Why I Share About Grief: Freedom Lies in Vulnerability

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I’ve been grappling with a question: why do I share so openly and vulnerably?

The Heart of My Sharing

So, why do I bare my soul? Is it because, as a child growing up with an alcoholic father, I had to hide what was really happening in my life and my voice was silenced? Perhaps. Or is it rooted in the belief that if we don’t express ourselves, do we even exist? It’s like that age-old question: if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound? Or is it because living in Italy has made me realize that the piazzas were once vibrant spaces for sharing human experiences — long before social media took over. People gathered to connect and learn from one another, and that sense of community feels lost today.

The thing is, at least in my opinion, at the end of the day, what value do all our lived experiences and learned wisdom have if we don't share them? I share knowing that some people couldn’t care less about my words, while others are curious or genuinely moved. But ultimately, I do it because maybe there is that one person who my sharing can help.

The Catalyst for This Reflection

What prompted this article? Over the years, several people have remarked that I seem to have a few favorite pictures of my wife or that I use the same ones repeatedly because they must get the most likes. The truth is, neither of those notions drives my choice of photos. There’s something much deeper — dare I say, “shocking” — behind it all.

Contemplating death is an unsettling experience, and living under its shadow feels like a storm cloud slowly lengthening — creeping in over your life. At least that's how it was for me. Is it better to prepare for death or to face it suddenly? I don't have an answer, but I know that when the moment finally arrived for us, it felt abrupt — even though we had been preparing for it. That’s what lies behind the few pictures I share.

Conversations About Mortality

Desiree and I rarely discussed death — except in the context of her work as a palliative care physician. We talked about the nuances of extending life versus prolonging death. We explored how waking someone up to say goodbye is detrimental to their peace. How being a drama bearer in those final moments takes the focus from the person passing to drama queen. In those final moments, death belongs to the dying person — not us! We had countless deep conversations but avoided focusing on her own mortality until one day she asked to talk.

Des made a conscious decision — we both did — that cancer would not dominate our lives. It would not be the primary color on our canvas but rather an accent hue representing joy, love, and life itself. That’s why she asked me to be her buffer — to carry the weight of her diagnosis — so she could live fully knowing she was doing her best without having to get a play-by-play report on the score between her and breast cancer. She crafted her medical plan; I executed it. Yet, the following conversation was a shock — a true right-hook out of nowhere.

A Heart-Wrenching Request

She sat me down, held my hand tightly, and said, "Robert, listen to me; don’t say anything. When I die, I want you to put everything of ours in the coffin with me: my diplomas, awards, pictures, our wedding certificate — everything. What will you do years later with my diplomas? Carry them around? Feel guilty throwing them away? Stash them in some storage unit? Those things are not — and never have been — me. I'll be with you forever; but I need you to do this for me — for you — so I know I've given you whatever freedom I could."

Honestly, hearing all this made me want to vomit; but I was hopelessly in love with Desiree and would have done anything for her — and still would. So, I nodded silently. Conversation closed.

That day eventually came. At her cremation — with only a few close friends — I opened the casket and placed everything inside as she had requested. The few pictures I share actually are screen shots from a video created for her memorial at NY Hospital. I will admit that honoring her wishes was incredibly difficult – but they were her wishes, who was I to go against them?

Was it the right thing? I don’t know. I'm not one to live in the past or carry regrets; so, I guess it worked for me. She knew me; she knew us; and even in her illness, she always looked out for my well-being. What are all those trinkets anyway? They are merely the emotions we attach to them — not the emotions themselves. So, those emotions — those beautiful, love-filled memories — on the day I placed everything in the coffin turned inwards, etching deeply into my soul.

The Purpose Behind My Sharing

Why do I share this? No — not to explain why I use those same few pictures — but to deepen that etching; to express myself; to exist; and ensure Desiree continues to exist. It’s the same reason I wrote Chasing Life : to honor all of her — all of me — to honor every part of our journey together.

Life must come to an end. If we accept the rules of this game we call life, we can learn to paint our canvas however we choose. We may not control the colors life throws at us; but like any great Renaissance artist, we can paint over, around, and on top of them to create something beautiful — a masterpiece.

Life is art — and you, dear reader, are an artist.

I leave this reflection with you: how will you choose to paint your canvas?

Thanks for reading!

NOTE: All my content will be moving exclusively to Substack in 2025.

Invitation

I have another space where I not only provide weekly insights and tools, but we meet once a month in a group one-hour Q&A. It’s a bit more raw and unfiltered but for a specific reason.

It’s said when we encounter language or stimuli that are emotionally charged or provocative, it can stimulate the brain in ways that promote neuroplasticity by,

• capturing our attention,
• disrupting entrenched patterns of thought,
• eliciting strong emotional responses,
• creating cognitive dissonance, and
• enhancing creativity and flexibility in thinking.

Therefore, why not harness strong language used intentionally, in a safe space, as a disruptor for habitual thinking to do just that?

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