Grief Is A Seismic Force For Social Change

[Photo: Flickr user  Lorie Shaull ]

[Photo: Flickr user Lorie Shaull]

For years, we could predict the response to any mass shooting with almost scientific precision: variations of “thoughts and prayers” would overwhelm our Twitter feeds. The Onion headline, “‘No Way To Prevent This,’ Says Only Nation Where This Regularly Happens,” originally written in May of 2014, after the killing of six UC-Santa Barbara students in Isla Vista, would once again go viral. (The article has been reposted five additional times, tweaked on each occasion to reflect each new mass shooting.) Politicians and pundits would recoil at politicizing a tragedy, suggesting that now is the moment not to lobby, but to grieve. “There will certainly be a time for that policy discussion to take place, but that’s not the place that we’re in at this moment,” said White House Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the day after 59 people were killed in Las Vegas.

But the Parkland shootings changed that. “Thoughts and prayers” went from platitude to meme. Students at the school were quick to eviscerate anyone who offered up the phrase without a call to action. Tucker Carlson was careful to praise the Parkland students for their courage and resilience, even as he suggested that their peers who joined the school walkout were prodded or brainwashed into doing so by their teachers.

“The kids from Parkland and from all across this country are taking to the streets to try and make our future safe,” writes Emma González, a senior at Marjory Stoneman Douglas, in an open letter posted to the March for Our Lives website. “But we can’t do it alone. We need your help to amplify our message.” Just five-and-a-half-weeks after seeing their peers gunned down, Emma and fellow students will lead a crowd of 500,000 anticipated protesters in Washington, D.C.–one of 836 marches taking place that day

The Parkland students’ response to the tragedy that took the lives of 14 classmates and 3 teachers and coaches has been rightly called “courageous grieving.”

But there is nothing new in mourning through protest. Before Parkland students created a real-time archive of the shooting via Tweets and YouTube videos, Mamie Till chose to hold an open casket funeral for her son, Emmett, insisting that the nation look upon his brutalized body. In 1938, Aboriginal leaders christened January 26 a Day of Mourning, to mark the “150th anniversary of the whitemen’s seizure of our country,” and held a march and protest that continues annually to this day, and which has inspired similar protests led by indigenous communities in the U.S. and elsewhere.

When her 13-year-old daughter, Cari, was killed by a drunk driver in 1980, “I wasn’t even registered to vote,” said Candy Lightner, founder of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Today, the organization is powered by hundreds of thousands of volunteers and advocates across the country, most of them brought to the work by tragedy. At the time of its founding, 25,000 people were killed annually due to drunk driving. In 2013, that number was 10,076.

As AIDS decimated the gay community in the 1980s, survivors and friends channeled their grief into volunteer work and social and political action. The attacks on 9/11 produced a wave of people who left their jobs or careers in pursuit of a calling, characterized by a desire to do work that contributes to the world. Lucy McBath was a flight attendant before her teenage son, Jordan Davis, was shot and killed at a gas station for playing loud music. Today she is a candidate for Georgia’s 6th Congressional District and one of the Mothers of the Movement, joining Lesley McFadden, Sybrina Fulton, and other grieving moms as some of our country’s foremost activists for gun violence prevention.

Consider the words “stress response” and most of us immediately think of “fight or flight“: racing heart, quickened breathing, and a surge of adrenaline, a vestige of our Cro-Magnon ancestry, that once upon a time allowed us to escape a rampaging mastodon.

But in reality, says psychologist Kelly McGonigal in her book, The Upside of Stress, “fight or flight” is only one of several stress responses for which we humans are wired. In a crisis, many of us feel the need to do something, part of what scientists call a “tend-and-befriend response.” Our bodies release a surge of oxytocin, which reduces our brain’s fear response and motivates us to protect the people and communities we care about.

We tend to pathologize grief, and to focus on the negative outcomes of loss and adversity: on toxic stress, and Adverse Childhood Experience scores, and the biological response to trauma. By framing pain as a problem, however, and exclusively focusing on the negative effects of trauma and loss, we risk ignoring the effects of grief as a catalyst for change. On the whole, significant adversity makes us more compassionate, not less. In studies, “those who had faced increasingly severe adversities in life–loss of a loved one at an early age, threats of violence, or the consequences of a natural disaster–were more likely to empathize with others in distress, and, as a result, feel more compassion for them,” writes psychology professor David DeSteno.

That good things grow out of bad things is a story familiar to anyone who’s ever watched a Disney film, or considered the relationship between adversity and resilience in the fabled hero’s journey. Talk about the “gift of suffering” to someone really suffering, however, and most people will give you a deserving stink-eye. Meanwhile, those experiencing post-traumatic growth are made to feel guilty for feeling powerful, as though that growth were a disservice to the dead.

Yet grief and growth are two sides of the same coin. In an analysis of 42 studies examining both signs of post-traumatic growth (PTG) and symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), researchers found a “significant linear relationship between” PTG and PTSD. In other words, higher degrees of distress are accompanied by higher degrees of growth.

“Memorializing the dead through protest doesn’t mean denigrating them–it means honoring their lives by making a better future,” writes the Guardian’s Stephen Thrasher.

In the wake of tragedy, we’re told to avoid big decisions. We’re met with the Pity Face, and if we’re lucky, three days of bereavement leave. Well-meaning friends and strangers peddle the five stages of grief, cocking their heads when our responses fail to conform to their expectations. Yet those five stages make no mention of grief’s power to motivate, not just out of anger, but out of quest for meaning, purpose, and agency.

“Putting most of our energy toward trying to change everything is helping a lot because we know there’s going to be something positive that comes out of this tragedy,” said 17-year-old Parkland junior Charlotte Dwyer, en route to Tallahassee to meet with legislators.

We don’t yet know if #NeverAgain, and the marches on Saturday, and the actions of a group of grieving students will catalyze a lasting change in America’s gun debate. But this is more than a moment. Our days of “thoughts and prayers,” absent action, are done. Students like Dwyer and González are a reminder: Grief has always been a seismic force for social change. We would do well to never again forget it.

Posted on April 2, 2018 .

Join TDP HQ! We're hiring a team coordinator to start this spring!


Team Coordinator

Location: Ideally based in Los Angeles but open to remote

Hours: Part time (30 hours a week) or full time

Application deadline: Friday, March 30

The Dinner Party is a community of mostly 20- and 30-somethings out to transform our most isolating experiences into sources of rich community, empathy, and meaningful conversation through intimate, peer-driven dinner parties and the age-old practice of breaking bread. Since January 2014, we've grown from a few dozen people to more than 4,000, active at 275+ tables in 110+ cities and towns worldwide.

The end goal? We foresee a day in which Dinner Parties are as pervasive as AA meetings, and as culturally acceptable and readily accessible as yoga and meditation classes: a day in which young people who have experienced significant loss are recognized not as objects of pity, but as better listeners and better leaders, characterized by profound empathy, resilience, and agency.

Position Overview

The Team Coordinator will work closely with the co-founders and the rest of TDP HQ to help build a strong administrative foundation upon which our community can grow. This role will have exposure to the many ins and outs of running a living, breathing, and growing organization and will require detail-orientation, diligence, creativity, problem solving, humor and optimism to help make it all run smoother and grow steadier.

The Team Coordinator will be a swiss army knife: down to take on any task, and comfortable with no two days being the same. From coordinating financial paperwork, to supporting event production, to being the keeper of our donor rolodex, the Team Coordinator will be in close lock step with the co-founders, maintaining existing systems and improving the way we work so that our community can keep thriving.

Our interest is not solely in the what, but in the how. The Team Coordinator is thus expected to model the core values and principles behind The Dinner Party:

  • A belief and commitment to collaborative leadership, and to creating an environment in which each and every team member can fully capitalize on her/his/their own expertise;
  • A promise to abstain from bullshit in favor of honest, open, and transparent communication, and a demonstrated commitment to active listening, self-efficacy, and the growth and care of every member of the Dinner Party community (including yourself!)



Administrative Excellence for All Things TDP HQ

  • Process all financial paperwork, including contracts, expenses, timesheets, and invoices from vendors

  • Support the recruitment of future staff members and volunteers, including posting jobs, tracking applicants, and scheduling interviews

  • Schedule calls and meetings as needed for co-founders with partners, board members, and others

  • Handle a mix of additional back office needs, including but not limited to, managing the TDP budget, ordering supplies, mailing occasional materials, and coordinating travel

  • Support culture-building for our growing (and mostly remote) team - including celebrating birthdays, recognizing deathverseries, coordinating team gatherings and host retreats


Fundraising + Event Production

  • Migrate and manage our donor database in Salesforce, ensuring all data is up to date, and pulling reports as needed.

  • Support co-founders in relationship management with reminders, scheduling of get togethers, and preparation of materials

  • Support the production of fundraising events, ranging from strategy dinners in NYC for 20 industry leaders to 100 person dinners in San Francisco to a virtual crowdfunding campaign around the holidays

  • Process and send thank yous to donors in a way that feels true to our community


Social Media + Communications

  • Track and communicate all inbound media requests

  • Help develop creative ideas and roll out the TDP Social Media strategy across Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, as well as simple maintenance to website and other online homes as needed.


Special  + Miscellaneous Projects

  • Support research projects as needed across a wide range of topics related to community building, meaningful conversations, self and collective wellness, grief, life after loss, and more.

  • Work closely with the TDP Community Director and Community Manager to track and respond to those who reach out to

  • Support other projects as needed and as time allows, including the Community Team and Regional Organizers



  • Highly organized, detail-oriented, and results-driven

  • Excellent oral and written communication skills, including active listening and inclination to tap into and utilize emotional intelligence

  • Experience building, working within, and improving systems; strong organizational skills

  • High level of empathy

  • Ability to balance team dynamics and self sufficiency to keep priorities moving forward

  • Exceptional responsiveness to emails and consistent communication with all TDP stakeholders, including co-founders, staff, board members, donors, hosts, and Dinner Partiers

  • Experience within the Dinner Party community, particularly as a Dinner Party host, preferred

  • Ability to manage difficult emotions and consistently prioritize self-care

  • Knowledge of Microsoft Office Suite, Gmail, Excel, Zoom, Google Docs. Experience with Salesforce and Slack are both a big plus.

  • This position is either part time (30 hours) a week, or full time.

  • This person is ideally based in/near Los Angeles working from 2 days a week. Remote work is an option for the right person.

To apply, submit cover letter + resume to with “TDP Team Coordinator” in the subject line by Friday, March 30.


Posted on March 9, 2018 .

Happy F***ing Holidays: A Guide to Gathering

Whatever you celebrate, or don’t, the onslaught of “Happy Holidays!” can be an unintended reminder of all that we no longer have, or never had to begin with.

Some of us try to preserve the rituals of our past life, only to find them flat now; others abandon those rituals altogether, only to crave them later on, missing the idiosyncratic traditions that died when that person did. As years pass, we find ourselves missing the rawness of those “first” holidays: what was once a giant black hole that threatened to consume the other seats at the table is now an elephant that lurks in the corner, harder to name, but no less present. The end result? What Ashley, a host of ours, calls The Trifecta of Sadness: the back-to-back holidays that make her miss her mom all the more.

