I had felt, and felt, and felt — hurt, and grief, and hope, and fear — and I had done nothing, and the feeling without the acting had kept me trapped, had made me a woman who suffered eloquently and changed nothing.

Grief that does not move you to act is just a way of marinating in your own pain.

And lying in that hospital bed, I made a decision that I believe saved my life a second time: that I would allow myself as much grief as I needed, and not one ounce more than I could convert into action.

I would weep, fully and honestly, for the woman I had been and the decade she had lost — and then I would stand up, and I would use everything I was feeling as fuel rather than as a place to live.

That is the difference, I think, between grief that heals and grief that traps.