Kelly Corrigan

I moved into their house so I could cover things.

On the three days a week, their dad worked as a flight attendant for Qantas.

I smeared sunblock on their noses and Vegemite on their toasts.

I read them to sleep at night, I cleaned the counters.

The heavy lifting was left for the truly brave, a man who organized his emotions and answered the hardest questions such that his kids and hers could feel a modicum of safety in a patently unsafe world.

Questions like, what is cremation?

And what happens to us if you die?

And so it is that I stood witness to the unphotographable, unmeasurable bravery of some guy named Jim in Sydney, Australia.

And over the years since, I find I just can't stop cataloging these Olympic achievements in family life.

The really big things often come with a game plan and a team of experts and enough adrenaline to lift a school bus over your head.

But inside every crisis you think you might be ready for are 100 dirty surprises that are not in the playbook.

I had stage three cancer in my 30s, and I can tell you that following the chemo schedule didn't take nearly as much courage as admitting to my husband that sex felt less sexy after my boobs, which were once a real strong suit for me,

were made weird and uneven by a surgeon's knife.

Here's a surprise.

My friend's father, in his final days, addled by dementia, chased her around the second floor with a fork he hid in his pajamas.

They tell you there will be loss.

They don't tell you you will be required to love your dad even as he's coming for you with silverware.

I've interviewed 228 people from my PBS show and my podcast, people with huge careers, Grammys and Pulitzers and NBA championships.

And I listen to their stories, and I'm duly impressed.

But I tell you the ones they know the best, the ones they can't tell without choking up.