But here’s the good news: The holidays don’t have to suck.

We cannot separate the bitter from the sweet, and we know enough to know we wouldn’t want to. It’s not the ache that’s the problem. It’s all we do to cover-up that ache.

Check out our Holiday Guide for Dinner Partier-tested conversation-starters, reflection exercises, and tips on taking care o’ you amidst a season that’s harder than most.  Thanks to Dinner Partier Eva Silverman of Pushcart Design for making it beautiful, Lindsey Blue-Smith, Kathleen Callaghy, Sarah Gardner Eachus, Karen Erlichman, Ashley Gunn, Mandy Hixon Hanna, Allison Jones, Genevieve Jones , Micky ScottBey Jones, and Esther Kustanowitz for sharing your stories, and our friends at OptionB for releasing version as a part of their #OptionBThere For The Holidays conversation.

Download and read here. 

Posted on December 21, 2017 .

Living and Working Well After Loss: takeaways from a dinner with Los Angeles culture builders co-hosted by The Dinner Party and Omaze


Last week, we hosted our second in a series of dinners, “Living and Working Well After Loss,” dedicated to the conversation around creating workplaces that are more supportive for people who’ve experienced loss, and developing the tools and experiences to transform some of our toughest workplace conversations into our biggest culture builders. More on why we’re up to this, and a recap of our dinner in San Francisco with leaders from Airbnb, Wisdom Labs, Constellation, Salesforce and more here.

For Dinner #2, we set up shop in Los Angeles with Anna Silverman, Head of Talent and Culture at Omaze. Omaze is a platform for nonprofits to raise funds through once-in a-lifetime-experiences with celebrities. You’ve likely seen their Phenomenal Woman campaign on the Internet or in your favorite actresses’ selfie — check it out here.

We started the day with a workshop with the Omaze team around the idea of Being There, discussing ways to show up for friends and coworkers who’ve experienced loss. We also sparked a micro Dinner Party experience for employees, inviting them to share a moment when they felt supported by their community — or a time when they didn’t — and what they learned from it. We’re learning that even when we replace potluck spreads for brown bag lunches, and kitchen tables for board rooms, really powerful conversations can still take place. The lighting might not be as moody, the room not as cozy — but there’s still a real hunger for people to go there, even in workplace settings — and a real benefit to creating the space for people to do so.

“None of us knew quite what to expect, but it turned into an eye-opening discussion. Loss isn’t an easy thing to explore under any circumstances, but it was powerful to see how everyone around the table came together. I left feeling so inspired.”

Anna Silverman, Head of Talent and Culture at Omaze

We later turned the conference room into a proper salon dinner pop up, and over homemade vegetarian chili, corn bread, green salads, and bottles of Zinfandel, rolled up our sleeves to talk about workplace culture around loss and life after.

Our attendees came from a variety of perspectives and organizations. We were joined by accomplished operations, human resources, and talent leaders from start-ups rocketing into orbit (DogVacay), iconic labor unions (SAG AFTRA) and organizations prioritizing a healthy lifestyle for both their customers and their team (Pressed Juicery, Movember Foundation, The Honest Company). All in all, the common thread was a commitment to create environments where people can make incredible work and can thrive while doing it, even during some of life’s tougher moments.

We’ve summarized a few of our key takeaways from the conversation below, but the one headline for the night is this: loss is all around us, and yet, few of us are prepared for the moment when it impacts the people on our team. We’re thrilled to be building a set of tools and experiences to support the people-people within organization — and in turn, support the wellbeing of their organizations.


Post from dinner participant and  The Dinner Party  friend  Donny Killian IV

Post from dinner participant and The Dinner Party friend Donny Killian IV

Here are our takeaways:

Planning ahead for loss

If loss is an inevitability — albeit an unpredictable one — how can organizations plan ahead for those moments before that heart-sinking email hits your inbox? One attendee discussed adding a line in her 2018 budget for supporting employees going through tough times, anticipating the need to bring in extra freelance support, offering to cover someone’s plane ticket home, or giving a thank you to someone else who steps up to fill in the gap. Having a plan in place also means that when it happens, you have a clear directive for how teammates can offer concrete support. Whether it’s donating PTO to the person to extend their leave, having a set budget for a condolence gift from the team, or starting a Google Doc where people can sign up for meal delivery are small things to have in your back pocket when members of your team look to you for what to do. Managers also should think about how they can plan for easing employees back to work after bereavement leave.

Standardizing an approach to show personalized care

One of our participants described the recent experience of losing her mother-in-law, and how finding a case of wine on her porch delivered from her employer sent a big message. As a wine lover, it showed that her team didn’t just default to the bouquet of flowers with a Sorry For Your Loss balloon— but took the extra time to get something they knew she’d really enjoy.

Her simple anecdote brought up an important thread in the conversation — how do we develop systems for support that are personalized, approaching an employee’s moment of difficulty not just as a box to check but as a moment to show they’re seen and cared about on a human level? We’re hearing that moments like loss can be a real make or break for someone’s commitment to a place, so taking the extra time to make a personal statement isn’t just about short term band-aiding, but about longer term employee engagement and talent retention.

Caring for the caretakers

There’s an active and much needed conversation happening in the wellness space about taking care of the people who are in the trenches of healing and wellness — whether in a professional capacity such as a nurse or hospice worker, or within the family, like a partner, sibling or friend helping their loved ones jump through medical hoops. One of the themes that emerged at the dinner was how do people within companies who have a similar role of being a pillar of strength, empathy and decision making take time — and access the resources they need — to take care of themselves, so that they can fully show up for others?

For one participant, navigating the week after an employee suddenly passed away required her to be there for their team, the culture, and the bottom line — but who was there to take care of her? Another participant who experienced a loss while running HR for a start-up found it really helpful when the founders of her company rolled up their sleeves to support her role while she took the time she needed. We’re excited to be building community between culture-keepers, to share what’s working, but to also create a nexus of people who get it, and can be there for one another throughout the hard conversations and the wins no matter how small.

Training managers

One trend we heard in conversations is that two employees in the same department can have drastically different experiences after loss depending on who they report into. How strictly is a manager going to enforce a three day bereavement leave, or make the executive decision to grant that person more time off knowing that coming back to work so soon wouldn’t be healthy for that person, or the job that needs to get done? We heard how managers who’ve experienced loss might be more equipped and empathetic to what their teammate is going through — and thus, better able to anticipate their needs. Part of what The Dinner Party team is now developing includes training and resources so that all managers, whether they’ve been through it or not, and whether they work in a company that’s developed an official bereavement policy or one that’s not there yet, are able to provide the best support possible.

Telling your story of support

While developing the mechanics of a program is key, how we communicate about that program is also core to creating a culture of support. We heard a story of one participant who worked hard to put a response in place after the death of a colleague — but when a communication didn’t go out to the broader team, grieving employees from across the organization felt disregarded and unsupported. Following feedback from the team, she worked to create multiple memorial sites in the office where people could leave messages and mementos, and also approached the organization’s foundation to cover funeral costs for the family. We’re now in the process of crowdsourcing and evaluating what’s worked — and what hasn’t — when responding to a loss within a team that we’ll be sharing with partners.

For more information or to bring The Dinner Party into your organization, contact Also, if you have examples of how workplaces have supported employees in times of loss, drop us a line.

Thank you to our participants:

Amanda Baker, Pressed Juicery
Shannon Bevers, DogVacay
Mike Braun, The Honest Company
Catherine Brower, Omaze
Alix Carlson, Lunya
Lark Clement SAG — AFTRA
Carla Fernandez, The Dinner Party
Brandon Gruzen, 8i
Donny Killian IV, Muirfield Road Associates
Dara Kosberg, The Dinner Party
Melanie Levine, 8i
Mallory Maske, Thrive HR
Anna Silverman, Omaze
Ashley White, enso

Posted on May 17, 2017 .

ReImagine : End of Life

We’ve gotten surprisingly good at avoiding the one topic we all have in common — the fact that life isn’t forever, and that we’ll someday, if we haven’t already, be faced with losing someone we love.

What we’ve learned, after thousands of people have sat down at hundreds of capital The Dinner Party tables, isn’t that people don’t want to go there. We very much do. We just haven’t had access to a place that invites us past the awkwardness, the discomfort, or the fear of not knowing what to say. Where “going there” isn’t a conversation stopper, but the conversation starter. A place outside of the sometimes cold and institutional shadow of the medical world —one that can lack the humanity that it works so hard to save — and instead, into a spaces that feel comfortable, provocative, and invite the kind of soul-stirring conversation that makes you want to stay awhile.

When OpenIDEO announced their End of Life Challenge, and the ensuing Re:Imagine: End of Life week in San Francisco, our team collectively fist pumped. We were thrilled to see the human centered design world contributing to the conversation around end of life, and in their words, “honor, celebrate, and improve our audience’s relationship to living and dying.” By putting up a beacon to a community that values creativity, innovation, and thoughtful design, we knew some really interesting experiences and connections would be sparked, bringing a new burst of energy, ideas, and attention to not just how we die better, but in turn, how we live better, and how we show up better for one another.

From October 24–30th in 2016, we joined a lineup of artists, storytellers, healthcare professionals, innovators, and designers to explore living, dying, and life after. Through the week, the public experienced how technology (i.e. VR, wearables) can play a role in our evolving relationship to death. We listened to performances from musicians and comedians around their experiences with loss, learned practical information about preparing for end of life that is too rarely discussed, and even took a stroll through a candlelight labyrinth.


On Day 3, our community hosted our biggest Dinner Party to date, with a 100 person gathering at The Here Collective in The Mission. Our core community sat down with first-timers to share stories about people we’ve loved and lost, and in true Dinner Party fashion, connect on what our relationship to that loss is like in the present tense. Whether a significant loss was experienced 6 months, or 16 years ago, there’s more often than not something happening in real time that’s colored by that relationship. Relinquishing the misconception that grief is linear and time-bound allows us to embrace this sentiment from poet W.S. Merwin: “Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.”

We all cheersed to the creation of spaces to honor not just the fact that people have died, but the fact that people were once very much alive, and to celebrate the hopefulness of having community throughout the highs and lows of life after.


Thanks to Jackrabbit Catering, Heller Wine, The Here Collective, OpenIDEO and our entire Bay Area community for helping create such a special evening.

Learn more about Re:Imagine | End of Lifepartnering with The Dinner Party on community-wide events, or stay in the loop by signing up for our mailing list


Posted on May 14, 2017 .

Living and Working Well After Loss: Notes from our dinner in San Francisco discussing loss in the workplace

Originally posted on Medium on March 30, 2017

One of the consistent themes that comes up at The Dinner Party table is the ups and downs of working (literally) through grief, and in life beyond. For some people, it can be some of the roughest stuff — navigating office politics, increased stress related to family dynamics, and the expectation that after a few days off, you should be back in the saddle and pumping out projects. For others, work is a place of major healing and forward motion, a built in community of support, a place to find purpose and motivation.


