I was interviewed recently about my upcoming book, The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories That Shape Us. I was a little nervous going in, but I kept talking myself down. What question could the host possibly ask me about the book that I couldn’t answer? I wrote it. That helped. Mostly.

But once the show started, none of that mattered. All I wanted was to be present — to engage with my friend Alan Locher, and talk about one of my favorite subjects: Ken, and the book that grew out of loving and losing him.

When it was over, I felt good. Could I have spoken a little slower? Probably. But it was my first time, so I’m giving myself a pass and moving on. I didn’t really plan to watch it back. I was there. I knew what happened. But the next evening after work, I poured a glass of wine, settled in, and hit play.

And when it began, I burst into tears.

Uncontrollably. Ugly-cry-level tears. The kind that surprised me, even though they probably shouldn’t have. They were tears for Ken, of course. They’re always, on some level, for Ken. But they were also something else entirely — something I hadn’t expected to feel while watching myself talk on a screen.

I was proud.

Not in a look-at-me way. It wasn’t that. It was more like watching someone you love from a distance and thinking, look at what you did. Look at how far you’ve come. Except the person on the screen was me, and that made it stranger and more tender than I know how to explain.

That guy on the screen had been through something crushing. Something that rewired him from the inside out. And yet there he was—not hiding, not shrinking—stepping out into the world, sharing the most personal chapters of his life, in hopes that someone else navigating their own grief might feel a little less alone in it.

That’s the whole reason I wrote this book. Not to process my pain publicly (though, let’s be honest, there’s some of that). Not to be brave (though I’ll take the compliment). But because grief can be an isolating, bewildering place, and if my map helps even one person find their footing, then every vulnerable sentence was worth it.

Watching that interview reminded me why I started writing in the first place—and why I keep going.

It was an experience I won’t soon forget, and will hold close to me for a long time.

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