This Post Contains Dead Parent Energy
On writing about dead parents when your parents are still alive. Plus, a note from a special guest...
You know how in the Barbie movie Ken says “my job…it’s just beach”? Well, in 2023, my job was just books.
I wasn’t an author—not yet. I was working as a ghostwriter and book coach while simultaneously querying my first novel. All books, all the time! And while I loved writing my first book, I adored helping other people tell their stories. Ghostwriting and book coaching is the perfect job for a people-pleaser like me; nothing pleases people quite like making them feel like their stories really matter.
It is a core belief of mine that everyone has a story that matters. My particular brand of storytelling was shaped by the work of Studs Turkel and Steve Hartman, journalists who told the extraordinary stories of ordinary people. As a ghostwriter and book coach, I worked with celebrities, CEOs, and olympic gold medalists, but it was always the “ordinary” clients who had the biggest impact on me. Their stories are the ones that have broken me down and built me up again, the way a muscle tears and builds back stronger.
In 2023, I received a coaching inquiry from one of these “ordinary” people—an old middle school acquaintance who was looking to write a book that I would go on to describe as “What to Expect When You’re Expecting Your Parents to Die.” I was intrigued by the premise, but even more compelled by her writing, which was funny and devastating and packed with information about the logistics of death. At the time, I was at capacity with coaching clients, but I knew deep in my gut that I would have to make an exception and find the time to work with this person; what I didn’t know is that she would fundamentally change my career and my life.
“How do we hold both grief and joy in our tiny, incapable hands? How do we continue to go about living when a person who felt like a permanent fixture suddenly doesn’t exist?”
We’d been working together for just a few months when I sold my first novel and started writing my second. Not ten pages into drafting the book that would become For the Bride, I discovered that parts of my middle school acquaintance’s story—how she found love while simultaneously losing her mother to cancer—simply wouldn’t leave me alone. I texted my client, asking permission to let her story inspire parts of mine. Graciously, she gave me the go-ahead, and I kept writing.
A week later, one of my best friends, Luxianna, was hit by the grief train, unexpectedly losing her father, and thanks to my client’s work-in-progress, I knew just what to do. Her writing advised me that the best thing you can do when someone loses a loved one is whatever it is you do best. If you mow lawns, mow their lawn. If you cook, cook them meals. What I do best is show up, show love, and try to make people laugh, so that’s what I did. I drove two hours south to the Kankakee Boat Club to attend my friend’s father’s celebration of life, and Luxianna and I took pictures with the funny boat house signs. We found a way to laugh amidst the darkness.
With so much Dead Parent Energy™ kicking off my writing process, it’s no surprise that Alice, the lead character in For the Bride, is grieving the loss of her father while trying to show up as a bridesmaid. I had my hesitations about writing a dead parent book—both of my parents are still alive, praise God—but when yet another friend lost his father that winter, my certainty about the project was cemented. This book was my ticket to understanding my friends’ pain and loving them better. If the assignment when someone loses a loved one is to do whatever it is that I do best, I suppose what I really do best is write. So I wrote. And wrote. And cried. And wrote and cried some more.
If I may be both candid and vague, the past few years of my life have been painful. I’ve experienced some truly horrific things that have thrust me into difficult types of grief, the kind that has you seeking community in extremely niche subreddits. Some things are too personal for Substack, believe it or not, but what I can share is that writing For the Bride was my way of getting through the horrors while trying to understand how anyone survives these things. How do we hold both grief and joy in our tiny, incapable hands? How do we continue to go about living when a person who felt like a permanent fixture suddenly doesn’t exist?
I found some answers while writing For the Bride. I found a lot of pain, too, the sorts of pain that I truly thought would destroy me. But I also found a deep, life-changing friendship with the woman who was once just a middle school acquaintance. She’s one of the people For the Bride is dedicated to. (The other is her wife, for what it’s worth).
Last week, For the Bride was released to the world. This week, it landed on the USA Today Bestseller list, meaning I have graduated from bestselling ghostwriter to bestselling author (please clap). But the book wouldn’t exist—not in its current iteration anyway—without what I learned from a lesbian lawyer with a dead mom and a deranged sense of humor.
Friends, I’d like to introduce you to Laura Skaar.
I could write about Laura for a worryingly long time. I did, in fact, write an entire novel inspired by her. But it was her writing that sold me on working with Laura in the first place, so if I may pass the metaphorical mic, I’d like to let my middle-school-acquaintance-turned-life-changing-friend do the talking.