It left us wondering how we can support people in creating more of the latter in their lives. So we dove in. Through conversations with Dinner Partiers, managers, HR leaders, and people-ops people, we’ve started to develop a set of tools to: help people who’ve experienced loss figure out and ask for what the need in the workplace; to equip managers to give the right type of support to the people on their team who need it; and to help build community between people within an organization who’ve either experienced loss or want to show up for those who have.

Last week, we brought a handful of those people together in person for what we love to do most — dinner! Our intention was to begin building a community of people committed to creating more supportive workplaces. It was an evening to share what’s working, what’s not, and how to transform loss from the ultimate office water-cooler conversation killer into an actual team builder. While guests unanimously expressed that there’s a lot of work to be done around organizational policies (i.e. comically short bereavement leave, grief support resources that are available but rarely used), we ended the night with a new stack of ideas and hope for how community building can be a powerful tool within an organization too.

Here are questions that emerged from the conversation that brought to light some of the challenges of navigating loss in the workplace, as well as simple tactics workplaces could use to build more inclusive, supportive cultures.

How do you invite vulnerability into the workplace? One person described a simple (but impactful) ritual they use to create space for people to share what’s going on in their personal lives. They begin every weekly team meeting with a 15 minute personal life check-in. The check-in doesn’t take long, but it lets team members know if someone is having a hard week and whether to give them more space or extra support. Someone at the table highlighted the power of just being witnessed breaks down the isolation around loss, as well as other challenging personal experiences. Simply by giving space for people to let off steam and tell their story, we feel more supported and able to engage in our work.

How can we create a manager assistance program that supports managers so that they can support grieving employees? The way a manager reacts to an employee is a major determinant of someone’s experience back in the workplace, and can make or break their commitment to a place. Often the managers who give the best support, are the ones who have personal experience with it. But that leaves a lot to chance in the type of dynamics someone is facing when back at the office — and a lot of uncomfortable moments for people on both sides of the table.

How can we make loss as big as a priority as new parenthood? An employee from a start-up tech company shared how the founders of the company are young and parental leave policies weren’t improved until a founder had children. How can we make policies, benefits and manager support for grieving employees a priority when leaders have not been directly touched by it?

How can companies create private spaces for people to take much needed breaks to process their loss? We live in the era of the open floor plan office, which means private space to release emotion or take a break can be hard to come by. One person mentioned that she turned to the breastfeeding room to cry during a particularly hard day — which makes us wonder what sort of simple office infrastructure should we consider for employees dealing with end of life and loss?

We’re so thankful everyone joined us — and are looking forward to dinners in Los Angeles and New York later this year.

Thank you to all of our participants.

  • Anna Martinelli, Omada
  • Sam Rojas, Omada
  • Cory Smith, Wisdom Labs
  • Karen Rolfes, Constellation Brands
  • Kimberly Arnold, Salesforce
  • Lindsay Pettingill, Airbnb

For more information on what we’re up to, visit our site or contact

Posted on April 26, 2017 .

Dear Sheryl,

Originally posted on Medium on February 18, 2017

We’ve wanted to write this for awhile.

We wanted to write this on June 13, 2015, when you shared a Facebook post to mark the end of sheloshim. We wanted to write this on May 16, when we read and watched (and read and watched again) your commencement address at Berkeley. When we read your announcement earlier this month about Facebook’s new bereavement leave, and considered its implications for all who take their cues from its example, we realized it was time.

First, allow us to say, we were sorry to hear about Dave, as wholly inadequate as that is to say. That his was a life well lived is an extraordinary understatement, evidenced in the way you’ve carried on his legacy, in the outpouring of tributes from friends and colleagues that followed his death, and, in a small but significant way, in the fact that we and millions of others continue to use the tools he created. We can only wonder what might have been had he had longer to live that life.

But ours is less a condolence letter than it is a thank-you.


Thank you for opening up a dialogue about grief and loss and the difference between Life Before and Life After. Thank you for giving we who choose to lean in permission sometimes to lean on. Thank you for reminding us that resilience is a muscle: one that’s worked when, confronted by our worst days, we choose to acknowledge the things that are okay or better than okay, and to recognize that the existence of one does not eliminate the other. Thanks for reminding us that nothing in this life, including sorrow, is permanent, and that “when life sucks you under, you can kick against the bottom, break the surface, and breathe again.”

Thank you for doing it all without attempting to sugarcoat or mentioning silver linings, for recognizing that to acknowledge the “huge reservoir of sadness” we carry in no way denies what loss has taught us, nor diminishes our ability to lay claim to our time on Earth.

And thank you for recognizing that your story is a shared story, and for choosing to match words to policies. Thank you for reminding us, once again, that great teams are born of great companies that choose to stand by the whole person in our hours of greatest need. Thank you for leading by example, and calling on employers to address the impact of loss on their employees with the same level of attention they discuss other life events , be that moving to a new city or starting a family.

We, too, know about waking up to a reality we did not ask for and do not wish to be in, about the fog of grief, about the realization that normal as we knew it is and will forever remain gone. We, too, are intimately familiar with the irony that, as universal and unavoidable as death is, we’re still not great at supporting each other through it.


It’s our own personal experience — and hunger for connection — that inspired us to start The Dinner Party, a community of (mostly) 20- and 30-somethings who’ve lost moms and dads, siblings and partners and friends, infants and children. Together, we’re out to transform life after loss from an isolating experience into one marked by community support, candid conversation, and forward movement. We get together for potluck meals, and a chance to share the part of ourselves that rarely sees the light of day, turning groups of strangers into groups of friends. Our story began as a handful of friends and friends of friends, who got together for a meal one night and created what we’d failed to find. Since 2012, we’ve grown from a couple dozen people to a community of more than 4,000, active in over 120 cities in the US and beyond.


Our Dinner Partier manifesto / designed by  Christina Tran

Our Dinner Partier manifesto / designed by Christina Tran

Among the many themes that come up at our tables is our relationship to work, and workplace: the way work can serve as an anchor when we feel most unmoored, and just as often ring hollow when our worlds have completely upended; the loyalty conferred or lost based on the response of a boss, or a coworker; the fact that we most need a safety net not when we’re at our best, but when we’re at our worst.

And we know, too, that the problem is felt not just by employees, but by managers, colleagues, and HR teams, who are continually torn by the human impulse to be human, and the need to keep the trains running, who wonder what support looks like one week, one month or even one year later, who recognize that policies are only as strong as the culture in which they operate.

Over the last year, we came to wonder how companies, leaders, and managers might create the space and culture where everyone, whomever they are and whatever office they occupy, felt safe being vulnerable, and showing up with their full selves, where people could ask for and receive help without appearing needy or weak. We’d seen, from research and our own experience, that companies that create a culture in which teams feel psychologically safe produce better work. We heard from one Dinner Partier whose company gave her flexibility to come to work two hours early and leave two hours early, so she could take her partner to chemotherapy multiple times each week. We heard from others whose employers were less than understanding, and who ultimately quit as a result.

So we started experimenting.

We hosted a couple of weekend retreats for Airbnb employees who’d experienced loss, and were looking for a space to open up about their experiences, and where they’d been and where they were, and to reflect on what it looked like to live well after. We led a training for the Hospice Giving Foundation, on how to embed peer-support in their existing programming, and how to get millennials through the door. We started sharing crowdsourced tips and tools on how to navigate the workplace, with employees who were new to the experience. We led a company-wide workshop for a holistic healthcare company, debunking the myths around grief and loss and equipping employees at all levels to better support those going through it. We engaged in leadership coaching for a VP of a professional sports association navigating multiple losses among his staff. And we’re hosting a community dinner and training for “people people” (read: Talent, Culture, HR, Ops) to share what’s working and what’s not in supporting employees going through challenging times.

We’re not interested in just getting people “back to normal”, but allowing real life experience and meaningful connections to unlock latent potential in people and teams. We envision a day in which employers help their employees thrive at work and in life despite losses and challenges they might face: a day in which those who have experienced trauma and loss don’t feel impeded by their experience, but rather use it as a means to become better listeners and better leaders, demonstrating profound empathy, resilience, and connectedness.

We invite Facebook to join us in making this vision a reality by partnering on the programs and cultural interventions that we’ve seen catalyze communities of support, whether you’ve experienced loss or work on the same team as someone who has. In giving people the time they need to begin to heal, and ensuring the workplace they return gives them what they need to thrive, Facebook has chosen to address loss not as an event but as a process. We believe we can turn the loss of a loved one — one of the few things that all of us share regardless of age, or race, or class, or political or religious beliefs, or seniority — from a conversation-killer into a conversation-starter, and from a conversation to a whole new way of working, and being, together.

A part of us will always long for Option A. Thanks for giving us permission to kick the shit out of Option B.

With gratitude,

Carla Fernandez /
Dara Kosberg /
Lennon Flowers /

and The Dinner Party team


Posted on April 26, 2017 .

We're hiring: join The Dinner Party team as our Community Development or Web Development Intern


Position Overview:
TDP’s Community Development Intern will help lead TDP’s efforts to build a vibrant community of Dinner Partiers, supported by an active network of hosts and regional organizers. The Community Development Intern will focus on scouting and recruiting new hosts, connecting would-be Dinner Partiers and hosts to one another, and creating low-barrier opportunities to build meaningful community, online and off.

Our interest is not solely in the what, but in the how. The Community Development Intern is thus expected to model the core values and principles behind The Dinner Party:

  • A belief and commitment to collaborative leadership, and to creating an environment in which each and every team member can fully capitalize on his or her own expertise;

  • A promise to abstain from bs in favor of honest, open, and transparent communication, and a demonstrated commitment to listen thoughtfully and openly to every stakeholder, be they a team member, participant, client, or advisor;


  • Email inquiries: Work with TDP’s Community Management Team to carefully track and respond those who reach out to us, ensuring that inquiries receive thoughtful and prompt replies, connections to nearby Dinner Party hosts, and links to resources.    

  • Host recruitment: Scout for potential hosts, conduct informative and evaluative interviews, connect hosts to local regional community leads.

  • Social media: Scan media for links to news and stories of interest to TDP community to share on Twitter and Facebook, with goal of growing social media footprint.


  • Strong attention to detail and exceptional oral and written communication skills

  • Ability to maintain warmth and clarity while managing a large volume of relationships

  • Comfort working within and improving systems; strong organizational and project management skills, with focus on quality customer service

  • Knowledge of Microsoft Office Suite, Gmail, Google Docs + Spreadsheets, etc.

  • 20-25 hours per week, location flexible

3-month Internship (with potential for longer), available immediately, $15/hr


Position Overview:
TDP’s Web Platform Intern will help lead TDP’s efforts to develop a vibrant community of Dinner Partiers on our new web platform, supported by an active network of hosts and regional organizers. The Community Development Intern will focus on executing data management and transfer, designing an effective online manual for Dinner Partiers and hosts, and creating low-barrier opportunities to build meaningful community, online and off.

Our interest is not solely in the what, but in the how. The Community Development Intern is thus expected to model the core values and principles behind The Dinner Party:

  • A belief and commitment to collaborative leadership, and to creating an environment in which each and every team member can fully capitalize on his or her own expertise;

  • A promise to abstain from bs in favor of honest, open, and transparent communication, and a demonstrated commitment to listen thoughtfully and openly to every stakeholder, be they a team member, participant, client, or advisor;


  • Data management: Lead data transfer and consolidation for beta version of web platform 2.0.

