Moving beyond the paralysis of grief

It’s been one year since my beloved mother-in-law, Gloria Breslow, died, and I am approaching the Passover holiday with a very different mindset than I did in April 2024.

First, I am actually looking forward to hosting what many feel is an exhausting holiday to prepare for, cook for, and pull off without breaking your back. Second, I have opened my mind to the possibility of changing up my Passover dinner menu since my children not only like to cook, and are good at it, but make it their business to seek out recipes that differ from those found in the careworn pages of my late mother’s Fair Lawn Hadassah cookbook.

And third, I am no longer in a state of perpetual grief, emotional distress, or what I commonly refer to as quicksand — a mental state I frequently found myself in throughout the past year. No longer assuming that plans are made to be broken, I am getting through the day without waiting for the phone to ring, for a time-sensitive email to ping, or, frankly, for the other shoe to drop.

Before circling back to Passover 2025, it’s important to note the events, people, assignments, and moments that brought this writer, this mother, this wife, this friend, this aunt, this sister back to center one year later. It began with giving myself permission not to host a formal Passover dinner just two weeks after burying my mother-in-law. I couldn’t do it, but our youngest son, who lives in Washington, D.C., could. With a remote work schedule, he had some flexibility and without hesitation offered to stay on in New Jersey after shiva. He, my husband, and I had a lovely meal that was prepped, cooked, and served entirely by him. It was delicious and memorable, and I remain forever grateful to him.

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Shortly thereafter, I did what writers do when they have something to say — I wrote. I sat at my laptop and didn’t stop typing until I said all I’d needed to say about my relationship with my mother-in-law and the loss I felt because I no longer was caring for her. After submitting the piece to my editor for consideration, and seeing it in print, I’d rebuilt the confidence I needed to start working again. I knew from experience that I’d continue to meet and interview people who would enlighten, stimulate, and challenge me. I was reminded that my writing is purposeful.

The chance to express my feelings and relay the experiences of others in writing has always been important to me. Last year in particular, my writing brought me to the next phase of my healing when I joined a grief support group that met in Saddle River for four consecutive Wednesdays.

Each week we were tasked with using creative means to share our feelings. One assignment was to choose one word to express our experience with our loved one. I chose 208 — a number, not a word — and wrote a poem about my travel on Route 208, the road that runs  from Route 4 in Paramus to Route 287 in Oakland. It was a highway I’d traveled from Wyckoff to Fair Lawn many times a day to respond to the many needs of my ailing mother-in-law. Writing that poem, while ignoring formal poetry style, was one of the most meaningful opportunities to outline my experience as a family caregiver.

Writing again led to reading again. I dived into the books that had sat on my shelf collecting dust throughout the year that I cared for Gloria. Some had been suggested to me by friends, some by people I’d interviewed, some I felt I had to read again to remind myself that I was going to be okay. When an author makes you feel like you’re not that unique in your sadness and exhaustion and imbalance after a death, it’s an affirmation of your humanity. The ability to focus on reading again was the gift that led to the ability to listen deeply and attentively to my children, my husband, and my friends without thinking about me first. And the ability to start and complete a task, any task, was the win I needed to regain my footing. I was unmoored for a very long time.

What continues to sustain me is my commitment to writing for the Jewish Standard. While I submit work to many freelance publications and support high school students in crafting compelling college essays, my work here has put me in touch with people who live or have lived or have family who’ve lived in fascinating places all over the world. It has taken me to the horrors of the Holocaust, chilling escapes from Eastern Europe to a new land, and the atrocities of October 7, 2023.

I’ve met a Catholic barbershop owner who insisted on flying an Israeli flag in front of his shop after the Hamas massacre in Israel, a Polish upstander who translates Yizkor books to bring life and vibrancy to the stories of innocent Jews who were slaughtered during the Holocaust, researchers who are discovering music that was somehow conceived and written during internment in concentration camps, curators who collect and display artifacts from World War II to amplify the existence of hate crime by the Nazis, survivors of the Nova music festival in Re’im who, after living the horror of that day, have created counseling and healing opportunities for other survivors.

I’ve met sculptors deeply affected by the killing of innocent Jews in the 1940s who’ve brought to life a statue of a man representing the six million who’d perished; non-Jewish teachers who take high school students on annual trips to Eastern Europe to teach the truth about the Holocaust; and teenagers who’ve been victims of or have witnessed unforgivable acts of antisemitism on college campuses, on social media platforms, or scribbled in indelible marker on bathroom stalls.

I’ve been to Jewish community centers and assisted-living residences; I’ve met health care professionals and social workers who advocate for the medical, emotional, and psychosocial needs of Jewish people. I get to talk to everyday citizens of our readership area and beyond, too many to count, who continue to make a difference in the lives of Jewish people all over the world by selfless acts of kindness, solidarity, and charity.

I am now the weekly recipient of not one, but three copies of the Jewish Standard. My late mother’s issue has been forwarded to me since she died in 2013. Since I sold my mother-in-law’s home of 60 years in Fair Lawn, her issue has been forwarded to me too. And I get my own. When I open my mailbox on Fridays, it feels like I’m still sharing important news with them. Every week, I look to the prolific writers, editors, thought leaders, clergy and guest contributors who enhance a publication that is committed to featuring the stories and opinions of amazing people with amazing histories, skills, ideas and interests. I get to learn from people who do amazing things — all in the spirit of tzedakah and tikkun olam.

There will be four empty seats at my Passover seder this year. As of last April, both my parents and my husband’s parents are gone. There are no grandparents to take the helm in leading the service, lighting the candles, pouring the wine, or rolling the perfectly fluffy matzah ball.

Thirteen years ago, we’d prepared to celebrate the first Passover without my beloved father. I reached out to Rabbi Elyse Frishman, rabbi emeritus at Barnert Temple, for some guidance. She shared insight that means as much to me now as it did then. It was time to create new memories — to look forward to the opportunity to start new traditions with those who ARE at the table — those who will continue to contribute to the extraordinary fabric of our family.

“Love the ones you’re with,” she’d told me. And I do.

Chag Pesach sameach.