FROM THE DESK OF LAURA
June 10, 2026
For a year and a half, since I first read the book that would one day grow up to be For the Bride, I’ve been trying and failing to find the words to say what it’s meant to me. Now that I have, it seems I may have found too many.
Becca and I met through mutual friends when I was 12. The first thing I remember about her was the rumor I heard at my lunch table in seventh grade: “Becca Grischow is bisexual.” I wasn’t all that clear on what “bisexual” even was, but based on what I knew of Becca, it seemed like something she might be—and it was. Without access to the lunch table rumor mill, we later followed each other’s lives via Instagram; one of us became internet famous for being hot and talented, and the other became a lawyer. Even though Becca and I never knew each other all that well growing up, or had all that much in common, ever since I was a kid I remember having this feeling that there was something really special about this person. And man, ain’t it great being right?
My mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when I was a junior in high school. She died five years ago, when I was 27, and it changed everything. It’s surreal to think about how different my life was before losing my mom. It was exactly five years ago today that I woke up, for the first time in my entire life, to a day that my mom would never be in. I felt so lost without her. There were all these things I didn’t know how to do—things I was pretty sure my mom was supposed to help me with (okay, fine…do for me)—like planning a funeral. And with every day that passed, the list of things I wanted to tell her grew longer and longer; so long I started to worry I’d forget. Until the night before her funeral, when I opened a blank page in my notes app and started to write them all down.
June 18, 2021
Hi Mom,
I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without talking to you. I miss you so much it hurts. When are you coming back?
I hope you’re not as sad as I am, Mom. But I’ll be okay, I promise.
Love,
Laura
Losing my mom was an incredibly isolating experience. My world had been turned upside down overnight, and other than my wife, Lauren, nearly everyone I loved—my wonderful friends and family—seemed to prefer that I pretend nothing was wrong. As Alice puts it so plainly in the book: “how cringe, for my mom to die.” So I learned to just shut up, put on a happy face, and pretend it wasn’t the only thing on my mind. But it still was, and for good reason: talking helps our brains process and integrate things into our world. That means we literally heal faster and better when we talk about our grief with others. Unfortunately, as I quickly found out, people would sooner staple their own ears shut than hear the mere mention of your dead mom!
And sure, at times that really hurt. But mostly I hated the idea that those same people—the people I love—would someday lose someone and go through this experience too. I didn’t want them to feel the same loneliness I did. So I spent a lot of time wondering what I could do to make things a little easier for them. I figured if I could find a way to make people understand how it really felt to lose someone, then surely they’d care. And if they cared, then surely they’d show up for the people they love when it matters most, rain or shine. The tricky part is: how could I get people to care, or even to listen, before they immediately reached for the stapler? I certainly wasn’t having any luck with that so far.
I had a hunch, though, that people actually are curious about death and grief… They just don’t want to have to suffer through an uncomfortable conversation to find out. We live in The Age of Knowing Things; lots of my friends like to choose what they’ll order from a restaurant 5-7 business days before ever setting foot inside. Am I to believe these sweet Nervous Nellies are somehow totally cool with flying blind into something as significant as losing a loved one? I don’t think so. But aside from perusing Reddit posts from 2014 and the occasional morbid late-night Google search as a treat, what other choice do we have? Having scoured the internet high and low, I feel qualified to tell you: there’s plenty of platitudes and worst-case scenarios out there, but there’s just not much about the ordinary losses of ordinary people like you and me.
So I decided to write a book about what it’s actually like to lose a parent—not for the people like me, who already had, but for everybody else who hadn’t yet. To give the Nervous Nellies I loved (and all the others like them) a true glimpse into the experience and why it matters, from a safe enough distance to listen without fear of cringe. I wasn’t sure if anyone would want to read something like that, but if it could make things a little easier for someone, I was willing to try. So about a year after my mom died, I did what Hemingway and Tolstoy surely did before me: I took to Instagram, where my middle school acquaintance—bisexual internet phenom and writer extraordinaire Becca Grischow—was running a book coaching business. As you might expect, given the company I keep, I needed to stew on this plan for 5-7 business months before placing my order. But on a Friday afternoon in December, I finally emailed Becca and asked if she’d be my book coach, and she said yes.