  • Internal web manual: Create effective online guidebook to help support 300+ hosts become accustomed to new website.

  • Email inquiries: Work with TDP’s Community Management Team to carefully track and respond those who reach out to us, ensuring that inquiries receive thoughtful and prompt replies, connections to nearby Dinner Party hosts, and links to resources.    


  • Exceptional attention to detail and strong oral and written communication skills

  • Comfort working within and improving systems

  • Excellent organizational and project management skills

  • Knowledge of Microsoft Office Suite, Gmail, Google Docs + Spreadsheets, etc.

  • 20-25 hours per week, location flexible

3-month Internship, available immediately, $15/hr


Interested? Please send a resume and brief cover letter to TDP’s Community Director, Jules, @ describing a) what most excites you about TDP b) how TDP intersects with your current work or coursework, and c) where you hope to go from here

***People of color, men and gender-nonforming folks, LGBTQ+, and people with disabilities strongly encouraged to apply.

About The Dinner Party
The Dinner Party is a nonprofit that organizes potluck dinners for people to connect over the experience of losing a loved one or family member. We are working to transform life after loss from an isolating experience into one marked by community support, candid conversation, and forward movement.

Together, we’re pioneering tools and community through which young people who’ve experienced significant loss can use their shared experience as a springboard toward living better, bolder, and more connected lives.

In the past two years, The Dinner Party (TDP) has grown from 25 tables to over 225, from a few hundred people to a few thousands, and is now active in seven countries around the world. TDP has been featured in Oprah Magazine, NPR, CNN, The New York Times, BuzzFeed, The Huffington Post, and more.

The end goal? We foresee a day in which Dinner Parties are as ubiquitous as AA meetings, and as as culturally acceptable and readily accessible as yoga and meditation classes: a day in which young people who have experienced loss are recognized not as objects of pity, but as better listeners and better leaders, characterized by profound empathy, resilience, and agency.

Posted on April 21, 2017 .

Where do we go from here?

We believe that to be welcome – to feel wholly at ease in our own skin, to be fully seen and heard and witnessed – is a basic right. It is one that we cannot attempt to claim for ourselves, and deny for others. It is a right that, throughout our history, has been granted only to the privileged few. And it is a right that has been denied to a staggering number of people over the last several months. 

So let’s start with some #realtalk, y’all. 

It’s our job to name white supremacy for what it is, to call out the privileges many of us have been afforded by it, and to fight it with everything we’ve got. 

This last week has seen a rise in hate crimes against Muslim Americans, people of color, immigrants, Latinx, women, people with disabilities, and the LGBTQ community. 

We also believe that those decrying hate far outnumber those emboldened by it. We believe racism, sexism, xenophobia, Islamophobia, and transphobia have no place in our democracy. And we believe this is a sentiment shared by many across party lines. 

We know well that some of the hardest conversations are the ones most worth having. We cannot turn our heads or look the other way at demeaning remarks said casually in our workplaces, in our communities, and within our families. We’ve seen what happens when we choose to ignore, or quickly devolve into modes of attack and defense. 

We have allowed grief – one of the few things that all of us share, regardless of age, or race, or class, or political beliefs – to become a conversation-killer rather than a conversation-starter. We choose to other one another, rather than pause to appreciate the length of roads traveled and the experiences that have shaped who we are. We live our lives online, rather than using the internet to find and connect with one another in-person. We bemoan the deterioration of conversation as we spend more time looking down at our screens than up at the people we’re talking to, when the problem is really that we do not give ourselves permission to talk about the things that truly matter. Changing that starts with each of us.

Over the next year and the years that come after, we invite you to pull up a chair. We’re vowing to create spaces for healing among others who share your identities and have navigated similar hallways, looking for a lightswitch. We’re vowing to create spaces for healing across lines of difference, among those who desire real understanding, who are willing to grant welcome in exchange for receiving it in return. And we’re vowing to expand our circles of concern, by connecting folks who wouldn’t otherwise have a chance to meet.

How ‘bout dinner, folks? 

Posted on November 17, 2016 .

RECIPE: Momery Apple Tart

My mom passed away 27 years ago. She’d take us apple picking as kids, and we always returned with way more apples than we could really use. So after we’d had apple pie, apple crisp, Apple Brown Betty, and applesauce, she’d challenge us to come up with a totally new recipe for apples. It’s a tradition I continue every year during apple season.
This year’s: Almond shortbread crust, vanilla pastry cream flavored with fresh apple cider syrup, baked Golden Delicious apples glazed with fresh cider syrup and drizzled with apple caramel.
 - Caroline, Los Angeles

Yield: 9-inch tart, serves 8

Almond Shortbread Crust

  • 1 ¼ c all purpose flour
  • 2 oz finely ground almonds (I use Bob’s Red Mill Almond Flour)
  • ¼ c sugar
  • ¼ tsp salt
  • ½ c (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, diced
  • ¾ tsp almond extract
  • 2 Tbs ice water
  • 4 oz white chocolate


  1. Preheat oven to 375.  Fill a glass with cold water and add a few ice cubes, set aside.
  2. Whirl  flour, almond flour, sugar and salt in processor until combined. Add diced butter and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse meal. With the motor running, add almond extract and 1-2 Tbs ice water (from the glass) to form moist clumps.
  3. Dump mixture onto marble board or lightly floured surface and knead together to combine. Press into the bottom and up the sides of a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Freeze crust for 20 minutes.
  4. Place tart pan on baking sheet and bake for 10 minutes. Check the crust and puncture any bubbles with a skewer. Continue to bake for another 12-14 minutes until the crust is a pale golden brown. Cool completely on baking sheet.
  5. Melt white chocolate gently in the microwave, in 10 seconds bursts, on lowest setting. Brush a thin layer of melted white chocolate over the bottom of the cooled crust. Set aside to set. (The white chocolate prevents the filling from making the bottom crust soggy.)
  6. Crust can be made one day ahead and kept in fridge or freezer, well wrapped in plastic wrap. (When moving the cooled crust from place to place, remember the removable bottom! Keep it on a baking sheet or flat plate.)

Apple Cider Syrup

Reduce 2 c fresh apple cider in a medium saucepan to about ⅓ cup. (I mostly just watch it and pull it off the heat when it’s syrupy rather than measuring.) Let cool.

Pastry Cream (makes about 3 cups)

  • 2 ¼ c whole milk, divided
  • 6 large egg yolks
  • ⅔ c sugar, divided
  • ⅓ c cornstarch
  • 1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
  • 1 Tbs cooled apple cider syrup


  1. In medium bowl, whisk together ½ cup milk, egg yolks, ⅓ cup sugar. Using a fine mesh sieve, sift the cornstarch over the mixture and gently whisk in.
  2. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, add the remaining 1¾ cups milk. Scrape in seeds from vanilla bean and add the pod. Add remaining ⅓ cup sugar. Bring mixture to a simmer without stirring.
  3. Once simmering, whisk the hot milk mixture, then remove from heat and slowly whisk into egg yolk mixture. Return the mixture to the saucepan and cook, over medium heat, stirring constantly, until pastry cream simmers and thickens to a pudding consistency. (This can take anywhere from 1 to 5 minutes.)
  4. Remove from heat and fish out the vanilla pod. Add the 1 Tbs of cider syrup, and whisk the cream until smooth. Transfer the cream to a medium bowl. (If you have cornstarch clumps, press the pastry cream through the fine mesh sieve into the bowl.)
  5. Press a sheet of plastic wrap directly onto the surface of the cream and chill until cold, at least several hours or (best) overnight.
  6. Pastry cream can be stored in the fridge, with plastic wrap on its surface up to 3 days.

Apple Filling (adapted from Epicurious)

  • ¼ tsp ground cloves
  • ½ to 1 tsp ground cinnamon (depending on taste)
  • ¼ tsp fresh ground black pepper 
  • 4-5 Golden Delicious apples, peeled, cored, sliced into ¼” slices (I use a mandoline for this)
  • ¼ c (packed) light brown sugar
  • ¼  c apple cider
  • ¼ c (½ stick) unsalted butter, melted
  • ¼ c whipping cream 


  1. Preheat oven to 400°F. 
  2. Place apples in a 13x9x2 glass baking dish. Sprinkle spices and sugar over the apples, then pour over cider and the melted butter. Stir gently to coat.
  3. Bake apples until tender, stirring occasionally. This should take 10-20 minutes. Check on them after 10 mins. You want them soft but not mushy. 
  4. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the apples to a medium bowl and set aside to cool.
  5. Scrape all juices from baking dish into medium saucepan. Set aside. (You will use these to make the Apple Caramel just before serving.)


  1. Spread cold pastry cream over the white chocolate in the tart crust. You may have more cream than you need. Chill for 20 minutes.
  2. Arrange cooled apple slices in overlapping circles over the pastry cream. When you get to the middle, cut a slice in half and arrange to look like the center of a rose.
  3. *The tart can be held at this point, lightly covered in plastic wrap, in the fridge for a few hours.*

Before serving (or taking to an event): Rewarm the cider syrup slightly and brush it gently over the apples in the tart.

Apple Caramel (adapted from Epicurious)

  • ¼  c apple cider
  • ¼ c packed light brown sugar
  • ¼ c whipping cream


  1. Rewarm the juices from the apples over medium heat, add the cream, brown sugar and cider. Boil until caramel sauce deepens in color and is reduced to about ½ cup, whisking occasionally. This should take about 5-7 minutes.  Set aside to cool for five minutes.
  2. Dip a fork into the warm caramel and drizzle over the tart. (Leftover caramel can be poured over waxed paper or a Silpat on a rimmed baking sheet and cut into bite sized treats when cool.)

To serve: 
There’s a lot of sweetness here, with the apples, syrup and caramel. To cut that a bit, stir one Tbs of Calvados into 8 oz of creme fraiche or plain yogurt. Serve tart with small dollops.
Bonus! You will likely have more apples, cider syrup, and creme fraiche/yogurt than you need. Not a problem! Use them all to make stuffed French Toast! Bon appetit!


Posted on November 17, 2016 and filed under Recipes.

Who Ya Gonna Call

It's Noon and I'm not sure where I'm staying tonight. I know a 24-hour diner on 34th and 7th, and begin to steel myself for a night in Central Park. I'd read Patti Smith's recounting of a few homeless nights out there when she was 20 and new to New York. Surely, it's way safer now than it was in the 70s, right? 

We’re hosting an event in a couple of hours, which has occupied all of my attention of late. Fuck. Here I am, again, in a situation that's all too familiar. I'm a last-minute planner under the best of circumstances, but two-and-a-half years of running a start-up nonprofit on a dime have left me in a perpetually harried, one-day-at-a-time state.

But there's more to it than that. I stayed at my best friend, Laurel's, last night, and think about asking if I can stay another night. But I worry I kept her and her husband up late with an upset stomach, and feel like I've imposed enough on her over the last few years to satisfy a lifetime. Problem is that's true of most people in my life. 

