The mantle above my fireplace holds two framed photographs and a greeting card propped between them. On the left: a group of friends—the A-List we call ourselves because we started in Level A at Second City and went through the entire 2-year program from beginning to end together—laughing, arms around each other, the kind of photo where everyone looks exactly like themselves. These are people who knew me when I met Ken—who loved him, mourned him, and then quietly, steadily ke

Grief and loss don’t define me. They inform me. For a long time, I thought grief had rewritten my entire identity. After Ken died, everything felt marked by before and after. I didn’t recognize the guy in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the world he lived in either. It felt like grief had stamped my passport and decided where I was allowed to go next. But with time, I realized something important. Grief didn’t take over my story. It reshaped it. It sharpened what mattered. It