Everything seemed to happen very quickly after that. One minute Polished Professional Becca was in my inbox, and the next, Hurricane Grischow was making landfall in my house—jeans ripped to the gods, caffeinated at ten times the legal limit, sitting practically in my lap for some reason, waving her arms and yelling about how much she believed in my idea. She was exactly the same Becca I remembered from middle school, but with way better makeup and somehow even cooler. Thoughtful and loud and funny and talented and genuine… and loud. Everything all at once.
For many months after that, I spent every free moment writing about losing my mom and what it all meant, and Becca read every last word. There were so many times I wanted to give up, but every single time Becca was there to remind me: No. You have to keep going. This matters. (And to Becca and my Uncle Steve and Aunt Mary, who continue to ask: yes, I still will finish that book someday.) But I tell you this to say that I always knew Becca believed this message mattered, but I think maybe I never realized how much.
Until a year and a half ago, when I first read Alice’s story.
Hey Dad,
Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written to you. It’s been kind of a weird night, and I don’t know that I really have anything good to say, but I just really miss you…
Sometimes I want everything to stop because you’re gone. No one can take your place, Dad.
Love,
Your Dallas Alice
And then…I knew.
What means the most to me isn’t seeing my name in this book, or even having a story out there in the world that sounds a little bit like mine. It’s the fact that Becca cared enough to truly listen to what I had to say about losing my mom and everything that came after; not just as my book coach, but as my friend. It’s the fact that she took the time to understand and really feel it with me. I know that for sure, because there’s no other way Becca could have created Alice—snarky, brilliant, broken, brave, hopeful Dallas Alice—if she didn’t truly understand how profoundly it shapes our world when we lose someone who felt like our gravity. Alice, who is strong enough to say: yes, my dad is gone and that’s the way it is, but also, the way it is sucks.
Alice, who is brave enough to allow joy and hope to exist alongside her pain. Who has survived the storm and is willing to let the sunshine in again; first, for the people she loves, and then for herself, too. Who refuses to choose between being the living legacy of the leader of the band; and a friend, a musician, a bridesmaid, a daughter, a situationship, and all the other versions of herself she’s been and is still becoming. Who has loved and lost, and is ready to try again. It might be easier to put people into neat little boxes and see them as only one thing, but like Renee, we contain multitudes. Like Alice, we are more than just our pain. And like Becca, we are everything all at once.
For the Bride is a romance novel, and it’s a wonderful, sparkly, sweet, and fun one at that. (Now don’t get me wrong, you will never hear me knock romance novels; they are, in fact, the only books I am willing to read.) And although I’d do things I’m not proud of to be reading For the Bride on a beach right now, it’s really no “beach read” in the traditional sense. And that is because Becca took a story that would’ve been fabulous all on its own and carefully wove something big and painful and important and real into it—because she believed in it that much. Because she was willing to sit with me in my mess and joy and grief, and just… listen.
If you’ve heard Becca talk about the characters in For the Bride, it’s possible my name may have come up. But when you read Alice’s story, you should know that Alice is not me. There’s no doubt that Alice and I have walked some of the same paths. We’ve shared some of the same hurts and the same hopes. Some of our jokes even have the same punchlines. Alice and I would certainly have a lot to talk about, and she’s healed a piece of my heart I didn’t know was still broken. But even still, Alice’s heart is not mine…It’s Becca’s. That is what means the most to me about this book, and that’s exactly the kind of friend Becca is. The kind of friend who will embrace you in full, vibrant color, and will celebrate you in all your multitudes. Who will put down the stapler and listen, even when it might be hard to hear. Who will walk with you rain or shine, in impractical footwear, just to keep you company. The kind of friend we all need, and the kind we should all hope to be.
So when I look at Alice, I don’t see myself… I see Becca. I see how she has spilled her heart onto every page of this story, and in it, I see that she’s collected these pieces of me—light and dark, my joys and my sorrows—and has been carrying them with her all along. I see that she truly listened to me. I see that it mattered to her. I see that it changed her. And for perhaps the first time, I have seen clearly what can happen when we’re brave enough to witness someone else’s pain, even when it means sharing some of it with them. It would be hard to feel deserving of that kind of friendship, but as Gin reminds Alice in this book, “grace isn’t something you earn. You just give it out to the people you love and hope you get a little bit back.” That grace is what I prayed for throughout my grief journey, and lost hope I’d ever find. But like Alice, grace found me unexpectedly somewhere along the way, in my friend Becca.