As with anyone without a home to go back to, I'm hypersensitive to overstaying my welcome, never fully at ease in any space that isn't mine. Asking for help is hard for me, precisely because I've had to do it so many times, or been its unwitting recipient. Loss has made me both fiercely self-reliant, and more fragile than I'd care to admit, lacking an obvious safety net. 

So I run through all the reasons I can’t ask x, y, or z person until it’s too late, only to end up sending panicky text messages as I board a plane: “Hi! I’ll be in X city in six hours. Any chance I can stay on your couch tonight?”  

Fifty or so Dinner Partiers are due to descend on an apartment in SoHo for an afternoon of letter-writing, and a chance to share the things that matter most with the living and the dead.  It's the first warm weekend of Spring, so guests immediately beeline to the patch of outdoor space in the back. 

Hallie is one of the first guests to arrive. I’ve known her only a few months, met in-person only a couple of times. But in that time, we’ve talked about subjects more personal and intimate than many I’ve shared with friends I’ve known for years. We talk for a few minutes about work and the overdue arrival of Spring, and the event that’s about to unfold. 

She asks where I’m staying that night. Normally I’d deflect or white lie out of embarrassment, but there’s an honesty in our interactions, a history of naming what we’re struggling with rather than tiptoeing around it, that’s become habit. Without thinking, the panic I’ve batted away until now—wiling it away until I have the time to deal with it—briefly rises to the surface.  

“Stay with me,” she says, without judgment and without hesitation. 

She lives in a studio apartment. I end up on her couch for the next three nights. 


Most members of our tribe are familiar with the way in which loss can cut you off from the world. We can list off the friends who disappeared, and recall the heavy silences and awkward moments with others we’d known for years, the invisible scarlet letter that will henceforth signal “otherness”.  

What’s less talked about is the way in which loss—that ultimate breeder of #realtalk—is just as often a source of deep connection, rather than its opposite. 

Hallie started hosting in January, and her table really clicked. 

In March, she and the seven other people at the table got together for their third dinner. Sarah announced that she had a little time before starting her new job, and had found a cheap last minute ticket to Costa Rica. She asked if anyone wanted to come with. 

It took Hallie two minutes to say yes. She texted her boss, who gave her the thumbs-up. She booked a ticket, and left the next day. 

The two surfed, did yoga, and relaxed on a beach. Having just emerged from a breakup, Hallie found the healing experience she’d been looking for. 

But the timing was only part of what made the trip so special. Both women have lost both parents, and prior to sitting down together, neither had known anyone else their age in a similar boat. Sarah “lives full out,” says Hallie. Connecting with her and with others who’d experienced major loss was “like water for the thirsty”. 

From left: Sarah, Paul, Rebecca, and Hallie, together at our Write_On NYC event in April. Says Paul: “I had a meeting with my grief counselor and when I showed her the pic she smiled and said, ‘Who would ever think these are the faces of grief?’”

From left: Sarah, Paul, Rebecca, and Hallie, together at our Write_On NYC event in April. Says Paul: “I had a meeting with my grief counselor and when I showed her the pic she smiled and said, ‘Who would ever think these are the faces of grief?’”


It's a story we see again and again: strangers turned friends; one-time acquaintances who become close, precisely because they chose to share something you're not supposed to share with mere acquaintances; people known to one another for years, but only superficially, until an invitation and a decision to show up allowed both parties to peer below the surface.  

Katie Gillespie was part of a table in Chicago, before moving to Bread Loaf, VT—a move inspired by her dad, a nature enthusiast, who first took her camping when she was six months old, and died in 2013. There we connected her to Ashley Gunn in nearby Middlebury, and the two started hosting a table together. 

"Even though we haven't known each other long, I consider her an instant friend," says Katie. 

It's a sentiment Ashley echoes: "That first time we met to get coffee was so amazing," she says. "I felt so happy and seen and heard afterward and continue to do so when we hang." 

Vermont co-hosts-turned-friends Ashley Gunn (left) and Katie Gillespie (right) at a recent beer tasting-yoga-class combo. 

Vermont co-hosts-turned-friends Ashley Gunn (left) and Katie Gillespie (right) at a recent beer tasting-yoga-class combo. 

There's nothing new about this, of course. Stories like this are everywhere; it’s just that, too often, they go unnamed. 

"In February, I went to Miami with a dozen other widows, only two of whom I'd ever met face-to-face," says Stephanie Cunningham, a host of ours in Austin. "The other 10 I'd only ever chatted with online through private Facebook groups for those that had lost. It was one of the most intimate friendship moments of my life. I remember telling people that all the "friends" that left were the people who just wanted to talk about how crazy our last weekend was or what vacation we were on next; the ones who stayed were the ones that would stay when I wanted to talk about writing my will and signing DNRs at 26 years old and wouldn't leave when I wanted to contemplate the afterlife and not in a 'yah man, that's rad...' sort of way. 

"The faithful (very) few and the new ones that filled those blank spaces are much more valuable to me than anyone that missed 'fun Stephanie'."


I first met Jaime last summer. Both of us were Scholars at the Aspen Ideas Festival, where for a couple of days, we got to do things like accidentally-on-purpose bump into Aaron Sorkin or Arianna Huffington in the breakfast line. (Been there, did that. "Pardon me, ma'am, just grabbing a muffin.") 

Jaime works in financing renewable energy, a subject I know nothing about. But we both lived in LA, and we’re both the young and hungry types, so we grabbed drinks one night, and (naturally) became Facebook friends. 

I didn’t hear from her again until February, when she was on a plane back to LA having just suddenly lost her mother. Her mother died of ovarian cancer six weeks after being diagnosed. She remembered our conversation over drinks that night, and a casual friend connect instantly became something much more. 

In March, we went to the new Broad museum and grabbed lunch afterward. We talked for two-and-a-half hours. We talked about our moms, and our relationships with our fathers, and stepfathers, and siblings. We talked about the fact that we live in a society and in a time bereft of rituals—one that leads us to feel embarrassed for feeling sad, believing that whatever it is we’re feeling, we should be feeling something else. We talked about both having moved to LA from DC: about how LA invites you to dream big, and can just as easily make you feel small, friends scattered across its sprawl, how it’s a place famous for many things, deep conversations not being one of them. 

My mom died more than nine years ago, my senior year of college. Despite the fact that our stories are years apart, that shared experience instantly became an entrypoint to a friendship, and to a conversation where nothing was off the table, the kind of conversation we rarely get to have with friends we’ve known for years, let alone someone we met one time. 

It turned out Jaime also loves hosting. So we talked about the role of a host, and whether that was something she was ready to take on. She was focused on finding meaning and purpose after her mom’s death, and building the kind of community that understood what she was experiencing. She’s a great listener and gains energy from bringing people together.

So we connected her to Brett, another old friend, who spends his days as a documentary filmmaker in Venice. He lost his mom a year ago, to complications from a sudden heart attack. We’d reconnected at a birthday party earlier this year, and talked about the hellish year of firsts. After months of grieving on his own, he, too, had expressed an interest in hosting. 

We began introducing them to other people in their neighborhood: other young and hungry types, who’ve all been among the first in their peer community to lose someone significant to them. And with that, a new table was born. 

Hosts Brett and Jamie (center) at their first dinner, July 2016.  

Hosts Brett and Jamie (center) at their first dinner, July 2016.  


The Dinner Party grew from a group of friends into an organization. As an organization, we see it as our mission to grow groups of friends—friends with whom you don’t have to hide any part of your story, or explain the particular form of crazy that leads you to be almost-homeless in NYC one night. 

The real measures of success have little to do with the traditional metrics found in most End of Year Reports. How might we measure the “# of couches slept on,” “# of hikes taken,” “# of dinner dates,” and “# of people with whom you feel seen and heard”?


We've just wrapped a host dinner at Jaime’s apartment in Santa Monica. We're stuffed on pie and banana bread and the evening's eats and just spent the last several minutes on dish-doing and apartment-reassembly. It's a process through which conversation always returns to lighter fare. 

A handful of us head to the parking lot. It's chilly, someone remarks. 

We freeze. In front of us, a print by WRDSMTH, whose works are a familiar sight to inhabitants of LA. For a second, we stay frozen, staring at the words ahead of us: "I miss you. Every day. Every way." We laugh. We hug. We drive off to our respective abodes. 

Photo credit: Kristen Hellwig

Photo credit: Kristen Hellwig

Posted on July 19, 2016 .

How to Not Be an Asshole About Suicide

Photo credit: Flickr user @Alpha

Photo credit: Flickr user @Alpha

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”

– David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

Blame it on one too many viewings of Pollyanna as children, but on the whole, we think humans are wired to not be assholes. After all, we’re social animals, who’ve evolved to care for one another. Our brains have a built-in “social caregiving system,” which leads to what’s known as a tend-and-befriend response to stress and suffering. Translation: We’re biologically inclined to want to be helpful.
We see grief and loss inspire remarkable acts of empathy and generosity each and every day. We’ve found that most people want to say and do the right thing by one another.
But every good rule has its exception: When it comes to suicide, most people are assholes.
As with most examples of blatant assholeishness, the problem is mostly one of ignorance. Suicide has long been a subject of taboo. Efforts to break the silence around suicide are new, and we’re only just learning to talk about it. Even today, families will sometimes go to great lengths to hide the cause of death.
For the two of us, and for hundreds of others across our respective communities, this is personal. So for your sake and ours, here are a few suggestions on how to be less of an asshole:
1. Stop saying “committed suicide.” 

Simply put, it’s out of date. People commit crimes: Using that word subtly implies fault and perpetuates the stigma around suicide. Eighty-five percent of those who die by suicide have struggled with mental illness or addiction. For most people, suicide is the final act after a long illness. 
Try instead: Use language like “died by suicide” or “took their own life”. Changing a few simple words displays empathy towards the person who died and acknowledges their often long and terrible fight against diseases like mental illness and addiction.
2. Enough with the questions. 

Before you start peppering a friend (let alone a stranger or co-worker or ____) with questions about the circumstances of the death, consider why you’re asking the question. If the answer is merely to satiate your own curiosity, don’t ask it. 
The decision to talk openly about loss is one we applaud, but it is a choice. It doesn’t mean that anyone ever has the right to know about it, or the circumstances that surrounded it. 

Questions like how a person did it, or why they did it, or whether they had attempted before are invasive, and serve nothing. When someone dies of cancer, does it matter which internal organ shut down first? When someone dies of lung cancer, does it matter if they smoked? (No and no.) We’ll never know the answer to the ultimate “why”, whether or not that person had a history of mental illness or addiction. That unanswered question, and the infinite supply of “what ifs” that accompany it, is one we’ll have to live with for the rest of our lives. In the end, knowing the answer wouldn’t make the loss any easier to bear. 
3. Was it expected? 

This is a simple one. Nope.
It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve attempted, or how sick they’ve been. Unless the suicide is medically assisted, it is unexpected. So skip the question. Ask if you can bring over a bottle of wine once the funeral crowds have disappeared. Ask if you can walk the dog or do the laundry. Ask a thoughtful question about who that person was. 

