“The Show Must Go On”

Performance After Loss: Everyday Life Unscripted

Over the holidays, my kids pulled me into a game on their phones I’d never played before called “Imposter.” The premise is simple: everyone gets the same secret word, except one person—the imposter—who doesn’t know what the word is. Each player tosses out clues, trying to figure out who’s faking it.

As they explained the rules, I had to laugh. The name of the game sums up how I’ve felt since my husband Matt died a year and a half ago. Most days, it’s as if I’m stumbling through life as an undercover imposter, hoping no one notices when I fumble my lines.

Grief has a strange way of making you feel like you’re starring in someone else’s movie with no script. One minute, I’m drowning in a flood of sadness, barely keeping my head above water. The next, I’m fueled by adrenaline, checking boxes, putting on a smile and hustling to “act normal”—as if I’m delivering an Oscar-worthy performance for everyone watching.

This instinct to put on a brave face isn’t just for the kids, or because Matt would want me to be happy (which he absolutely would). It’s because sometimes pretending is the only way forward. And what’s surprising is that sometimes pretending actually feels pretty great. There’s a weird freedom in stepping into the “old” version of myself, if only for a moment.

Ironically, Matt knew something about this too. During his cancer journey, he’d light up telling me about a conversation with someone who had no idea he was sick. For a little while, he could just be Matt. No pitying glances, no hushed tones, no “how are you feeling?” He could drop the role of “patient” and just enjoy being himself. I get that now in a way I didn’t before.

But here’s the real twist. Grief doesn’t just make you feel like an imposter; it can also change how people around you respond. I’ve found that sometimes friends and loved ones aren’t sure what to do. Some walk carefully around my emotions, hoping not to say the wrong thing, while others jump into cheerleader mode, eager to help even though there’s no easy fix. In the end, we’re all just improvising our way through the awkwardness together.

There’s a strange comfort in pretending, in slipping on the mask of “doing fine” even if it’s only temporary. And there’s even stranger comfort in knowing that everyone else is kind of pretending too. Trying to find their lines in a story none of us asked to be in.

Yet in the midst of all this uncertainty, there’s a quiet reassurance in realizing we’re all doing our best to show up for each other, one imperfect performance at a time. Even on the hardest days, we find connection and laughter in honest moments that remind us we’re not alone, and somehow the show really does go on.