaven must be a large number.
No longer was my heart heavy with sorrow
because I now knew I could face another tomorrow.

If my friends in the book could cope and survive
I reasoned that perhaps I could at least try.
As slumber overtook me, I drifted off to sleep.
Feeling less lonely now, I had no need to count sheep.

One final thought drifted through my sleepy head
as I laid there tucked in my cozy-warm bed.
What are loved ones doing in heaven on this night?
Are they sending us kisses by the moon’s magical light?
Or do they dance among the gifts sitting under the tree
waiting for family to open with laughter and glee?

Yes, I believe they are.
Merry Christmas to me.

By Lynda Cheldelin Fell
12/24/2016

Happy anniversary to me?

One year ago today I released the first books in the Grief Diaries series. And today I'm releasing the 20th.

In the past 12 months, we've grown to over 500 writers, published 20 titles, and earned 4 literary awards. 

But today's release is bittersweet for me. 

When we lost Aly, our 15-year-old daughter, in 2009, my dear sweet hubby buried his grief in the sand. He escaped into eighty-hour work weeks, more wine, more food, and less talking. His blood pressure shot up, his cholesterol went off the chart, and the perfect storm arrived on June 4, 2012. Suddenly my husband began drooling and couldn’t speak. At age forty-six, he was having a major stroke.

My husband survived the stroke but couldn’t speak, read, or write, and his right side was paralyzed. Would things have been different had I understood what was going on inside my dear sweet hubby's head? I knew what was going on inside his heart: utter devastation. But he hardly cried. Why? Could I have prevented the stroke, and spared our family another tragic turn of events, if I had the resources to know what my husband was feeling? 

Yes, today is a milestone, but a bittersweet one. I wish this book had been around when we lost our daughter, so I might have had a better understanding of my dear sweet husband’s state of mind. Would it have prevented his stroke? I’ll never know. But I’m comforted knowing that this book is now available to help others better understand loss through the eyes of the men they love.

A heartfelt congratulations to the 14 men brave enough to bare their hearts for strangers around the world to read. Yes, real men cry. Maybe, just maybe, this book will help fight the man code, the stigma, that men shouldn't cry.

Real men do cry. And these men are brave enough to share it. Thank you Chuck Andreas, Jeff Baldwin,Robert Boos, Rodney Bruce Cloutier, M G Coy Jr, Bill Downs, Jim Fennell, Jeff Gardner, John Pete, Carl Harms, Stephen Hochhaus, David Jones, Robert L Rieck, Michael Gershe, and thank you to Glen Lord for writing the book's foreword.

Happy one-year anniversary, Grief Diaries. 

#GriefDiaries #GriefMen #RealMenCry

Coincidence or Fate?

On the eve of releasing our 19th Grief Diaries title, Poetry & Prose and More, I stand in awe of the beautiful assortment of entries collected in this book. Some are tender, some are raw, others are inspirational. This one in particular was just lovely. Enjoy!

Coincidence or Fate

BY MARILYN ROLLINS

2011

On a return trip from the deep south, we were on I-65, in northern Alabama when my husband suddenly turned off an exit and said, “We need gas.” I noticed that there were no gas stations right off the interstate and said to him, “Well, we’d better go on to the next exit.” He crossed back over I-65 but continued on the back roads. 

Since this is not what my husband would normally do, I questioned him again, telling him that if we were that low on gas we should go to the next exit and not roam a strange area on a back road. He continued on, and in a few minutes we did find a gas station. He began pumping gas as I dug for money to get a bottle of soda. As I walked into the store, Bob was talking to a man about our “tiny travel trailer,” which has a very retro look to it. When we had paid for everything, we pulled forward. Bob had told the man and his lady friend that he would show them the inside of the trailer. 

The lady friend stepped in first and fell in love with it. She commented, “Oh, we have talked so much about doing something like this, but I lost my only daughter a couple years ago in an accident, and I just haven’t wanted to do anything.”