A good rule of thumb: Resist questions about the death itself, and focus more on the lives in question. Focus on how your friend is doing, and what they need. Focus less on how the person died or when and more on the life they led.  
4. “I’d kill myself, shoot myself, slit my wrists, yada yada yada.”
We hear these phrases all the time, and once upon a time, we said them, too. Most of the time, it doesn’t bother us anymore. But remember: A throwaway line like, “I’d kill myself if I were caught singing in the shower,” is a pretty great way to taint a perfectly enjoyable conversation. Our brains can’t help but go there. Be aware that you might be in the presence of someone whose loved one really did kill themselves or whose loved one is contemplating suicide. Joking about suicide could make it harder for them to reach out to you in a moment of crisis.
5. Suicide is selfish.
This one’s tricky. On the days when we’re desperate for a conversation we cannot have, we can’t help but feel it was selfish. 

But then we remind ourselves that the people we’ve lost to suicide, and many of those who struggled with depression or suicidal thoughts, are among the most sensitive and compassionate people we’ve known. It’s often easier to offer help than it is to ask for it, and those contemplating suicide are often wracked by guilt, or feel the world would be better off without them. Suicide is a response to pain, not indifference.   

Most of the terrible things we say are the result of ignorance, not intent. So the next time you encounter someone who’s struggling with suicidal thoughts, or talk with someone who’s navigating a suicide loss, try asking that person what would be helpful for them. Don’t assume you know. 

You’re not an asshole. Try not to act like one. 


Post Edit: Thanks to everyone who's written in, and shared their experiences. We wrote this as two women who've encountered mental illness, addiction and suicide loss within our immediate families and friend circles. We do not approach this subject lightly, and by no means do we intend to sugarcoat it. That suicide wreaks havoc on families is something we are profoundly aware of. Our goal is simply to add to what many have been working to do for years: To make the conversation more approachable and more empathetic, and to help people avoid foot-in-mouth syndrome. 


About the authors: 

Jennifer White is a social entrepreneur, artist and advocate for hope. She founded Hope After Project after her losing her mother to suicide in 2011. She writes about her experience with loss and her dedication to finding hope in the darkest places for herself and others. Jennifer is a member of the Creative Activist community at Creative Visions Foundation.

Lennon Flowers is the co-founder and Executive Director of The Dinner Party, a community of mostly 20- and 30-somethings working to pioneer tools and community through which young people who’ve experienced significant loss can use their shared experience as a springboard toward living better, bolder, and more connected lives. 

Posted on February 5, 2016 .


Photo credit: Nikki Reimer, TDP Host, Calgary

Photo credit: Nikki Reimer, TDP Host, Calgary

Tragedy was around long before the Greeks and death and dying is not exactly new. But as grief and loss go, 2015 was a doozy of a year. Attacks in Paris, Beirut, northern Nigeria, and San Bernadino, to name but a few. Hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees fleeing unimaginable atrocities, with nowhere to go. Mass shootings in Colorado, Oregon, South Carolina: on average, more than one per day in the US in 2015. This was a year in which the deaths of innocents were often met with impunity, and demagogues led in the polls. 

Over the last few years, we've learned to sit with suffering, to resist the impulse to avert our gaze or change the subject. In 2015, there was a lot to witness. 

But we've also gotten rather good at sitting with opposites, and learned that light and dark can, and indeed always do, coexist.

So we wanted to take a moment to recognize the other side of the story. In 2015, we saw grief and death and dying come out of the closet as never before, and saw loss inspire acts of remarkable generosity, empathy, and unity.  

"The plaintive voices of the dead call the living to action," writes NYT columnist Charles Blow. It was a year in which collective grief poured out on the streets. The attacks in Paris were met with candlelight memorials and peace vigils around the world, including a gathering of thousands in the very same neighborhood where several of the attackers lived. The Black Lives Matter movement forced presidential candidates to reckon on a public stage with America's legacy of racism, and in July, the Confederate flag flew for the last time at the South Carolina statehouse. At the funeral of state Senator and Rev. Clementa Pinckney, one of the nine people murdered at Emanuel AME church in Charleston, the President of the United States was joined by thousands of voices in singing "Amazing Grace".

It's a year that proved that, for all our hand-wringing about "death taboos," this is something that people really do want to talk about; we simply need better language and better spaces in which to do so. A TED Talk by Dinner Party friend/inspiration/all-around-badass BJ Miller, head of Zen Hospice Project, was viewed more than 2.5M times. In it, BJ talks about the difference between "necessary suffering"-- our common currency as human beings, "the very thing that unites caregiver and care receiver" -- and "suffering we can change," by designing better systems for end-of-life care. Artist and cancer survivor Emily McDowell's Empathy Cards went viral, giving platitude-laden Hallmark cards the boot, and supplying us with a thing to say on all the occasions when we don't know what to say. 2015 saw the death of "death panels": Starting January 1, Medicare will reimburse doctors and nurse practitioners for talking with patients about their end-of-life wishes. 

For us, 2015 was a game-changer. Two years ago, we set out on what some deemed a rather quixotic journey: to get 20- and 30-somethings to talk openly about loss and life after around potluck dinner tables, and to make it something people weren't embarrassed to share with their friends. In the last year, our tables grew 400%, to more than 100 worldwide, powered by 140+ hosts and a thousand Dinner Partiers. We were named the #1 "Thing That Can Really Help You While You're Grieving" on a BuzzFeed list, and covered on CNN, CBS LA, The Boston Globe, The Huffington Post, O Magazine, The New York Times, and more. 

In a remarkable interview with Vice President Joe Biden in September, The Late Show's Stephen Colbert used his second question to say, "I was hoping you could tell us a story about your son." The Vice President spoke of his son's life, and the moment Beau, battling end-stage cancer, said to him, "Promise me you’re going to be alright." The two went on to talk about faith, and parenting, and the experience of being both caregiver and receiver, and the act of getting up. "The people I find who I'm most drawn to are people who have been hurt," said Biden.  


In 2016, we promise to keep looking for the light. 

Posted on December 31, 2015 .

Help Us Grow the Table: Support The Dinner Party on Indiegogo

What a year. Since January 2015, we've grown by 400%, from a couple dozen tables to more than 100. We hired our first staff, and stopped living off our savings accounts. We found and trained 90 new hosts, and hand-matched more than 800+ people looking for a seat to nearby hosts, connecting people based not only on shared experience of loss, but on shared interests. We curated stories about what #LossIs and held dinners for 60+ in galleries and bookstores. We shared tips on how to be a better friend to those in need, and held a series of three-day host trainings, offering hosts a space for self-reflection and a chance to build key hosting skills, and to share what's working across tables. 

How? Because of people like you. To date, 65% of our funding has come from our first two crowdfunding campaigns.

Earlier this month, we launched our third annual Indiegogo campaign. Once again, we’re asking for your help

We’re looking ahead to what it will take to reach 1,000 tables, and are focused on developing the infrastructure, partner network, and revenue streams we need to sustain and scale. But we can’t do it without you.

With your help, we will:

  • Match would-be Dinner Partiers to tables in their neighborhood: Our goal is to hand-match every person who reaches out to a host in their area, or provide them with the tools to start a table of their own with folks they know.
  • Recruit, screen, & select train Dinner Party hosts: We look for people who want to be a part of the same community they're creating, and who are ready and able to be good space-holders for others around the table.
  • Hold four Host Trainings & Retreats across the US: Each year, we invite hosts to come together for a 3-day training and retreat, and a chance to reflect on their own “life after journeys,” exchange insights and best practices, and flex their hosting muscles in real-time.   
  • Break down taboos: Talking about loss on the internet generally sucks. It doesn’t have to. We're using public events, online tools, and storytelling to combat taboos, and to help those who have yet to undergo loss learn to be better friends or partners to those who have.

Thank you to everyone who's pitched in, whatever the form. Lend a hand, spread the word, and together, grow this table: 

Posted on December 18, 2015 .

The Things We Carry

Some people visit New York. Eva Silverman has made a ritual of it: One that’s now so central to her being that it’s almost unconscious. 

She passes by what was once a garment factory at the corner of Spring and Broadway in SoHo, where her grandmother worked at the age of fifteen. She wanders through the Lower East Side, through the streets in which she and her grandmother both came of age, decades apart: one going to punk rock shows, the other as an immigrant teenager in the 1920s. She’ll sometimes take the train to Bensonhurst in Brooklyn, where her parents grew up. On walks through the city, she’ll pass by the places where CBGB and Coney Island High once stood, and where she first saw The Ramones play, and Meow Mix, where she first performed onstage. Often, she’ll stay at the Carlton Arms Hotel, or otherwise stop in to say hello to the guys who work there and its resident cats. 

Eva lost her mom to breast cancer when she was ten. Her dad died in a car accident when she was 19. But of course, as with all of our stories, Eva’s doesn’t begin with her parents’ deaths. In fact, it begins long before she was born.  

Jerry Silverman was a mathematician and an amateur photographer: a hobby he began as a teenager growing up in Brooklyn. When he died, he left behind thousands of slides and negatives. 

In the winter of 2012, Eva served as the resident-artist of the Carlton Arms. She created a visual history of New York, through the lens of the three generations of her family that called it home. Calling the project “Mapping Roots: NYC,” she mapped out the places in time that had been important to three generations of her family, beginning with her grandmother’s arrival in 1920 from Poland. Using some of her dad’s photography from the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, she paired each dot on the map with a photo from “now” and “then”. Guests staying in Room 7C can still see it. Sure beats wallpaper. 

She makes a point to drop in on her native New Jersey. She crosses the George Washington Bridge, and takes the Wyckoff, NJ exit off the highway. It’s at that moment that she’s struck by a “visceral feeling of familiarity, of ‘This is where I belong.’” She recalls long car rides as a kid with her dad at the wheel, and how she’d always jerk awake at that exact spot as they approached home. She drives past the last farm in her hometown, taking note of whatever new developments weren’t there the time before. 

“There’s something about holding onto those roots and feeling them that’s essential to being able to create a home somewhere else,” she says. 

For the last thirteen years, that “somewhere else” has been Oakland, CA. 

Eva moved to her apartment sight unseen: Her best friend and her partner were living in the city, and they picked the place. 

Stepping through her front door is like stepping back in time, or better yet, through time. Everything, it seems, has a story: On her walls are two saws of her grandfather’s, a carpenter by trade. There’s the card from the hospital with the date and time in which she was born, with the words, “Baby Girl: Eva, Mother: Mona.” There’s the concert ticket from her first concert, and her first guitar. A photo of her parents taken in their early 20s hangs above her bedroom door. There’s a postcard from her dad, and a small painting that always hung in his office. 

In the kitchen hangs a framed collection of her mother’s recipes. A prolific baker, Eva is quick to point out that it’s an inherited trait. 

“There is something about seeing her handwriting and the care that went into each recipe card that makes me feel close to my mom,” she says. 

The granddaughter of immigrants, Eva has found a way to do what most of us struggle with: To integrate past and present through a smattering of objects, to discern what’s meaningful and what’s just stuff. 

