NOTES ON GRIEF

Because they're not just "things".

I spent the early morning of January 8th in my Los Angeles bedroom, watching the final prison sentencing of my former stepfather, Tommy Manzo. As you can imagine, processing this has been emotionally exhausting. If you’ve read my essay Don’t Poke the Bear, you understand why. Perhaps one of the most difficult aspects of this experience has been coming to terms with the grief and anger that surfaced when Tommy kicked me out of my childhood home and kept all of my personal belongings, only to discard them—a loss I’ve carried for years, and one that others would soon come to understand.

As the hours passed, another grim reality unfolded: Los Angeles was burning, caught in one of the most catastrophic wildfires the country has ever seen.

There is something poetic about Tommy’s sentencing happening the very same day I was forced to evacuate my home. In the chaos of that moment, I was given a second chance to save the few things that held meaning. In a rush of adrenaline and post-traumatic stress, I made my decisions quickly: a handwritten note from my dad, a few pieces of jewelry, and the Polaroids of my boyfriend and me. These were the only things I had left of any real sentimental value—a sharp reminder of everything I had already lost.

I’m fortunate to have not lost anything to the fires, unlike so many other Angelinos who are left grieving the lives they once knew. For many, it’s not just their homes, but the things that tell their story—the blanket they’ve affectionately named and wrapped themselves in since childhood, the journal by their bedside that holds their most intimate thoughts, the treasured keepsake from a lost loved one. While I can’t speak to the raw anguish of losing everything to a fire, I do know the quiet devastation of having those things taken without consent—and the grief that lingers long after. If sharing my experience can help someone feel less alone, then it’s worth telling.

I’ve run from my grief—ignored it, numbed it with distractions, buried it beneath the busyness of life. I’ve felt ashamed of my sadness, trying to push myself to be grateful for what’s left, to let go, to move on, to be stronger. I’ve made anger the enemy, trying to suppress it rather than allowing it to remind me that I have the right to feel. But all this resistance only led me back to the same place, showing me that grief isn’t something to outrun.

Over time, my grief became less of an adversary and more of a companion—one that demanded I evolve. Therapy, plant medicine, breathwork, bodywork, hypnosis—I’ve tried everything to heal. And through it all, I’ve learned this: whatever binds you, whether it’s loss or something else, you have to face it. Make space for all of it—the sadness, the anger, the tenderness. Take care of yourself, even on the hardest days. Shed the tears that need to be shed. Feeling grief doesn’t mean it has you—it means you are allowing it to pass through you and that is part of the transformation.

And one day, when you least expect it, in the name of survival, you’ll stop believing in loss and begin believing in life. As Joan Didion wrote in The Year of Magical Thinking, “mourning has its place, but has its limits.” You’ll rebuild, piece by piece, and learn to love your life again. You’ll tell your story in new ways, finding beauty in the process of healing. And just when you think the grief has subsided, it will return.

It will appear when you move into a new home and realize there are no photos to hang on the walls. It will show up when you have your first child and remember that you don’t have the nightgown your mother wore when she gave birth to you, the one her mother wore when she gave birth to her. It will show up when you’re told to pack what matters most, and you realize there’s so little to take.

The thing about grief is it doesn’t ask for permission. It arrives and departs on its own terms. Grief is a slow dance to a song that never seems to end. As Jamie Anderson so beautifully said, “Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All of that unspent love gathers in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in the hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”

That is the fullness of life.