My depth of feeling has never been so intense. I am porous, open, tender. The sunlight on the leaves makes me cry. I am captivated by leaf shadows on the ground.
It's been 10 months since my mother's death. A revelation came to me today that I am still struggling to articulate:
Loving her was the proof of my existence.
My love for her is evidence that I was here, that I mattered to someone, that I lived a good life. She gave me meaning and purpose.
I used to think I needed to write or create or leave something behind to prove that I was here, that I was real. She made me real. Even if I leave nothing behind, my love for her justifies my time on this earth. I don't know if this makes sense. I wish I had the words.
I don't need anyone else's validation. I don't need other people to witness me or see me anymore. I used to be so desperate to be seen because of how invisible I've been. I felt like I didn't exist at all, like I was a ghost in the world. But she saw me, she loved me, she witnessed me. So did my father. Their love made me real.
"When It's Cold I'd Like to Die" by Moby and Jacob Lusk at Coachella 2026
"So Broken" by Björk
Kei Wareware i a Tātou (Te Kuru Marutea, arr. Seth) performed by Choral Audacity and Emily Riggin