I was stunned. I showed her Randy and Sara’s pictures and told her how we had lost them in an accident five years ago. We hugged for a few seconds. She had never heard of The Compassionate Friends. I had her sit down at the dinette and for the next thirty minutes or so I told her all about TCF and how I have come full circle and am now a chapter leader for the group. 

When we got back on the road, I looked at my husband and said, “That was supposed to happen, wasn’t it?” He just smiled back at me and said, “And you didn’t think I knew where I was going.”

I had just finished reading a book, An Invisible Thread, by Laura Schroff, based on the premise that we are all connected to the people that we are supposed to meet by an invisible thread.

What led us up that road? Was it coincidence, or were we connected to that lady and gentleman by an invisible thread?

After finding a campground for the night, we settled in. The next morning, Bob topped off the gas tank again as we began the last leg of our journey home. He went into the gas station and on the way in he bent over and picked up something. I knew that he had found “a penny from heaven.” As he walked back to the truck, he bent down again and smiled as he picked up a second one. We so often find them two at a time. One from Randy and one from Sara.

The 12 Nights of Christmas

T’was the first night of Christmas

And all through your house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Except suddenly one little soul did appear

It’s your Little Elf, and he brings holiday cheer!

Tonight it’s a partridge for your pear tree

And tomorrow, who knows, You must wait and see

So turn on your porch light each evening with care

And know that your gift soon will be there

But don't try to catch him or he'll disappear!

Have you heard of The 12 Nights of Christmas? Also known as Secret Santa, I came across this concept years ago while reading "In Search of the Real Spirit of Christmas" by Dan Schaeffer. In the back was a chapter describing his family tradition modeled after the 12 days of Christmas. Beginning on December 13 and ending on Christmas Eve, the family left a treat along with a cute poem on a neighbor's porch every evening. The whole idea was to teach kids that giving was just as fun as receiving.

Twelve nights sneaking around the neighborhood playing ding dong ditch? How fun! I especially loved the idea of helping my kids learn the joys of giving at such an impressionable age. And so that December gave birth to a new family tradition for the Fells.

Now our oldest daughter was away at college and our teenage son was busy with high school activities, so that left our two youngest as santas. As I explained what we were embarking on and why, they were thrilled with the idea of sneaking around the neighborhood for any reason. At age 10, our daughter much preferred to be an elf as she was female and Santa was, well, male. But with her 8-year-old brother as Santa, an elf's superior, that wouldn't do either. To keep the village peace, we became elves instead of Santas.

Now as a family of six, we were on a budget. Armed with a shopping list, my first stop was our local dollar store. Thankfully, this was our only stop—everything we needed was there. Taking home our supplies, we got to work printing the poems and preparing the bags while the kids giggled at the notion of 12 nights of mischief over Christmas vacation.

It was already December, and the first night was fast approaching. Fairly new to the neighborhood, we discussed who should be the lucky neighbor. A couple months earlier, I heard that Neighbor Tom had lost his wife to cancer. She was well loved by all who knew her, and I couldn’t imagine what the holidays must be like for Tom and their two children. To my mind, it was clear that Tom’s home could use small doses of nightly cheer. The kids quickly agreed, and the matter was settled.

On the evening of December 13, my two elves giggled nervously as we bundled up and headed out into the night. Sneaking through the quiet snow-filled streets of our neighborhood with a flashlight was as magical for the kids as it was for me; I treasured our memories in the making. Also, I had never realized just how quiet—and beautiful—the cold, deserted streets were at night. It was like another world waited for us each evening, a peaceful, enchanting winter wonderland that could only be experienced on foot. The magic was heightened when the kids giggled over my clumsiness in the dark. Note to self: Get more flashlights. 

Upon returning home from our adventure each evening, we warmed our hands around a mug of hot cocoa, and warmed our hearts around the whim that our nightly surprises might bring cheer to Tom's family.

