We often take things for granted.  We think there is always another day, another year ahead of us,  we think we''ll always see our loved one tomorrow. We don't realize how lucky we are today.

The article by Sheryl Sandberg to honor the memory of her beloved husband.

今天是我挚爱的丈夫离开人世的第30天。我们犹太人把这30天称作sheloshim。一个人从去世到埋葬的七天，在犹太人口中叫做shiva，shiva过后逝者的亲友们会从强烈的悲伤中慢慢缓过神来，然后可以开始进行一些日常的活动。但是经过30天，也就是sheloshim结束时，对于逝者的伴侣来说，宗教意义上的葬礼就完全结束了。

我小时候有一个朋友，他后来去做了拉比。他曾告诉我，他所做过的最有力的一句祷告是“在我活着的时候请不要让我死去”。在我失去Dave之前，我永远不会明白这句话的意思。现在我懂了。

我想，悲剧的发生意味着一次选择。你可以让空虚和麻木填满心胸，让它们阻止你思考和呼吸。或者，你也可以尝试从中发现有意义的事情。在过去的30天里，空虚和麻木在大部分时间里占有了我，我亦知道，它们还将在我的未来里如影随形，挥之不去。

但是，当我足够坚强的时候，我会选择追寻生命的意义。

这也是我为何写下这些文字的原因：为sheloshim的结束画上记号，并回报那些曾经给我温暖的人。毫无疑问，悲伤的经历对于每个人来说都是非常私人的记忆，那些勇敢的人与我分享他们的悲伤，并给我希望。有些挚友向我敞开心扉，而有些素不相识的人则给我智慧和建议。现在，我把这些经历分享给大家，希望同样能帮助到别人，希望能从这起悲剧中寻找生活的意义。

过去的三十天里我度日如年。于是我的人生中多了三十年的悲伤，同样我的人生中多了三十年的智慧。

我对于何谓“母亲”有了更加深刻的理解：当我的孩子们在嘶吼和恸哭时，当我的母亲抚慰我的伤痛时……每晚，妈妈都会安慰我尝试填补我内心的巨大空白，她会抱着我，直到我哭累了陷入到睡眠之中。她需要克制自己同样悲伤的情绪以不至于再刺激我。她告诉我我所感受到的痛苦来自我和我的孩子们，当我看到她悲伤的眼神时，我明白了她的意思。

这次经历让我意识到我根本不会安慰别人。我之前安慰别人的尝试都大错特错。我总是试图告诉别人一切都会好起来，我认为这可能是我能够给别人最好的安慰了。一个癌症晚期患者，我的朋友，告诉我他听到最糟糕的话就是“一切都会好起来的”。这些语句在他的脑海里尖啸，你们凭什么说一切都会好起来？难道你们不知道我是将死之人？在过去的几个月，我终于明白了他的意思。承认一切或许都不会好起来，这才是真正的同情。

当人们告诉我，“你和你的孩子们终会重获幸福的”的时候，我内心告诉我，或许这话说的不错，但是我可能再也没有原来笑得那么灿烂。而有些人对我说，“你总归会回到平淡的生活之中，但那或许不再是幸福的生活”。他们说的或许残酷，但这是真话，这些话使我慰藉。

即便是简单的问候“你好吗？”都会使我的内心隐隐作痛，换成“你今天怎么样”这类的问候会好很多。当人们问我“你好吗”时，我会大声的告诉他们我的丈夫一个月前过世了，你觉得我过得如何？但是当人们问候我“你今天怎么样”时，我会意识到我现在能做的就是过好每一天。

我还学到了一些重要的事实。尽管后来知道Dave当场就过世了，但我在救护车上的时候还对他的生命抱有希望。那天，通往医院的路途漫长得让人发狂。至今我仍然记恨那些为了自己快几分钟而不肯给我们让路的车辆和行人。这种情况在很多国家和城市都非常普遍。让我们给救护车让让路吧，或许那可以挽救别人的性命。

我感受到了万物稍纵即逝，或许这就是一个稍纵即逝的世界。你周围的一切都可能毫无征兆的突然消逝。在过去的30天里，我认识了很多失去丈夫的女性，她们生活中的诸多事务都忽然抽身离去。她们中有的人缺乏身边的帮助，独自被悲痛和贫穷的深渊所吞噬。当那些女性和她们的家庭处于巨大的悲剧之中时，我们却错误的无视了她们。

