Blair Wright said it first. In Gossip Girl she tells Serena if you’re going to be sad you might as well be in Paris.
It’s a ridiculous thing to say. It is also profoundly true.
Julie and I were walking along the Seine. Clouds hung low. The Eiffel Tower cut through the gray. Leaves crunched underfoot on Avenue Montaigne. We had no plan. No agenda. Just two women looking for a place where the air felt lighter.
The Weight of Two Lines
Three weeks earlier I was curled into a crescent on my sofa. Scrolling Instagram travel reels until my thumbs hurt. The sadness was heavy. Physical. A solid block in my belly marking the absence of a baby who never existed.
Three months before that two pink lines appeared. Elated terror. We had dreamed of this. Tiny hands. Sunday dance parties. A universe contained in a plastic stick.
Then the universe collapsed.
The baby we could picture so vividly simply would not be here. The hormonal crash hit. The visceral grief was unlike anything else.
Julie checked in via text.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in there.” Lie.
“But how are you?”
She knew. That summer she lost her mother Hedy to cancer. Hedy had been luminous. Fiery red hair. Bold movements through life. Watching her fade away had hollowed Julie out too.
We were grieving at opposite ends of a spectrum. She mourned a person she knew. I mourned a potential person. It bound us. An invisible cord pulled taut. Our families were supportive sure. Friends who understood offered comfort.
But we knew the specific gray of that day without explanation. We kept each other tethered to basics. Did you eat? Did you sleep? Did you go outside?
“I feel nothing,” she typed back from her couch.
I paused.
“Go to Paris?”
It was insane. We’d talked about this trip for over a decade. Pushed it into a ‘someday’ bucket while adult life got in the way. After her funeral she’d promised not to wait anymore.
“Like in two weeks?”
A pause. Then: “Send me dates.”
Rationality Left the Chat
This trip made no logical sense. Paris Fashion Week meant prices were astronomical. Most hotels were full. Our schedules didn’t align.
But saying yes felt good. A placebo shot of hope.
Lauren Cook a clinical psychologist agrees. She wrote about the mechanics of grief travel. Novelty helps. Distraction offers a break from the intense physical pain of loss.
I took the lead on planning. Pragmatic reasons? I’ve been to Paris. She hasn’t. But mostly I needed control. Booking flights is easier than navigating loss.
Rebecca Skolnick another psychologist notes that giving the grieving mind a date to anticipate matters.
Over those two weeks my Instagram feed changed. The algorithm shifted. No more pregnancy loss support groups. Instead crepes. Cafes. Joy. The sky behind the tower looked brighter just by association.
We met at Charles de Gaulle at 8 a.m. Red-eye flights made us zombies. We walked into the Marais maze of cobblestones. Ate crusty baguettes. Stopped at cafes.
Rain started.
An Uber would have been smart. We didn’t call one. Shared an umbrella instead. Let our hair get wet. Let our clothes dampen. Kept walking.
Two days blurred together. Cabaret. Street crepes. Museums. Luxembourg Gardens. Impulse guided us. Joy was the only rule.
We carried grief like extra luggage. Strange dichotomy? Maybe. But Cook calls it dialectical. Pain and laughter can exist simultaneously. You don’t need guilt for finding lightness amidst sadness.
Chateau Dreams
We took a train to the Loire Valley. Stayed at Hotel Château du Grand-Luc. It felt like a movie scene from our girlhoods.
Luxe fabrics. Gilded details. Pastoral picnics. Farm-to-table dining in sun-drenched rooms.
“New happy place?” Julie said at breakfast tearing off a piece of croissant.
I nodded. Mouth too full to disagree.
Final night. Plush robes. Sunglasses indoors. Pink room with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. We staged a photoshoot. Laughed until stomachs ached. Felt twelve again.
I worried in the quiet moments. Was this healthy? Or were we just running?
Critics hate distraction. Cook says grief is physical. Your brain needs sensory breaks. Novel environments help. This trip wasn’t escape. It was a soft landing spot for a hard year.
The Canvas of Dreamers
Last day. The original Dior store. Beautiful bags. Shoes. Accessories. A saleswoman offered help.
Julie picked up the bag she’d wanted forever. Hesitation flashed then vanished.
She didn’t want to wait.
It emboldened me. I bought a silk scarf. Celestial print. French text across it:
Le ciel est la toile des rê veurs
The sky is the canvas of dreamers.
Julie told the saleswoman about our hard year. Explained why we were there. Watery eyes locked onto mine during the transaction.
“We just wanted to end with something positive.”
I didn’t have a neat answer. Didn’t feel cured.
Just present.
