This is the first question everyone asks me these days, and then a moment later many people also apologise in case that’s the wrong thing to ask. And I say (and I mean it when I say so) that, no, that’s a very appropriate thing to ask. And then I give a variety of answers. Mostly I say, perhaps not quite in this way, that I am doing as well as I can at doing badly. It would be far worse to be doing well right now, in fact I fear the possibility that I may find myself saying “I’m fine” and mean it. That’s not to say that I want to prolong the agony of grief in some artificial way, but that I am aware that the thing which our little family has experienced is the psychological equivalent of a broken spine. This is not something you recover from in a few weeks, or a few months. It is slow, agonising work that demands attention and energy.

There are a thousand inward voices whispering sweetly that I could move on more quickly if I tried. And I think that’s probably true. I  could marshal all the force of my training in masculinity and squeeze the part of me that is desperately heartbroken into a tiny little compartment and shut the door. Leave him to do that work in peace and mobilise the rest of my self to be a successful worker, educator, citizen friend and parent with that part of my cauterized off into some infeasible independence. I know what that kind of project does to a person – I’ve inflicted it on myself, and I’m determined to move forward with a more (visible, public) holism.

Moving about the world with your whole broken self right now means that I find myself spontaneously crying in the grocery store as I pass the rack of mothers day cards, haunted by the cafe where we played board games, weeping on the train ride in to work and the walk across campus on my way to class as I hold and countenance the weight of all my plans for Noah’s journey into University. I’ve told my students about what has happened to us in our first lecture back – not at length, but with a suggestion that some day they too will experience bereavement and trauma if they haven’t already, and they will experience many societal pressures trying to tell them that their struggles are “personal” and they should bear their grief and suffering in silence. I went on to suggest that this is an unhealthy way to go about the world and we need to find ways to resist such pressures. So I offer a brief example, not to burden them but to be a transparent and visible human to them. I carry Noah’s blue axolotl with me to work. I’ve got a photo of Noah on my phone and my laptop. The axolotl sits next to me on the train or in the car. Having that visible reminder makes me more sad, and I feel constant pressure to tuck it away so I can get on with the day. And the work for me is forestalling that “move on with your life” stuff that we inflict on ourselves.

But the main thing I wanted to say is that there is no wrong way to act. I offer a word of thanks to the work colleagues who ask me how I’m doing. And to the people who waved in passing and said that it’s nice to see me back but couldn’t offer more. I offer gratitude to the people who didn’t reply for weeks when I let them know and even still can’t really speak with me, because it is all so utterly unspeakable. I hold vigil with friends who share that they’ve been exhausted or newly anxious since they heard about Noah, and then apologise and say, “it’s not about me”. But it is. Allowing yourself to be affected is a holy act, and I long to share that with everyone.