The next eleven nights flew by and soon it was Christmas Eve, the 12th day when we had to reveal our identity. I suddenly became nervous. I had never actually met Tom, and worried that maybe our nightly gifts had been a bit too much for the family's fragile emotions. But there was no backing down now; we had to finish. That afternoon we arranged a dozen homemade treats on a small holiday plate, covered it with red plastic wrap, taped the final poem to the top and—not trusting my children to walk two blocks with a plate of goodies—we drove to Tom’s house. We climbed out of the car, gathered on his front porch, and I rang the doorbell.

When Tom opened the door, we nervously started singing: 

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas,

and a happy new year!

Well, I ended up singing that cheery first verse by myself because my elves stood glued to the porch with mouths frozen shut. Realizing I was on my own and because my children say I’m tone deaf, I quickly decided that one verse was more than enough for this poor family.

As soon as I stopped singing I realized that Tom and his two children had tears in their eyes! Oh, dear. Was my voice that bad, or was our entire mission just one big flop?

Quickly, I decided the best way to handle this was to explain that we were the Little Elves responsible for the nightly treats, and then leave the poor family alone. After all, it was Christmas Eve and here we were intruding on their fragile emotions. 

But I soon discovered that I had nothing to fear at all: they were crying because of how much they loved the little gifts, and now it was coming to an end! It turns out that Tom and his children not only enjoyed the element of surprise, but the nightly anticipation was a wonderful respite from the constant sadness, and lifted their spirits. Mission accomplished!

That first year proved a wonderful experience and we continued the tradition, choosing a different neighbor each year, until tragedy struck our own family. In 2009, my 15-year-old elf, Aly, died in a car accident while coming home from a swim meet. Caught in my own fog of grief, I had no reserve left in my tank to carry on our family fun with our youngest. With a broken heart, our once beloved tradition came to an unexpected end.

In the years since losing Aly, in fits and starts our family has learned to laugh and feel joy again but I’ve never forgotten how bleak those first holidays felt.

I’ve also learned that helping others helps my own heart to heal.

Now that our grandson is 9—the perfect age to become an elf—reinstating the old family tradition will offer both giver and receiver a nightly dose of good cheer, and enrich our holidays in magical ways just as it did in years past. I already know who this year's lucky neighbor will be, and our gift bags are assembled and ready for delivery starting December 13.

Project Little Elf was inspired by that first year with Tom and his children. Having faced loss since then, I now fully understand how the holidays can feel less than cheery, and how a little kindness can go a long way. And nobody needs it more than the bereaved facing their first holidays.

If you too would like to teach your children how to be givers of kindness and learn the joys of giving, all the instructions and printables to begin your own family tradition can be found at www.GriefDiaries.com.

Above all, the nightly trips to a neighbor’s porch is more than just a little fun. It holds the promise of magical memories for children of all ages, and gives the bereaved the priceless gift of a heart full of cheer they’ll treasure all year.

Happy holidays!

My Conversation with Oprah

Publishing a book series isn't for the faint of heart, especially for a woman editor-in-chief tackling sensitive subjects. Sometimes when I fall into bed at the end of a long day, I’m utterly exhausted. But full of unfinished tasks, my mind refuses to shut down. Before I know it, the overactive and overtired voice in my head is having imaginary conversations with notable figures touting polarizing opinions in today’s media. Last night’s conversation went something like this.

OPRAH: I understand you’ve written over 18 books about life-changing experiences including grief. Why in the world would you write about such a topic?

ME: No child ever says they want to grow up to write about grief. But I've always been fascinated with true stories. They're just so no-holds-barred. Some of them, well, you just can't make this stuff up. They're actually very inspiring and I knew that if I didn’t put them into a book series, the stories would be left unwritten. And that is a tragedy.

OPRAH: So you wrote a book series about tragedies to prevent a tragedy?

ME: Yeah, something like that. But why should it not be okay to tell our tales? Everyone has a story about grief. Everyone. Even you.

OPRAH: Because the world is full of sad stories. Why make the world sadder?

