D'Creative Photography

Reading “The Year of Magical Thinking” by Joan Didion years ago may have prepared me to be calm and rational on the day John died, August 22, 2024, 20 months ago. Being irrational and the magical thinking came later. As the survivor after a loving marriage, grieving has been my most challenging endeavor ever. I’m grateful for my family, friends and GeeBees (Grief Buddies) support group. 4/24/2026 Diana Cavazos Rivera

John Gregory Dunne died at the dinner table. He was talking about his work, and then he wasn't talking at all. Forty years of marriage ended in a sentence he didn't get to finish. No goodbye. No final conversation that could be held onto and turned over in the quiet that followed.

Just dinner, words, and then the particular, shattering silence of a table set for two with only one person left at it. And Didion, who had spent her career making precise sense of the world, found herself completely undone by the one thing her intelligence could not think its way through.

She went home that night and could not, for the entire year that followed, bring herself to give away his shoes. Because if she gave them away, he could not come back. And some part of her, the irrational, devastated, fiercely human part that grief had placed in charge, was not ready to close that door. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The Year of Magical Thinking is the book she wrote in that year. But because writing was the only thing left that felt like something she could do. And it is, without question, one of the most honest accounts of grief I have ever read.

1. Grief doesn't make you emotional. It makes you irrational, and that is a completely different thing.
Didion wasn't weeping on every page. She was bargaining. Keeping shoes. Refusing to change things. Running the same mental programmes; turning to tell him something, reaching for the phone, and each time finding the absence like a new wound. She taught me that grief lives in the brain before it lives in the heart. And once you understand that, you stop judging yourself for the strange, desperate logic of it.

2. You only ever take the full inventory of a love after it's gone.
This book is, underneath everything, a love story. Forty years of a marriage between two people who were each other's whole literary world; first reader, harshest critic, closest friend. Didion spends the year turning their shared life over in her hands, trying to understand its full weight now that she has to carry it alone. The grief is proportional to the love. And the love, it turns out, was enormous.

3. Nobody talks about what it's like to grieve one person while being terrified of losing another.
While Joan is dismantling her marriage in memory, her daughter Quintana is critically ill in the hospital. So she is doing two unbearable things at once, mourning her husband and holding herself together because her child still needs her to. That particular kind of doubled grief, the kind that doesn't let you fall apart completely because the falling isn't finished yet, is something I had never seen named honestly before this book.

4. The people around you will want you to be further along than you are. Love them anyway.
Didion writes about the way the world has a timeline for your grief that has very little to do with grief's actual timeline. The casseroles that arrive in the first week and the assumption, by the fourth, that you are doing better now. The way people who love you will say things that land wrong. The way you learn to perform a version of recovery for the people around you because their relief is easier to manage than their worry.

She never says this bitterly. That is what makes it so devastating. She understands why people do it. She was probably one of those people herself, before. But she also tells the truth about the loneliness of grieving in a world that is fundamentally more comfortable with the idea of grief than with its actual duration and texture.

But the shoes stayed in the closet. That is the whole thing. Love doesn't get the memo when someone dies. It keeps running, keeps reaching, keeps holding space for a person who no longer needs it. And grief is just what it looks like when love hasn't caught up with loss yet.

Read this if you are in it. Read it if you survived it. Read it if you love someone badly enough that you already know, without wanting to think about it, exactly what a closet full of their shoes would cost you.

It will find you where you are. It always does.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/3OVUxg7