Lately I’ve been thinking about death. My death, like, a lot…

Not in a distant, tidy way, but in a way that grips me by the ribcage and whispers, what if this is the last time?

And yes, it’s dark. It’s weird. It’s kind of depressing. But also… it’s hilarious? exposes dark humour lol

Being a human is so ‘cute’. We’re just these soft little bodies making meaning out of everything. Spiralling about our mortality one minute, making toast the next. That’s the absurd, beautiful rhythm of being alive. I digress…

To continue the story, I’ve been walking with Nauthiz. The rune of friction. Of pressure. Of sacred necessity. Desireeeee. And she’s been showing me where the fire burns hottest inside me. The places where I still cling, where I still resist, where I still forget what really matters.

ᚾ ᚾ ᚾ

It’s uncomfortable. It’s complex. It’s fucking raw.

I’ve been imagining my own death. Wondering what it would feel like to know it’s all over, that I’ll never touch this earth again, never hold my children, never cry over something stupid on a Tuesday afternoon, never make love, never drink coffee in the dark quiet of morning while the house is still asleep. Just… never again.

It sounds depressing, I know. But it’s not just that. It’s also opening something. A clarity. A sobering. A fierce, unexpected love for being here.

Because what actually matters?

What matters when we go?

It won’t be what we accomplished. Materially. Financially. 

It’ll be who we touched. Who we let in. Who we softened with our presence. It’ll be how safe our children felt with us. How much we loved. How much we allowed ourselves to be loved.

A woman, a mother, in our community died recently, just after giving birth to her third baby. And it did something to me. It changed the shape of my thoughts. It cracked something open in my chest.

Life is so fragile.

So precious.

So brief.

And as I sit with this, as I unravel, as I die a little every day to the parts of me that were performative or protective or stuck in proving something… I realise how little I actually know.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

Some days I feel too much. I romanticise my life. I ache. I question whether it’s healthy to feel this deeply, to bleed with life in the way that I do.

Maybe it’s just another addiction? Maybe not…

But either way, I’m in it.

I’m learning. I’m growing. I’m trying to become someone my children are proud of. Someone who lived in truth. Someone who did good things on this planet.

And I’ve been thinking about all the people who hold me. Friends, chosen family, people online I’ve never even met, and I feel so deeply, unshakably grateful.

Because this, THIS, is what matters.

Not the data. Not the productivity hacks. Not the latest version of self-optimised living.

We’re in a time where information is everywhere. AI can write your essays, plan your day, summarise your trauma, optimise your workflows. You can “grow” in ways we couldn’t imagine a decade ago.

But the one thing none of it can do?

Feel for you.

Technology can’t ache with you. It can’t hold your hand when you’re falling apart. It can’t cry with you at 2am. It can’t breathe with you through contractions. It can’t whisper I see you and mean it with its whole being.

Only we can do that. Only humans.

And I believe with everything in me that the most important thing we can do right now, in this strange and fast-moving world, is to feel more. Not less.

More grief. More joy. More heartbreak. More awe. More discomfort. More tenderness.

We need to stop numbing and start noticing.

We need to open our hearts wider, even when it hurts.

We need to remember through feeling that we are still alive.

Maybe I’m dying, in some strange way. But maybe that’s okay. Because sometimes things have to burn so that what’s real can rise from the ash.

And I want what’s real.

Even if it means letting go.

Even if it means unraveling.

Because that’s the only kind of life that feels like truth to me.