It was this Sunday last year. The last day of the long weekend. And as I search my mind, I can’t honestly recall if it was sunny because there was a dark cloud following me everywhere I went and a deep-seated anxiety that bubbled quietly and angrily below the surface.
Life.
Waking from a winter’s slumber.
Fresh beginnings.
I was on my way to visit you, not knowing what to expect, but anticipating that this was likely where you’d find your exit. And I was mad that day. Bitter at how everything else could just continue moving and going and hustling when all I wanted was for time to stop so I could feel it.
Acknowledge it.
Give it space to breathe.
And I was mad that day because, well, stages of grief and inevitably, the denial was beginning to rub off.
And along with you, you took all your stories – their stories.
Stories that never found their voice.
Stories that longed to be heard.
Seen.
Validated.
Understood.
And now I understand that my job is to be those voices – to speak on their behalf.
To scream, to howl, to share.
To breathe.
Simply. Because. I can.
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