“My family was really good at collecting,” she explains: A skill necessitated by having to pick and move, and months, sometimes years, spent in limbo as refugees. 

Eva's grandmother was ten when she, joined by her mom and baby sister and thousands of immigrants, arrived on the shores of Manhattan in 1920. Her father left Poland when she was just over a year old, and had been living in the country for nine years. The family settled in a three-room apartment in the Lower East Side. The front room was off limits to anyone but guests, and she and her sister slept on a foldout cot in the kitchen. 

Her grandfather also grew up in Poland, and first came to New York as a visitor in the mid-30s. It was during that visit that the two met. He returned to Poland, just as Hitler and the Third Reich were gaining steam. Eva's grandmother went back to Poland to see him, and there they married. They returned to the US, narrowly escaping the fate of most of his family members, who later died in concentration camps. 

The couple settled in Brooklyn, and gave birth to two sons. The younger of the two grew up to be Eva's father. 

Eva's mother was born in a displaced person's camp in Austria in 1947, also to Jewish parents from Poland. Her grandmother jumped off a moving train on its way to a concentration camp. She lost her two young daughters to the hands of the Nazis, and spent 14 months hiding in a small coffin-sized bunker in the woods. She reunited with Eva's grandfather, who had been captured by the Russian army, in the camp. The family made it out in 1951, and they, too, settled in Brooklyn. 

Eva still has their naturalization papers, and her grandmother's Shabbat candle sticks: One of the only things she was able to take with her.  

“They’re all these reminders of the people who are a part of my past, and who are with me in some ways.”

To Eva, home is people, living and dead. It is a collection of things and the stories behind them. It is not a place, but places. 

For those of us who are lucky enough to associate “home” with safety, it is a cradle we carry with us, a series of intertwining roots that explain where we came from and hence where we are today. It’s a place we can return to, even if Memory Lane is the only street still standing. 

To be welcomed is one-directional. To belong is a two-way relationship: alchemical and unpredictable, demanding our own exertion, and a satisfaction with our own skin. 

Ours is a nation of immigrants, for whom “home” has always been a creation story. When one home crumbles, or ceases to exist in physical form, it is up to us to be creators. 

Posted on October 20, 2015 .

Summer Reading List: The Upside of Stress

Detective novels not really your thing? How's this for a summer beach read: Stanford psychologist Dr. Kelly McGonigal's new book, The Upside of Stress

We'd been meaning to give it a read for several months now. Because, you see, we’re in it. (Yes, after years of witnessing the late night work sessions, hand-wringing, and coffee binges of start-up nonprofit life, our roommates think it’s pretty hilarious that we’re case studies for stress and its upside.) 

Stress has gotten a bad rap. Hating on it is a recipe for instant internet clickbait, whether in the form of Five Tips on How to Reduce Stress or news that it can kill you

As a health psychologist, McGonigal used to teach students about the toxicity of stress, believing that by naming its dangers, she could convince people to reduce it, and thus live longer, happier lives. Because many of the biggest sources of stress in our lives are unavoidable, however, she found her students weren’t getting less stressed out. They were simply feeling shitty about it. 

Then she came across a study that linked negative health outcomes not to stress itself, but to stress and the belief that stress was harmful. She wondered: By harping on about the dangers of stress, were we creating a self-fulfilling prophecy? 

The answer, as she uncovers in her book, is: Yes. Rather than focus on reducing stress in our lives, we need to rethink our relationship to it.  

That starts with our definition: McGonigal defines stress simply as “what arises when something you care about is at stake.” It encompasses our reactions to a deadline, or to public speaking, or to running late for a date, as well as the experience of caregiving, or of losing someone we love. Because we only stress about the things we care about, “stress and meaning are inextricably linked,” she says. 

Consider the words “stress response” and most of us immediately think of "fight or flight": racing heart, quickened breathing, and a surge of adrenaline--a vestige of our Cro-Magnon ancestry, that once upon a time allowed us to escape from a rampaging mastodon. 

But in reality, says McGonigal, "fight or flight" is only one of several stress responses we as humans are wired for (and even that one serves a modern purpose). Ever wonder why, in a crisis, you feel the need to do something? Turns out the answer isn't just about love, but biology, and what scientists call a "tend-and-befriend response". Our bodies release a surge of oxytocin, which reduces our brain's fear response and motivates us to protect the people and communities we care about. 

With us so far? Now things are about to get trippy. McGonigal draws on the science of mindsets, and the growing body of evidence that changing how we think about something can improve our health, happiness, and success--permanently. She cites studies that show that when our perceptions change, our bodies’ responses change. “Viewing stress as helpful created a different biological reality” (10). Read that again. Woah, right? 

The book is well worth the read, and no, we're not just saying that because we're in it. So grab ye old beach umbrella, postpone your Wet Hot American Summer binge for another day, and prepare for some serious mindset-shifting.

A few key takeaways to whet your appetite: 

1. We're better together. One of the biggest sources of resilience has to do with what psychologists (and, um, non-psychologists, too) call “common humanity”: the degree to which you see your struggles as part of the human experience. The truth is that everyone has a story, whether it’s of losing someone they love, or watching someone they love go through it. By keeping our stories private, we inadvertently ask others to do the same. We assume that others’ lives are exactly as they appear on Instagram, filters and all. "To feel less lonely in your stress, two things help: the first is to increase your awareness of other people's suffering. The second is to be more open about yours" (167). 

2. Both and. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, the phoenix and the ashes, wildflowers in cracked sidewalks: The idea that trauma and resilience are linked is now the stuff of Pinterest boards and Hallmark cards, those great modern canons of cliches. We're pretty big fans of the good life, but still, it's an idea that makes us wary: signs of our thirst for happy endings and our inability to sit with suffering, masquerading as an insistence to look on the bright side of life. 

In unpacking the science of post-traumatic growth, McGonigal addresses that concern head-on: "The science of post-traumatic growth doesn't say that there is anything inherently good about suffering," she says. "Nor does it say that every traumatic event leads to growth. When any good comes from suffering, the source of that growth resides in you -- your strengths, your values, and how you choose to respond to adversity. It does not belong to the trauma" (201). 

It's not that suffering is inherently ennobling. What's more, studies have shown that the ability to name both good and bad is associated with better outcomes than focusing exclusively on the upside. She cites studies that show that the "severity of post-traumatic distress positively predicts the degree of post-dramatic growth" (199).  Here again, our mindset matters: "seeing the upside of adversity changes the way we cope" (203). And did we mention the chapter features LA Dinner Partier Jennifer White, creator of Hope After Project, to illustrate the point? Get it, girl. 

3. Tend-and-befriend. It would make sense that, when under fire, our instinct would be to self-protect: to guard our resources, to pay attention to our own needs first. Not so. Our tend-and-befriend response activates three systems of our brains: The oxytocin-fueled “social caregiving system,” which leads to increased empathy, connection, and trust, and a desire for connection; the “reward system,” which releases the neurotransmitter dopamine, and increases our sense of optimism and confidence in our ability to do something meaningful; and the “attunement system,” driven by serotonin, which increases our perceptiveness, so that we can better understand what’s needed and act accordingly. 

“When we care for others, it changes our biochemistry, activating systems of the brain that produce feelings of hope and courage,” writes McGonigal. “Helping others also protects against the harmful effects of even chronic or traumatic stress” (137). 

That can come at a cost, of course: We prefer to be the helper than the helped, so it can be hard to ask for what we need. But when you see a friend who’s just lost someone he loves, and he goes immediately into “action mode,” don’t immediately pin it on denial or avoidance: This is what coping looks like, too. 

Can't find what you need? Create it. "One of the most helpful mindset shifts you can make is to view yourself as the source of whatever support you want to experience," writes McGonigal, describing The Dinner Party. We'll cheers to that. 

Our Top Mother's Day Reads

Mama Bear, 2003

Mama Bear, 2003

The first Mother's Day fell on my college graduation day. The speaker asked everyone to rise in celebration of the moms who were gathered on one side of the stadium. I fidgeted for a second, no longer sure of my place in that collective ritual, feeling like I'd suddenly been thrust into an imaginary spotlight, every eye on me, betting on my next move. I distinctly remember my friend, Anna, grabbing my hand and lifting me out of my seat, and the surge of pride and defiance at the realization that yes, I, too, still had a mom to celebrate, even if I couldn't give her a wave. 

It was a year later that I began to notice for the first time that Mother's Day isn't a really a day at all, but a two-month window in which every promotional email and every storefront reminds you of all the things you should buy Mom to show you care. Had it always been that way, I wondered? It's something that you never pay attention to, unless you can't not. 

And now, I realize I've hit a new milestone: The year I almost forgot Mother's Day. I now delete the emails without a second's pause, my eyes no longer linger on the announcements for "Mother's Day Brunch" and the advertisements in nail salons. I was vaguely aware that it was sometime in May, but I thought we had weeks to go. 

I still haven't decided what I'll do. Some years, we've hosted brunches, or held picnics in parks. Most years have passed forgettably: Notable only for the inevitable sigh of relief that came when it was over. We're big fans of #OccupyMothersDay, organized by our friends at Modern Loss, and their vows to have the day Mom would want you to have: "to kick Mother’s Day in the ass and then make out with it" (er, my mom might have phrased it differently, but hey).  

In the end, the same rule applies on Mother's Day as every other day: Whatever you do, do you. 

For inspiration, check out our top Mother's Day reads: 

  1. The Unmothered, Ruth Margalit 
    Borrowing a phrase from Meghan O'Rourke, Margalit explores what it means to be unmothered, not motherless: shaped by the women whose whose faces we occasionally glimpse in a mirror, whose words float back at the most unexpected triggers. The way that time both heals and creates its own ache, driving us farther and farther apart from the people we’ve lost. The way we continue on, and the lingering glow of those we carry with us.
  2. Unmothered, on Mother's Day, Meghan O'Rourke
    Speaking of Meghan: In this fab piece for Slate a few years back, O'Rourke talks about her changed relationship with the Hallmark holiday her mother hated.
  3. Mother's Day, and the Myth of Indispensability, Vu Le  
    Terrific read from Vu Le, the blogger behind Nonprofit With Balls. It's written for folks in the nonprofit world, but it's fair to say it applies to us all. He talks about the way in which we "don't just lose someone just once, but multiple times" as old memories blur, and the "myth of indispensability" that keeps us from spending time with the people we love, and remembering to hold on to that which is truly indispensable while we have the chance.  
  4. Mother's Day Rituals, Millennial Style, Ruby Dutcher 
    Modern Loss intern Ruby Dutcher, a senior at Barnard, penned this stunning piece on preparing (gleefully) to lash out on Mother's Day, only to be let down when the day proved to be all too ordinary. Rather than wallow, she summoned her friends for a "Mother's Day Ritual" in the park, involving her mom's go-to Tootsie Rolls, and a chance to share stories about the mothers, living or dead, who raised them. 
A Mother's Day brunch we held in 2011. The first time I remember the day not sucking. 

A Mother's Day brunch we held in 2011. The first time I remember the day not sucking. 

