Julia Child probably never imagined she'd help me survive the worst day of my life.

In Hamburg - First time pilates reformer with Kokol and Julia

The morning after Paul died, Steven — my brother-in-law — and I sat in my apartment together. I don't remember what I was wearing. I don't remember what time the sun came up. I remember the silence.

And then I went to the kitchen.

I always go to the kitchen when I don't know what to do. I learned that from my Mom — aka The Mothah.

I made a fluffy French omelette. The way Julia taught me. Lots of French butter, three eggs, a good pan, and absolutely no apologies for the technique.

It didn't fix anything.

But it moved me six inches forward.

And six inches, it turns out, is enough.

One step led to another. Then another. Until one Thursday afternoon I found myself in Hamburg, finishing my first ever reformer Pilates class — taught in English by a wonderful teacher named Julia, partly for me, and partly for Kokol, my fellow student who wanted to practice her English. I arrived as a student and somehow left as a tutor. (The universe has a sense of humor.)

Shopping in the rain afterward. Learning Guten Morgen at 3pm and being perfectly fine with that being enough for today.

Just forward. Six inches at a time.

There is always a Second Act.

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