The Fuck It Bucket 

A story about the friends who see you through rain and shine 

By The Therapist Who Came Undone

Substack Link

Less than two weeks after the crash that changed our lives, my husband turned fifty. This was supposed to be a story about joy. A surprise weekend. A celebration. Instead, it became something else. Something quieter and heavier, but maybe even more meaningful. This post is about the people who showed up anyway. The ones who brought a bucket full of love when there was nothing else to bring. The ones who knew how to hold us when we could barely hold ourselves.

Twelve days after the plane crash, my husband turned fifty.

Long before the crash took his sister, brother-in-law, and three nephews, I had planned a surprise weekend to celebrate the milestone. His sister, along with more than twenty of our closest friends, were supposed to be there. It was going to be a big, joyful gathering. After the crash, I canceled the surprise and asked my husband if he still wanted to gather, even in the thick of grief. He didn’t know what to do. None of us did. But in the end, he decided it would be better to be with the people we love.

So instead of arriving full of celebration, we arrived hollowed out. Five people we loved were gone. We were barely upright. I remember looking around the condo we had rented and thinking, What now? How do we do this?

But his people came. Not all of them, but enough to fill the space with warmth and comfort. His two childhood best friends were there. So were our chosen family from camp, a pair who had originally declined the invitation. They showed up anyway. Not for a party, but for something more important.

And they brought a bucket. Not just any bucket. They brought a Fuck It Bucket.

Inside it were tools. Not the kind that fix things, but the kind that help you survive when nothing can be fixed. There was a bottle of wine. A beautiful painting of a sailboat from family camp, made by one of our artist friends. She and her husband couldn’t be there in person, but they found a beautiful way to show up anyway. Also in the bucket: a little bit of weed and a one hitter. Because, hey, you never know.

I don’t remember every item. But I remember what that bucket meant.

It said, we love you and we are here for you, in whatever way you need. We are here to distract you, to remind you of beauty, to bring back memories, and to spark laughter even when laughter feels impossible.

A year and a half later, when our “grief baby” was born, they did it again. This time it was a giant rubber ducky filled with baby gifts. They called it the Duck It Bucket. Inside were diapers, toys, and sippy cups with our own baby pictures lovingly taped to each one.

I opened it and sobbed.

We were making our way through something unthinkable. We were doing it with love and connection. And they saw that. They marked it.

I have been thinking about those buckets today. The connection might be loose, but it’s where my mind went this morning after my husband told me about a conversation he had with one of his best friends, the same one who showed up at the ski condo. They’ve been close since kindergarten. He was the best man at our wedding. And truly, he’s a good human.

Apparently, they talked about me today. About my Substack.

My husband had recently shared it with him. Even though his friend is wildly busy, he read the whole thing.

When my husband mentioned the conversation, of course I wanted to know what his friend thought. We didn’t have much time between making breakfast for houseguests, getting our youngest off to camp, and preparing for a full day of patients. But I asked for a nugget, something to hold me over until we could talk more.

He said, “Friend thought it was interesting to read about Surface Me, and then see how many of your essays wrap up with a tidy bow.”

Oof.

That landed. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t.

I’ve been trying hard not to perform here. Trying to let the parts of me that are messy and real and complicated have a voice. I want to make it clear that even with all the blessings I have, even with the lessons I learn and the moments of deep gratitude I let in, I still struggle. I still get it wrong. I still hurt people I love. I still refuse to rest, even when my body needs it. I still lose myself in other people’s needs. I still wonder if I’m too much or not enough. Sometimes both at once.

So maybe my husband’s friend is right. Maybe some of my posts wrap up too cleanly. Maybe it’s a defense. Maybe I try to make meaning so quickly I don’t let the pain breathe. Maybe I’m still hiding parts of myself. Maybe it’s Surface Me, sneaking back in.

Or maybe the bows are my version of the Fuck It Bucket. A way to say that even when it’s hard, there’s still something to hold on to. Maybe even a small lesson inside the pain.

Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s both.

My grad school friends and I used to joke that the answer to every yes-or-no question is probably both. I think that still holds. I’m still figuring this one out. Still fumbling. Still trying to write from the part of me that doesn’t need to tie everything together.

But here’s what I do know.

I want to be the kind of friend who brings a Fuck It Bucket. And a Duck It Bucket. And I want to keep writing in a way that tells the truth, not just about what I’ve learned, but about how much I’m still learning.

To the friends who show up with buckets, who sit beside you in pain and in joy, who laugh with you when laughter feels far away, who tape your baby picture to a sippy cup and call it a gift:

You are the bows. You are the gift. You are the meaning.

And for all the things I’m still trying to understand, and for all of you doing the same:

Fuck it. Let’s keep going.