This morning, I learned that Dolly Parton had died, and I immediately wept.

I suspect thousands—if not millions—of people did the same.

I began thinking about why I liked her. But liked isn’t a strong enough word. I loved her.

I thought she was one of the kindest, most talented, generous, and genuinely intelligent people to grace this earth. I thought about the time Barbara Walters asked her loaded, condescending questions about her appearance—and Dolly, without losing her smile or her composure, put her firmly in her place.

I thought about the Dolly recipes I have tried. I thought about 9 to 5 and Steel Magnolias. I thought about how underrated she was as an actor. She could be funny without trying too hard and heartbreaking without appearing to try at all.

I thought about her music, of course, but also her humor, her philanthropy, her extraordinary business sense, and the way she managed to be glamorous and completely down-to-earth at the same time. Dolly could enter a room covered in rhinestones and somehow make everyone else feel seen.

I was a fan, but I wasn’t a superfan. I didn’t know every song. I didn’t collect memorabilia or travel across the country to see her perform. I always smiled when I saw her, though. I admired the way she carried herself, and I loved hearing other people speak about her.

Perhaps that is part of what made the grief take me by surprise.

Why Do Celebrity Deaths Affect Us So Deeply?

We may never have met these people, but they don’t necessarily feel like strangers. They have been inside our homes, our cars, our movie theaters, and our memories. Their songs played during our first loves and worst breakups. Their television shows kept us company when we were lonely. Their movies became part of family traditions. Their voices can transport us to a time, a place, or a version of ourselves we thought we had forgotten.

Sometimes, a celebrity’s death reminds us that an entire chapter of our own lives has ended.

Perhaps the person seemed larger than life. Perhaps you were the same age. Perhaps their death was sudden or tragic. Maybe you shared a birthday, a hometown, an illness, or some private point of connection that would mean very little to anyone else.

Whatever the reason, these people can become landmarks in our lives. We measure time by their work. We remember who we were when we first encountered them. When they die, something that once seemed permanent suddenly isn’t.

Remembering Robin Williams & The Gift of Eulogy

After Robin Williams died, I was heartbroken for weeks. I cried at work. I watched What Dreams May Come and did small things to keep my imaginary connection with him alive.

When Billy Crystal eulogized Robin at the Emmys, I watched it at least ten times. I was moved by Billy’s professionalism—his ability to keep himself together while talking about his beloved friend—but that wasn’t the only reason I kept returning to it.

Through his stories, Billy brought Robin back to life for me.

For a few minutes, Robin was not the man whose death had shocked and devastated us. He was the mischievous, brilliant, exhausting, loving friend Billy knew. We were allowed to glimpse the person behind the performances, and somehow that made both the loss and the love feel more tangible.

That is one of the gifts of a good eulogy: it allows someone to be alive in the room again, even if only for a moment.

Grief Is Not a Contest

Not every celebrity death strikes us that way. Sometimes we hear that a famous person has died and simply think, Aww, that’s sad. We may pause, remember a favorite performance, and continue with our day.

Then there are the others. The ones whose deaths stop us. The ones who make us cry in the kitchen or sit silently in the car after the news comes over the radio. The ones who send us searching for an old song, an interview, a film, or a tribute because we are not ready for the connection to end.

Dolly Parton is one of those people for me.

I am not grieving her as her family and friends will grieve her. Their loss is intimate and immeasurable. But acknowledging that difference does not mean denying my own sadness. Grief is not a contest in which only the person with the closest relationship is permitted to participate.

There is room for many kinds of sorrow.

We can grieve the person we knew personally. We can grieve the artist whose work accompanied us through our lives. We can grieve the comfort they represented, the goodness we believed they brought into the world, and the future work we assumed they would still be here to create.

Sometimes we are also grieving ourselves—the younger person who heard that song for the first time, watched that movie with someone who is now gone, or found comfort in that familiar face during a lonely period.

Today, I am grieving Dolly Parton. I imagine I will continue grieving her harder than I grieve most famous people. I will listen to her music, watch her movies, make one of her recipes, and smile when someone repeats one of her perfectly timed observations about life, beauty, or growing older.

These may be small acts, but grief often survives through small acts. They allow us to maintain a connection to someone who mattered—even someone we never met.

And maybe that is why certain celebrity deaths rip our hearts out. They were never truly strangers to us.