I once heard grief described as standing on the seashore. At first, the wet sand is uneven beneath your feet, and even the smallest wave causes you to wobble and sink deeper into the sand. Eventually, though, you come to a point where you’re steady (enough) and you’re better able to handle the waves. Until a large wave comes—completely out of nowhere—and you’re tossed off-balance, arms flailing, struggling to keep your footing once again. Grief, in the same way, is something that you think would dissipate over time—the longer you stand at the shore the easier it should be—you learn to live without your loved one, or you get used to being divorced, or you make new friends at a new job or in a new town—whatever the grief is, you expect it to subside with time. But if you’ve ever experienced grief, you know that rogue waves come—out of nowhere, pulling the ground from underneath your feet, causing you to fall or at the very least stumble with arms flailing, trying to find some firm ground beneath you.