January 13, 2025
Hi Mom,
Me again. Thought I’d let you know Becca mentioned us in her book. How about that?
I bet you really would’ve loved Becca. I can just picture the two of you sitting at the kitchen table and squawking about this or that. And Becca laughing her big laugh, and being like MARY!!! because you’d probably said something mean or offensive that you shouldn’t have said, but it was funny. Gee, I wonder where I got that from.
Love,
Laura
There are a lot of bullshit condolence cards out there that would like to tell you otherwise, but my mom isn’t “in a better place” (nope, she is in a grave), and not everything happens for a reason. For five years I’ve refused to “make lemonade” out of this loss, because wouldn’t that make my dead mom… lemons? (Hmm… All of a sudden, I’m not feeling that thirsty.) But as Alice says, all things ever do is change, and I am no exception. Even after all this time, sometimes I still worry because my mom doesn’t know my new address. She doesn’t know I have gray hair now, although that’s actually fine because she would’ve been a real bitch about it. She never got to meet some of the people I love most today—Mallory or Brooke or Becca or John or Russell or Corinne or Rorick or Ruby—and I know how much she would’ve loved them too. If I’d never lost my mom, I’d still have gray hair and a new address, but there’s no doubt my life would be different today. If I’d never lost my mom, I wouldn’t have some of these people I love most. If I’d never lost my mom, I wouldn’t know it was possible to make this experience a little less lonely for the people I love. See, the thing is… My mom would have loved this book, and she would have loved Becca even more... I’m still not thirsty, but I worry that’s starting to taste a little bit like lemonade. So here I am, five years later, so very far from where I once thought I’d be. With many miles behind me, and so many left to go. Still the same, but forever changed. Everything all at once.
I’m going to paraphrase from the beloved children’s book The Velveteen Rabbit now, but I need you to be super cool about it, because one of the characters is apparently called “The Skin Horse.” This is a serious essay, and we simply do not have time to unpack all that, but just know that I am thinking it too. Ready?
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When someone loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt to be Real?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “But when you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt. It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your fur has been loved off. But these things don’t matter at all, because you are Real.”
I know how much Becca endured to transform this story into something so Real. I know it hurt more than she ever expected, and I won’t forget how my heart ached watching my friend struggle. Becca is not the same person she was on the day she sat down to write For the Bride, but neither was Alice, and neither am I. Neither are any of us.
Alice said that all things ever do is change, and she’s right. We might fear it—sometimes even hate it—but change is also what makes us Real. Change isn’t glamorous when it means having our fur loved off. Change shapes us, like a river cutting rock into a canyon. Change can be a thief, yet it’s also our reason to hope. In all its forms, change is ever a promise: that even on our hardest days, the sun will still rise tomorrow, and we will try again; and the people who matter will be there in puffy painted shirts, cheering us on. From our highest highs to our lowest lows, through the lightness and the dark, our joys and our sorrows, and all that we might find in between... Everything, all at once.
May 31, 2026
Hi Mom,
Guess who?
I can’t believe it’s been almost 5 years since we last talked. A lot has changed, hasn’t it? I wish it would slow down a little. Is there a form I need to fill out for that?
I’m growing up. My neck hurts. The Blue Goose is gone, and Jenna’s back—I know you always liked her. My teeth are straight now, I bet that would really bug you. Things are hard, but they’re also good. Oh, and my friends talk about you, Mom—even the ones who never knew you. I think that’s pretty cool.
I wanted to tell you that Becca’s book comes out this week. I think it’s incredible, and I know you would too. And we’re in it! Pretty cool, huh? She made you a rock star… How flattering for you. You’re not like Ricky though—it’s not your fault you’re dead. You’re definitely not as cool as him either. Sorry.
But I’m like Alice. I found my way, didn’t I?
I miss you more every day, Mom. 5 years is a long time. I might look older now, but I know you know me still.
I hope you have a good Monday. Come back soon, okay?
Love,
Laura
I will be forever grateful to Becca for walking with me, for listening, for believing, and for really seeing me; but most of all, for being my friend. For her, I’d do it all twice. It has been one of the greatest honors of my life to watch as she has created and been changed by Alice’s story, and to be there in my puffy painted shirt, cheering her on as she shares For the Bride with the world. Take good care of it, please.
And most of all, when the people you love need you most, I hope that you will be their Becca.
Friendship is so powerful!!
this was so beautiful, laura’s section made me cry. forever in awe of how healing your books are for so many people 💕