This month is a tough one. Because this month, I, your trustworthy bona fide font of wisdom and advice, have got nothin’. Yes, I still have my degrees and my experience and years of making mistakes so you don’t have to. But I am also someone’s daughter. Or I was. Because my father died. And it absolutely unraveled me. I tell my students all the time that it is just as important to know what you cannot do as what you can. And right now I cannot give sound advice. Or maybe I could. But in all honesty? I just don’t want to. Because my heart would not be in it. Because this month—this month I can barely dress or bathe myself. Much less be witty and insightful and help anyone else. See, the thing about therapists (and parents, for that matter) is that they are also just people. And usually pretty fucked up people at that. I am so very talented when it comes to seeing patterns in others, in dissecting the psyche of a client or testifying about a third party. But, just like almost everyone else in the world, I am oblivious to my own failings at times. Not, like, all the time, but I have shagged more than one dude who was bad for me. I have made the same mistakes over and over and over again. And not learned a damned thing. I call this optimism. What it really is might be a lot like wilful ignorance, or stupidity. I will never claim to have been through worse than you (any of you) or claim to have answers because I am so wise due to years of “working on it.” Yes, I have overcome a lot. Survived a lot. But I have also made such colossal errors in judgment as to be almost unfathomable. And it is this, this right here. This honesty and transparency that I hope lends just a bit more credence to my advice. Because were I to shout from the rooftops that I have the answers, I would a) be an asshole and b) be a liar and c) probably be a mediocre white dude with an ironic neckerchief. Yes. I know a lot, some of it useful, some of it not. I am even certain of some things. I know that grief makes us stupid. I know that love makes us stupid. And I know that life is pretty much comprised of those two things. Loving, and losing. And loving, and losing. Over and over until the darkness finally swallows us and we can just rest. I asked my father once, if that is what life is: waiting for the people we love to die or leave us. And he said: “Yes daughter. The best you can do is find joy in the in-between”. I was seven years old. Maybe not great parenting, or maybe it was. Because that is all we have. The in-between. The brief gaps between tragedies. Perfect nights and perfect mornings spent with loved ones. A nap beside your dying father. A cocktail with your best friend. A snuggle with your dog. A good fuck. Take what you can. And treasure it.