It’s a media trope, the person persevering in the face of the loss of a loved one. Cooking show contestants say they are honoring their dead grandmother by baking her cheesecake. A grieving spouse writes a book, a bereaved parent starts a foundation.

Look at them, being brave. So brave.

I watched, in the desultory manner of a person who lives with someone who is interested in the Olympics, more sports that I normally do this week. So I read an article in the New York Times about McKenzie Long competing in her first Olympics at 24. Her mother, Tara Elizabeth Jones, died in January of a heart attack.

The article, written by Marcus Thompson II is well written. “Grief is reputed for its sucker punches. A master in the art of unbeknownst, its specialty is sneaking up on the grieving, pouncing on the smallest triggers. A song. A piece of candy. A similar laugh. A certain word or how it’s delivered. A random gesture.”

That’s true, it is an apt description of grief’s lifelong guerrilla tactics, which I know well.

But what makes me tired is the brave. The trope’s separation between the valorous grieving who soldier on and accomplish great things and the weak ones who don’t. The rest of us. Me.

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