Dinner Partier Spotlight: Meet Ben Kander, Founder of WELLY Bottle

Everyone loves a good lightning-bolt moment: The sudden flash of insight that leads to the birth of an idea, and eventually, in the secret (or not-so-secret) imaginings of every hell-bent entrepreneur, to the next Apple, or Patagonia, or spork.

On Monday, Ben Kander launched a Kickstarter campaign to fund the first production run of the WELLY Bottle, a sleek new water bottle that’s both good for the consumer or user (your call), and good for the planet.

Maybe the story begins when Ben, armed with a degree in sustainable business, picked up Start Something That Matters. Or maybe when he learned about the toxic fumes generated by the manufacturing of most water bottles, or the fact that more than 80% of water bottles end up in landfills. Maybe it began while he was working in London, and found himself wishing for a water bottle that could fit in his backpocket. But really, it’s a story that begins with Cancer Be Glammed, and Steeltown Entertainment, and the 21 years Ben spent learning from his mom, Ellen (“Elly”) Kander.

Elly was a pillar of the Jewish and philanthropic communities of Pittsburgh. In 2009, she and a friend, Lisa, who had breast cancer, founded Cancer Be Glammed, to help women recover their self-esteem and feel stylish, amidst the debilitating effects of chemo and radiation treatments and constant onslaught of pity faces. Years earlier, she co-founded Steeltown Entertainment, a nonprofit responsible for bringing millions of dollars of revenue to Pittsburgh, by revitalizing the city’s film and television industry.

The oldest of three siblings, Ben was a senior in college when, in 2012, Elly was diagnosed with liver cancer. A lesion found years before was never checked, until it was too late. She died a year later, just after he graduated.

Shortly afterward, he moved to NYC and started working a standard 9-5 job. It was there that he began incubating the idea for WELLY.

Along the way, he discovered TDP. His fiance introduced him to a good friend of hers, Kevin, who co-hosted the first Dinner Party table in Brooklyn.

He was hesitant at first: He’d tried grief groups in the past, and always left the experience feeling worse than when he’d arrived. When he got to Kevin's, he found something very different. For the first hour so, they simply ate and hung out, as you would with any group of friends. By the time loss was mentioned, everyone was already comfortable with one another.

“I felt so at home,” he says. “My friends would always say, 'I'm here for you whenever you want to talk.' They can listen, but they can't really add. There, we were laughing, there was a lightness to it.”

“Every time I’ve left, I’ve felt a sigh of relief, like I removed this set of toxins. Yeah, we get emotional, yeah, we get sad, but every time afterward, I feel better and that's such a blessing.”

It’s that same ying and yang effect--the good, born of the bad--he says, that’s become a familiar part of starting a company, and everything that’s happened since his mom passed.

Early on, he cried every time he got in the shower. “I've learned that when something traumatic happens to you, you can't fight it. As kids, you numb yourself and you don't take it on, and a lot of times that comes back to you in a negative way.”

The sadness never goes away, he says. But today, he is, in equal measure, fueled by his mom’s legacy.

Inspired by his mom’s commitment to living well and giving back, Ben has built wellness and sustainability into every aspect of the WELLY bottle, from the bamboo and renewable resources that go into its production, to the filtration system, that purifies the water as you drink it using coconut shells. For every WELLY bottle sold, $1 will go to charity: water, supporting sustainable water projects around the world.

“I do it for her, and I do it with her,” says Ben. “When you have a tough decision to make, you hear this voice in your head telling you what you need to do, even if you don't want to do it. For me, that voice is my mom's, telling me everything she's taught me all my life.”

“Listen to that voice. Let it guide you,” he says. “And I think I have.”


Posted on May 8, 2015 and filed under Rituals.

RITUAL: MAKING MUSIC -- For The Living And The Dead

For the Yoruba in Nigeria, funerals are week-long affairs, intended as a celebratory send- off as the deceased transition from one form of existence to another. The fourth day is a “day of play” called Irenoku, meaning literally “playing on the deceased’s behalf,” and is preceded and followed by various other forms of celebration, from feasting to dancing. That tradition is one of several influences behind the “jazz funerals” of New Orleans, a city made famous in part by its inhabitants’ unparalleled ability to throw a good party. A typical jazz funeral begins with a march by family, friends, and a brass band, and typically starts with a somber tone. Once the burial is complete and final goodbyes are said, however, the music hits a different note. Hymns are replaced with upbeat tunes and popular hits, and participants are invited to dance their hearts out, in an act that’s part-cathartic and part-chance to celebrate the life of the deceased.

When was the last time you lost yourself to music?

Kevin's Story

I’ve been playing music since I was a little kid. I started singing into a turkey baster when I could barely walk, and then moved to the piano at around seven years old. Music has been with me ever since, and has culminated in the completion of my first EP. Every song, guitar string, and saxophone blow has been as result of my mom’s dedication.

My mom wasn’t exactly a musical connoisseur, and I barely remember her ever introducing me to good music, but that didn’t stop her from encouraging me to pursue my passion. She bought
me my first piano and saxophone, and made sure I stuck with my practice. At every recital, audition, and performance, she was right in front doing what moms do— embarrassing me mostly, but cheering me on nonetheless.

When my mom met my stepdad, he jumped on the Kevin music wagon just as intensely as my mother did. So many great nights were spent at home, me strumming on my guitar and my stepdad clogging away. He was Irish after all, and I guess the music spoke to him, even if I was playing rock music and not an Irish jingle.

When I lost my mom and stepdad in a plane crash, I immediately flew back to North Carolina. I brought a quickly packed bag, and a slowly packed guitar case. I knew all I needed were the clothes on my back and my six-string. I wrote a song the day before their memorial service, played it before a huge crowd of friends and family, and recorded it for my EP. It’s called “Denny’s Song,” and you can listen to it on my website, When I need to remind myself how proud my parents were of me, or just feel that connection to their spirit, I pick up my guitar, and start singing.

RECIPE: Eggplant Creole 


Posted on April 1, 2015 and filed under Rituals, Recipes + Rituals, Recipes.

RITUAL: NOURISHING — Because We Are What We Eat

We are what we eat, so the saying goes. It’s no secret that how we feel often determines what we eat. What’s less known is that what we eat determines what we feel — and we’re not just talking about stomach aches and hangovers. When experiencing loss, our brains often produce more CRH, a hormone that produces anxiety-like symptoms. Increased stress stimulates the central nervous system, which can affect everything from our breathing to our sleep patterns. Our digestion, metabolism, circulation and respiration change. Our ability to concentrate and pay attention decreases. We’re left awash in casseroles and baked goods, yet lack the appetite and energy required to pick up a fork.

Fortunately, there are certain foods that feed both mind and body, and can help to combat feelings of anxiety, fatigue, irritability, and even depression. With the help of our friends at Peace Meals, we’ve pulled together a few tips on finding foods that are chock-full of the kind of vitamins you need to add a spring to your step.

And don’t forget: nourishing ourselves is not just about what you eat, but whom you eat it with, and the care that went into making it. 

So just as you’d pair the right fish with the right wine (see Wine Pairings), try pairing foods according to your mood. Go ahead: Eat, drink, and make thyself merry.

Have a glass of milk, or a fistful of kale. Calcium, the common ingredient in both, acts as a natural tranquilizer. Indeed, calcium deficiencies are common among people who are highly stressed. Supplement that with B vitamins, which help to maintain a healthy nervous system. Pay particular
heed to B1 (Thiamine), found in asparagus, spinach, green peas, and brussels sprouts, B5 (Pantothenic acid, known as the most potent anti- stress vitamin), found in mushrooms, cauliflower, sunflower seeds, and broccoli, and B6, found in leafy greens, tuna, bananas, poultry, and liver.

Constant tiredness can come with poor memory, difficulty concentrating, muscle aches, and loss of appetite, to name but a few symptoms. Try adding more iron to your diet, which combats anemia. You can find it in animal proteins, like red meats, oysters, clams, and poultry, as well as quinoa, dried figs, prunes, chard, spinach, thyme, and turmeric. Also recommended: lean proteins, found in lentils, nuts, red meats, fish, and beans, & Vitamin C, which is necessary for iron absorption, and may increase energy as well. Swig a glass of OJ, and take a bite (or several) of broccoli, bell peppers, kale, strawberries and raspberries, citrus fruits, mustard and turnip greens, fennel, or parsley. And there’s more: choline, an amino acid which increases acetylcholine in the body—which in turn strengthens brain cells—can be found in egg yolks, soybeans, peanuts, potatoes, cauliflower, flax seeds, lentils, and oats. Lecithin, found in liver, kidneys, egg yolks, and soy, is known to promote energy and enhance immunity, and malic acid, found in pineapples, apples, cherries, lemons, and raspberries, can aid energy production in cells, including muscle cells. It’s also key for sugar metabolism. Last but not least, Vitamin B12 (found in red meats, sardines, snapper, and almonds) is a natural energy booster: pair it with B6, which helps its absorption.

While eating the right foods alone won’t cure clinical depression, they can help to lift one’s mood. Essential fatty acids—including the Omega-3s found in fatty fish, flaxseeds, and nuts, and the alpha- linolenic acid found in dark green leafy vegetables, walnuts, soybean oil, canola oil, and flaxseeds—affect the transmission of nerve impulses needed for normal brain function. Tryptophan is an amino acid which helps synthesize serotonin, a “feel- good” neurochemical shown to reduce anxiety and depression. You’ll find it in turkey, red meat, dairy products, nuts, seeds, bananas, soy products, tuna, and shellfish. Proteins found in beans, fish, beef, poultry, dairy and soy products contain tyrosine, another amino acid, which stimulates dopamine and norepinephrine. Both may boost energy and mental clarity. Folate
and folic acid aid in red blood cell development and circulation, as well as normal neurological function, and may help to prevent depression and irritability. Score it via egg yolks, legumes, lentils, dark green veggies, asparagus, parsley, cauliflower, and beets. Finally, take yourself out for
a stroll: the Vitamin D in sunlight helps in the absorption of calcium and stimulates the production
of cortisol, which can increase energy levels. And there are those B Vitamins again. (Things to avoid: gluten, which has been linked to depressive disorders in those who don’t tolerate the protein, aspartame, which may block the formation of serotonin, refined sugars, alcohol, and caffeine.)

Chances are you could use more calcium and magnesium, which helps with calcium absorption. Magnesium can be found in leafy greens (especially swiss chard, spinach, mustard, kale, dandelion, arugula, & collards), summer squash, broccoli, black-eyed peas, kidney & lima beans, avocado, bananas, peanuts, and almonds. Potassium is a good one, as it’s essential for proper functioning of adrenal glands and muscles: find it in fennel, kale, mustard greens, brussels sprouts, broccoli, winter squash, eggplant, cantaloupe, and tomatoes. And as with depression, tryptophan and folate/folic acid, aren’t a bad idea.

How are you feeding yourself?

RITUAL: WHEN GRIEF GETS PHYSICAL: Eat for the Mood You Want (Jill's Story)

RECIPE: Magic Mineral Broth & Carrot Ginger Soup 


Posted on April 1, 2015 and filed under Recipes, Recipes + Rituals, Rituals.