我学会了去寻求帮助，我认识到了我到底需要多大程度上的帮助。曾经我以为，我是一个姐姐，我是Facebook的CCO，我是一个有计划性并能够为之实践的人。但是我从没有预料到这起悲剧的发生，当它发生时，我完全不知所措。于是，我身边的人接管了我，他们帮我计划，帮我实践，告诉我何时吃饭，告诉何时睡觉。至今，他们仍然在帮助我和我的孩子们。

我还明白了，坚强是可以练习的。Adam M.Grant 告诉我坚强有三个不可或缺的要素。首先是认清自我——意识到那不是我的错。他告诉我不要对悲剧说“抱歉”。其次是要看到转机——记住我不会永远是现在这个样子，事情会改变。最后是克制，不要把生活中的一起悲剧扩大到生活中的方方面面。

对于我来说，重新回到工作中来就如同一次救赎，这让我从新感受到自己和外界有所关联，并对其有所贡献。但我很快意识到，我和周边的联系也变了。当我接近一些同事时，我在他们的眼中看到了恐惧。我知道原因，他们只是想帮助我又无从下手而已。我需要点破这一点么？抑或还是保持沉默？如果我说出来，我该如何开口？最终我意识到和同事保持亲密关系至关重要，我需要他们。

这就意味着我要比之前更加坦诚，这也意味着我可能受到更多伤害。我告诉那些最亲密的工作伙伴，我可以坦诚的回答他们的问题。我同样告诉他们，如果你们想问我的感受如何，你们尽管问吧。

有一个同事承认她经常开车经过我家附近，但是又犹豫不知是否要登门拜访。还有一个同事说当我出现的时候他非常的紧张，担心自己可能说错话。开诚布公的谈话让对于做错事和说错话的恐惧烟消云散。我们承认心魔存在的时候正是我们驱散心魔的时候。

有时，我也无法敞开自己的心扉，就比如当我去到学校，看着那些学生的家长们欣赏挂在墙上的自己孩子的作品的时候。很多的家长，他们都很善良，他们尝试和我目光相会或者说一些安慰人的话。这时，我始终低着头，寄希望于别人不要看到我严重的恐惧和不安，我希望他们能理解我。

我还学会了感恩，去感恩那些我原来觉得理所当然的事情。我看到我的孩子们还在眼前活蹦乱跳时，我就会感到由衷的喜悦，一如我想到丈夫的去世就无比的悲伤那样。我感激每一个笑脸，每一个拥抱，我并不再认为生命中的每一天是应得的。有一天，一个朋友告诉我他痛恨自己的生日，所以他从不庆生。我看着他，含着眼泪对他说：“臭小子，庆祝你的生日去吧，你要庆幸你拥有它们”。或许，没有了丈夫一起庆祝，我的下一个生日会无比压抑和悲伤，但我决定去庆祝它，这个决定比我之前计划所有生日时都要坚定。

我对那些向我表达慰问的人致以深深的谢意。一个同事告诉我，她的妻子，一个我素未谋面的人，为了支持我决定重返学校取得学位，这件事她已经搁置多年了。是的！如果条件允许的话，我比以往更加坚定的相信人生应该永不止步。还有很多人，包括我相识和不相识的人，通过花更多时间陪家人的方式来纪念Dave。

对于我的家人和朋友们，我真的无法表达自己究竟有多感激他们。当我生命无比昏暗、当空虚和麻木支配着我时，是他们的安慰和帮助让我重获新生。或许悲伤和痛苦不会轻易离去，但他们的关爱会如影随形，一如我对他们的感激无穷无尽。

有一次，我和一个朋友讨论如何应付一次需要父子参加的活动。Dave已逝，我们不得找一个替代方案。我哭着对他说，我只要一切照旧，我不要替代方案。他搂着我对我说，“然而一切已经无法照旧，让我们用替代方案好好的对付这事吧”。

为了纪念Dave，为了让我们的孩子过上他们应得的美好生活，我会好好的用“替代方案”来对付生活中的种种困难。即便sheloshim已经结束，我依然会为了“一切照旧”而哀悼。就像Bono唱得那样：“悲伤没有止境，而爱亦永不完结。”我爱你，Dave。

Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the completion of religious mourning for a spouse.

A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.

I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.

But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.

And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.

I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.

I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.

I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.

I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.

I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.

I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.

I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.

For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.

At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.

I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.

I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.

I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.

I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”

Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.