Grief erupts at the most inappropriate times...

...so be like Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo and put those pinkies up.

So yesterday I went back to work. I’ve been on an extended maternity leave since last April when I had my son, Austin.

I’ve been a teacher at Revere High School—the same high school I graduated from in 2007—for over a decade. And though every school year brings its own set of challenges, last year was rough. As the high school’s Restorative Practices Interventionist, I was responsible for the bulk of the building’s conflict resolution. All of this is done through a restorative justice lens, but with 2,200+ students and 150+ staff in the building, it’s a lot for one woman’s frail shoulders. And to top it off, my pregnancy was less than ideal—nonstop nausea, gestational diabetes, vertigo. You name it, I had it. I was so over everything.

But yesterday, I put on real clothes (black cargo pants and a striped button-down instead of biker shorts and a T-shirt) and went to an all-day meeting with my fellow RJ colleagues at the middle schools. They went over everything they accomplished this year and then we hashed out all our goals for the coming year. At the end of our meetings, we always close with a circle, but this one was a little different. My colleague brought in a children’s book that she wanted to read aloud and then have us reflect on it. I was down. Leo, my three-year-old, was tearing through his library, and I could use another go-to.

But halfway through the story, something started happening to me. My heart started beating faster, my chest constricted, my hands got shaky. I was all twitchy, and then my eyes started welling up. I sniffed. I rolled my shoulders back. I tried to steady my breathing.

What the fuck is wrong with me?! Why am I about to sob over a children’s book?!

To be fair, The Most Magnificent Thing by Ashley Spires is a very emotional book. It’s about a little girl who tries to make the most magnificent thing, but with every try, something’s always wrong. After a while, she quits, but with the help of her assistant (a dog), she’s able to see all the good in the work she’s done, and give it another go. In the end, after much gusto and perseverance, she creates the most magnificent thing. (If you want a good cry, you can watch and listen to the book here.)

So after the story is read, my colleague asks us to reflect on the book’s message and how it relates to our work. I take the talking piece first, but the tears have already exploded. I’m sobbing. Sobbing. Not like a few cutesy tears trickling down my cheeks, but full-on help-me-I-think-I-may-never-stop tears.

I’m thinking about the time when my mom, two younger brothers, and I were at Casa Portugal (my favorite restaurant—seriously, you’re not living until you’ve eaten there), and we came up with this game: define one another in only three words. I don’t remember what words were used to describe my mom and brothers, but when it came time for my turn, everyone shouted, “Bossy.” (I’m an eldest daughter, what can I say?) I think my youngest brother then said something like “annoying,” but then my middle brother took a long look at me, and then said the word “resilient.” I pouted my lips like it was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard anyone say, but it really was.

In circle with the talking piece in my hand, I tell my colleagues the story.

“I will never forget that moment for the rest of my life,” I said. “Because damnit if I’m not resilient! And that’s what the little girl in the book was. And that’s what I want for my sons. And that’s what I want for all of the students I work with. I want every one of them to be resilient.”

At the end of the circle, everyone shared something equally profound and we agreed that we were all grateful to be in community with other like-minded people. It was a very Ariana Grande/Cynthia Erivo hold-my-pinky moment.

All of which is to say, grief is a sneaky little bitch that likes to lurk in the shadows of your life until she feels like popping out almost always at inapportune times. Years ago, I used to get embarrassed about my grief explosions and I’d immediately fly out of a room with my hands covering my face if I felt one coming on. But now I just let it ride. It’s not something to be ashamed of. If anything, it lets the people around me know that I’m human; that I’m still grieving; that I’ll be okay; that no, it’s not contagious; that it’ll pass; that I’ll be happy to continue the conversation.

Coming Up:

If you’re interested in learning about memoir and want to learn what it’s all about, please consider jumping into my 3-hour seminar! In it, we’ll talk all things memoir: the elements of the genre, how to get started, and how to keep writing your story even when it seems impossible. You’ll leave the session with lots to chew on, and most importantly, good writing! Sign up now!