I'm still making sense of things after my boyfriend ended his life. But one thing is clear: The need to share the music he never got to play for the world.
Philip Seymour Hoffman was my longtime producing partner. After his death, I embraced an open state of mind that's led me to places I'd been wanting to go for years.
My teenaged son stored his bike after a friend's fatal riding accident. One year on, I still wanted to hold onto him tight but was also ready for him to move forward.
In the aftermath of my husband's death, my friends bought me potted plants. I promptly returned them — unable to contemplate caring for another living thing. Fourteen years on, what would it mean to use my credit at the florist?
At my daughters' concerts and school performances, I see all the happy grandparents, snapping photos and bearing flowers. That's when I feel my own mother's loss most acutely.
I became a divorcée at 29. Months later, my mother suddenly died. The isolation I felt after my marriage ended gave me the tools to deal with her loss.