About Dana

In need some ideas to force some joy? Here are some of my favorite ways:

• Hiking with my pups in the dunes of Northern Michigan

• The sound of breaking a Peppermint Pattie in a half (trust me)

• Wiffle ball tournaments

• Watching re-runs of The Office for the 700th time

• Traveling to off-the-beaten-path destinations (Antarctica, I’m coming for you)

• Penguins.

• Loud and boisterous get togethers with all my favorite humans (and especially my favorite little humans - my nieces and nephews)

• Road trips and road trip playlists

• Big, loud, belly laughs

• Buying all the books (and sometimes even reading them!)

• Surprise mail (like love letters and fan mail - not Brad's student loan bills or tax shit or lawyer fees)

• Sunset swims in Lake Michigan (no sharks!) followed by beach bonfires

• Underwear dance parties. (Or any kind of dance party. Wearing your clothes is totally acceptable too.)

When I was 28 years old, I started stealing people’s thunder.

This was unusual and completely rude of me, as I was a known people pleaser who liked to put everyone else's needs before my own.

But that’s the thing about a cancer diagnosis. It changes you. And for me - in addition to some really bad hair - it gave me a voice. It gave me the space to share my story. When everyone else was busy getting married and having babies and buying houses, I was fighting to stay healthy. And I openly shared about the dirty details.

Then, when I was 33, my husband, Brad, stole the thunder back with a cancer diagnosis of his own. And always one to one-up me, his diagnosis was a terminal one. And once again, while other millennials were getting promotions and having more babies and getting divorced, we were sharing about our mortality. (Listen to those conversations here.)

I always told Brad I wanted to go first (before our dog, Dune, too). I just wasn’t cut out for grief. I was, as Brad called me, his "little joy maker.” I liked romantic comedies and fast-forwarding through difficult scenes. I liked holidays and festive soirees. I liked impromptu dance parties in grocery stores and elevators and kitchens. Brad planned for our future and I kept our present light and fun. So when Brad died first, I was Pissed with a capital “P." (Actually I was Devastated with a capital “D," but in the early days my grief manifested itself as the easier to express emotion: Anger with a capital “A.")

But like battling my own diagnosis and being a caregiver during Brad’s diagnosis, becoming a 33-year-old widow broke me open. I no longer wanted to be “fine” and I didn’t want anyone else struggling to settle for "fine" either. I was tired of suffering in silence, knowing I wasn’t alone in my pain. There is power to our individual stories - especially our stories of trauma and struggle.

And sometimes finding a glimmer of joy requires a whole lot of effort and help from others. Nice to meet you. I’m here to help.

About Brad

Brad was always the writer in our relationship, so it’s actually pretty audacious of him to die and leave me left to describe him. I will inevitably fuck it up because how to do you describe the indescribable? How do you paint a picture of a beautifully whole and complex human in a couple paragraphs? I’ve decided that you don’t.

Instead, I’m going to let you get to know Brad through his own words, (Brad would say this is taking the easy way out, but grief is hard man and sometimes you’ve gotta take the easy road and use what’s already out there).  So you can get to know Brad over on the podcast where he recorded the most raw and difficult moments of his life after he was first diagnosed (and I mean the very first moments after he was diagnosed  - from his hospital bed after we learned his suspected infection was actually - SURPRISE! - a terminal diagnosis).

And if that doesn’t paint a full enough picture of the kind of man Brad was, read this article, where he vulnerably opened up about his struggle with drinking. Or this blog, that he started when his wife (that’s me!) got diagnosed with cancer and then continued documenting his own fight. Or this blog, about his passion for inclusion and equality in Detroit (before Quicken Loans’ Opportunity Detroit ever existed). Or this New York Times letter to the editor (fuck yeah he was in the New York Times!). Or this second (!!) NYT letter to the editor.

Impressive, right? Imagine living in THAT shadow. (Just kidding; I loved it. I was going to blissfully ride those coattails for the rest of our lives!).

Brad was a lover of life. He took big risks with big payoffs. He was a pragmatic dreamer with the unique ability to have faith in his ideas and recognize their barriers. He engaged easily with people, was a spectacular listener, and allowed conversations to linger in thought before offering feedback. He toed the line of comfort, loving the quiet space between awkwardness and self discovery. He was hilarious and quick-witted, both in his self deprecation and his joke telling. He was a fierce and passionate leader, who knew the power of leading by example. He constantly wanted more - more knowledge, more engagement, more questions. He enthusiastically encouraged his friends and acquaintances to dig... just a little bit deeper. He was thought-provoking, challenging basic assumptions.

Brad showed me what it means to love. What it means to fully share your life with someone. He taught me to dream big and to stop doubting my place in this world. (Still working on that one, Love.) He was patient and kind and smart and a whole lot of fucking fun.

And at the end of his life, Brad gave me one of the greatest gifts of mine. A moment of joy. A glimmer of light from the shadows. A purpose.

Because what leaves a mark on a person more than cancer or death or grief? LOVE. And the Forced Joy Project began from a single moment of unconditional love. 

And from there it continues to grow.