My life with the Sullivan boys

  Bravery? What does it mean to be brave? Is it brave to be honest? Tell my story the way it happened? Why would I hold back? How does that serve me? Brave is climbing the second flat iron with my youngest son, knowing if I fuck up, I'll surely be gravely injured. Brave is waking up every day after losing my son and my purpose in life. Brave is taking a mile-and-a-half hike to look for elk when I'm about to pee my pants because I forgot to stop. Brave is finding a new therapist when you know you've outgrown the one that ushered you through the last 16 years of your mental health crises. Brave is saying no to the invitation to dance with friends because your broken heart needs to be still this week. It's curling up into a ball in your bed in the middle of the day because your nervous system needs a break. Brave is telling all of you that I don't feel brave; I feel like myself. I don't want you to think I'm brave because it lets you distance yourself from me. ...

His clean laundry is still in the basket, waiting to be folded. The bed is left unmade. The indentation of his head is still in his pillow. His clothes still hang on the hook, shoes in the basket. Christmas gifts left unopened. It's been five months since he died. I am okay, I am not okay. When my mother-in-law asks why I haven't sent out Ryan's senior pictures yet, I freeze, pretend I did, and then quietly remember that those were last year's photos. I'm peppered with how, why, and when questions at the graduation lunch I was supposed to plan, not my son, and I start to cry.  They don't understand. They have no idea how much I want to be who I used to be. Do all of the things I used to do. I want to go for 30-mile bike rides with my son. I want to go to the Y twice a week and lift weights. I want to plan a big graduation open house for my son. I want to make dinner each night and bake cookies every week. But right now, I have a fifty-pound brick on my chest and...