You’re Doing Fine
When my wife, Tani, died, I didn’t fall gracefully into grief. I broke. I lost my bearings, my patience, my sense of who I was without her. The days blurred. The world kept moving as if nothing had happened, and I couldn’t remember how to join it.
You’re Doing Fine is the story of what came next, the slow, uneven work of staying alive inside loss. It’s about anger and tenderness, the silence after laughter, and the strange moments when beauty still insists on showing up.
I began writing to remember her, but what I found was a new kind of love, one that lingers in the space between what was and what remains.
The title comes from the last words Tani ever said to me. I carry them still, not as reassurance but as a kind of haunting kindness, her voice reminding me to keep going, even when I can’t. They live in the space between hope and ache, where love keeps finding new ways to speak.