I’m having a dayenu year.

There’s a prayer in the Passover liturgy that runs through a series of scenarios and repeats the Hebrew word dayenu: “It would have been enough.” Had God brought us out of Egypt and not fed us manna, dayenu. Had God fed us manna and not given us the Torah, dayenu (Etcetera.) It has a catchy chorus and joyful implications: just one of those miracles would have been enough, but God performed them all.

This past year’s implications have not been so joyful.

Just one death would have been enough. Two would have been tragic. Three, to quote Oscar Wilde, “looks like carelessness.”

My father died at the end of last February. My close friend and “fairy godmother,” Carole, died at the end of August. And my mentor and friend of 15 years, Alison, died at the beginning of October. All three were in their 70s, which is arguably “old,” but in this day and age, not nearly old enough.

They were three of the strongest pillars of my life. Without them, my foundation is listing. I feel unsteady. Uncertain.

Unseen.

A massage therapist once told me—as I lay on her table trying not to feel the emotions my muscles were holding—“Sometimes what we need is a witness to our suffering.” That simple statement unlocked me, and I believe it extends to more than just suffering. As folk artist Lori McKenna sings on her album Lorraine:

All you really need is someone to be here Someone who never lets you disappear And I will be that witness to your life This may be just a softer place to fall But somebody will answer when you call And I will be that witness to your life

I’m lucky: I have plenty of people to call. But after each death, the person I wanted most to talk to was the one who was no longer at the other end of the line.

Dad, Carole, and Alison were three of my key witnesses. They rejoiced in my successes, lifted me out of sorrows, taught me important lessons. They gave me comfort and joy and reassurance and laughter, wisdom and tenacity and hope. And they were touchstones—people I could turn to—loving and loved people in whom I confided, with whom I could share every aspect of my life experience. Especially, of course, my father—who gave me life and who always brightened it. That loss alone would have been more than enough. It’s been almost a year, but it often feels like yesterday.

“They’re still with you,” people say. And I believe them. Mostly. I’ve had dreams about dead loved ones since I was a child, and they’re far more like visits than visions. I’ve seen and felt things that make me wonder about ghosts and divinity and multiple planes of existence. I like to think that, after we die, we can be anywhere—with anyone we want.

So, if I believe that my three ghosts still see me, can they still be my witnesses?

Yes. But it’s not enough.

Because I don’t simply yearn to be seen. I yearn for people to see me and respond.

My father’s laughter when I told funny stories. Carole’s delighted gasps when I brought her baked goods. Alison’s crisp, wry way of saying my name. They were present. They were real. I can recreate those sounds in my mind…but it’s not the same.

It isn’t enough.

Sometimes the desire for response extends to a lot more people. I think that’s what social media is all about: it’s a way to elicit responses to our lives. Some people may purely be seeking validation. But for others, perhaps it’s more about sharing experience. For instance: I often post photos of the baked goods that I make on Instagram. Why? If a cake comes out of the oven and there’s no one but me to see it, it still exists. If I taste a pie and no one else does, it’s still delicious. (We hope.) Shouldn’t it be enough for me to enjoy it on my own?

Perhaps. And yet, there is extra joy in connecting the experience I’ve had—or the creation I’ve made— with others. To hear the amused laughter, the surprised gasp, the teasing admonishment, is to feel more alive.

Perhaps our lives don’t have as much meaning if they’re lived in isolation. Perhaps we’re all seeking witnesses: people who truly see us, who understand us, who assure us we’re on the right track or steer us back to center or just give us their good oldfashioned approval.

Is it possible to exist without that validation? Maybe. But would we want to?

I used to think my desire for response was related to my being an actor. After all, actors need an audience—and I’m no exception. But I’ve realized that it’s not really about performing, or applause. It’s a little bit about approval—well, okay, a lot. It’s always nice to be told well done, that’s wonderful, you did the right thing. But for me, I think, it’s more about connection. Experiences are enriched when we share them with others, whether they’re present at the time or we recount the story to them later. As I’m learning, the impulse to share those experiences with specific people can be very strong. And when those people are gone, that impulse repeatedly short-circuits.

I’m bombarded now with impulses to share things with people who can no longer laugh or gasp or tease. For months after my father died, I’d see something and think, I should tell Dad, or Dad would love that, or I wonder if Dad… And then I’d remember, and either steer rapidly to another thought or fall down the long tunnel of grief. Such tumbles happened frequently—but at least everything else in my life was stable.

That didn’t last.

Carole’s death was a gradual, gentle one; I had more time to prepare for what would no longer be. But for over a month after she died, I couldn’t bring myself to bake anything. If I couldn’t call to tell her about it—or better yet bring her a sample—there didn’t seem a point.

And in the months since I received news of Alison’s sudden death, I’ve become aware of just how often she springs to mind—how many experiences I file away to share with her. I can share them with others, but it isn’t quite the same.

Even now, each time any one of these three comes to mind, it’s a miniature shock.

She’s gone. She’s gone. He’s gone.

But I’m still here.

We are different versions of ourselves with different people. I will never again be quite the same person I was with each of my three ghosts. Perhaps that’s why we say a part of me died with them.

“They’re still with you,” people keep saying. And I do believe them—especially when I feel or hear things that have no earthly source. But another key element of these foundational relationships is that these people are not only witnesses or responders— they’re also actors. They act upon us. They change us. We learn from them, and in doing so, we become more like them. And that, I suppose, is one way in which they live on.

Sometimes it’s the simplest of things. My father will never again help me hang a picture. Carole will never again make me a cup of tea. Alison and I will never again discuss someone’s fascinating accent.

But, I know how to hang a picture because my father showed me. I know how to make a cup of tea because Carole taught me. And I know how to speak with others’ accents because Alison trained me.

It’s the tritest but the truest thing: I am who I am because of the people I’ve loved.

If I write this essay and never publish it, perhaps the writing of it would be enough. After all, I write in a journal decidedly not for the purpose of sharing it with others. But I believe we are put on this earth not just to act, but to interact. And art is by its nature interactive.

If I create in isolation, it changes nothing. If I share my creation, it can change everything.

I miss my father, my mentor, and my fairy godmother. Right now, merely to love them is to 32 miss them. But though they no longer respond, they will remain my silent witnesses.

And perhaps one day, dayenu: it will be enough.

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