ME: Sharing our stories actually does the opposite, and also challenges the paradigm about how we view taboo topics. By sharing stories, we heal people. We validate their pain. When we validate their pain, they can begin to heal. When they begin to heal, they’re less sad. So talking about grief and other stigmatized subjects in this generation will help future generations. So you see, storytelling is actually an ancient healing modality.

OPRAH: I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Exactly how does storytelling help?

ME: If you go out for a jog and suddenly break an ankle, you become sidelined with pain. Every little step is agony. In order to heal your broken foot, you must nurse it back to health. If you ignore the pain and continue to jog, you only make your injury worse, not better. Doctors prescribe rest, ice, cast and elevation for a minimum of six to eight weeks for good reason. A broken heart is ten times worse, so you need sixty weeks, or the equivalent of five years before you can go jogging again.

PASTOR JOEL OSTEEN: If you still feel sorry for yourself after six months, you clearly thrive on your own self pity, or relish the attention it brings.

ME: With all due respect, Pastor Osteen, helping someone nurse a broken heart is all about compassion, and listening. Without judgment.

PASTOR JOEL OSTEEN: Writing books about grief only perpetuates one’s sorrow.

ME: Incorrect. Sharing our stories is about finding hope. For without grief, there would be no need for hope.

BILL O’REILLY: Today’s headlines are filled with tragedies. Why add to that?

ME: Today’s headlines are filled with scandal, shame and embarrassment, none of which have to do with compassion.

BILL O’REILLY: So you’re saying Grief Diaries isn’t about grief?

ME: It’s true stories about real people finding healing and hope in the face of grief.

PASTOR JOEL OSTEEN: Grief has been around since the beginning of mankind. It is too heavy to deal with, and deserves to stay under the rug.

ME: If we don’t work together to remove the stigma of taboo experiences, then future generations will be no better off. If we don’t make a difference, who will?

BILL O’REILLY: Politics are far more interesting. Grief is boring. Nobody will read your books.

ME: Grief Diaries isn’t for everyone. It’s written for those who share our path but feel alone because they weren’t allowed to talk about their experience in the first place. Validating their own grief by reading our stories gives them the voice they were robbed of. And that is the first step toward healing.

OPRAH: How does Grief Diaries give them a voice?

ME: When readers who share our path find commonality in the stories, they feel less alone. And it also gives them hope that such a challenging experience is survivable. The crux is that Grief Diaries represents: a village of over 450 writers who light a candle of hope for those who share the same path, and raise awareness at the same time. 

It’s about removing the stigma from these experiences. It’s about making it okay to take care of those who are hurt, not leaving them with a broken ankle on the side of the road, left to their own devices because we couldn’t handle their agony. If a person suffered third-degree burns over their entire body, should they be left to their own devices, to heal alone on their own? Of course not. 

Our generation is challenging the paradigm about how we view experiences involving grief. We're making it okay to talk about it. That is the very first step toward healing, not sweeping it under the rug because others are afraid the sorrow is contagious. Burns aren’t contagious. Broken ankles aren’t contagious. And neither is grief.

If we don’t make a difference in this generation, the next generation will inherit the same lack of compassion.

BILL O’REILLY: I still don’t get it.

PASTOR JOEL OSTEEN: You’re all just wallowing in your own self pity. Get over it.

OPRAH: I get it. Thank you for challenging the paradigm about grief. That takes a lot of guts.

ME: Thank you, but the writers are the true heroes. It takes tremendous courage to share life’s intimate experiences with the world. But they’re doing so to help others who share the path, and help change how society views grief in the first place. If we don’t challenge the stigmas, future generations inherit the same mess.

OPRAH: That’s an amazing way to look at it. I will add Grief Diaries to my book club immediately. [Big hug].

ME: Thank you. Our writers will appreciate that very much. Now, where’s your nearest Starbucks? I have 20 more books to publish before morning.

Lynda Cheldelin Fell is the award-winning publisher of Grief Diaries, a 5-star book series featuring the heartfelt stories of 500 writers from 11 countries. Learn more at www.LyndaFell.com.