I grew up in a poor family with a single mom addicted to drugs. Often there was no money for food, and I was always hungry.

On my fifth birthday, some close family members were invited to go to a park to celebrate my birthday. No cake. No presents. Except for my auntie, she had an envelope in her hand.

Before everyone sang Happy Birthday, I saw a little boy, probably my age, and a woman, digging in the park dustbin for food. I begged my mom to invite them to my party but my mother was not a fan of strangers. She said no.

I was attracted by them. I didn't know others struggled like me, and it hurt my heart. I watched them as everyone sang. I watched them when my auntie handed me the envelope. I watched them as I opened it until I saw the contents, a one hundred-dollar bill. My mother was enraged because my auntie gave me such a large amount of money. Maybe she thought my auntie trusted me more than her with cash.

We were poor. I didn't eat 3 days a week and I had a very hard childhood. But I had never dug in a dustbin for food.

My auntie kept talking it over with my mother. Finally, she told me I could do anything I wanted with that money. So I did. I walked to the boy and his mother. I explained to the boy that it was my birthday and my present was $100, and I wanted to give it to them. There were so many tears and thanks.

I, and my auntie, understood how powerful it was to give the only money I'd ever seen away. My mother never did. I paid dearly for the action that night. But it was worth it.

I think about that boy and his mother often.

Dave was my rock. When I got upset, he stayed calm. When I was worried, he said that everything would be OK. When I wasn’t sure what to do, he helped me figure it out. Like all married couples, we had our ups and downs. Still Dave gave me the experience of being deeply understood, truly supported and completely loved. I thought I’d spend the rest of my life resting my head on his shoulder.

Since Dave passed away, so many people have said to me, “I can’t imagine.” They mean they can’t imagine this happening to them, can’t imagine how I am standing there talking to them rather than curled (蜷缩) up in a ball somewhere. I remember feeling the same way when I saw a colleague back at work after losing a child or a friend buying coffee after being diagnosed (诊断) with cancer. When I was on the other side, my reply became, “I can’t imagine either, but I have no choice.”

I had no choice but to wake up every day. No choice but to get through the shock, the sorrow, the survivor guilt. No choice but to try to move forward and be a good mother at home. No choice but to try to focus and be a good colleague at work.

Loss, sorrow, and disappointment are extremely personal. We all have unique circumstances and reactions to them. Still, the kindness and bravery of those who shared their experiences helped pull me through mine. Some are total strangers who offered wisdom and advice publicly—sometimes even in books with horrible titles. Others are my closest friends who opened their hearts, patient yet insistent that the darkness would pass, but that I would have to help it along. That even in the face of the most shocking misfortune of my life, I could have some control over its impact.