From a quiet gaze in the woods to a simple act of kindness, these moments reminded me that even in loss, I am still here—and somehow, still seen.
You don’t always realize when you’re being seen. Sometimes it’s not by people at all.
Sometimes it’s a deer staring directly at you from behind a hedge in Michigan, its ears alert, its eyes fixed, as if it recognizes something in you that you haven’t said out loud. Sometimes it’s a group of longhorns in Texas, resting calmly on your birthday, grounded and unbothered, existing in a peace you didn’t yet know you would one day need.
And sometimes, it’s a turkey standing on top of a car in the middle of a workday, reminding you that life doesn’t stop being strange just because you’re grieving.
I didn’t fully understand these moments when they happened. Not then.
But I do now.
Because grief has a way of stripping everything down to what’s real. It removes the distractions, the noise, the illusions of control—and leaves you face to face with yourself. And in that space, you start to notice things differently. You start to realize that even in your most fractured moments, something—or someone—is still witnessing your existence.
I’ve experienced a series of losses over the past year that have reshaped me in ways I’m still trying to understand. My mother passed away in October 2025, and the weight of that loss still sits with me, sometimes quietly, sometimes all at once. There are also fractures in my life—experiences of betrayal, estrangement, and emotional shifts that don’t resolve cleanly.
Those are stories I will tell in full, in my upcoming memoir, which I plan to release later this year.
For now, I’ll just say this: grief doesn’t always come from one place. Sometimes it’s layered, complicated, and still unfolding.
A week ago, while I was out working, I stopped to pick up a delivery from Daily Dozens.
I was already on the verge of tears when I walked in.
My mother had passed away just five months earlier, and that grief doesn’t move in straight lines. Some days it sits quietly. Other days, it rises without warning. That morning, it was already there—close to the surface, unshaken, present with me in ways I couldn’t ignore.
The man behind the counter looked at me and said, “How about a doughnut for yourself?”
I said sure.
“What kind would you like?” he asked.
“Double chocolate,” I said.
And as soon as I said it, I saw her face.
That was the kind she liked.
I hadn’t planned on choosing it. I hadn’t even thought about it consciously. But in that moment, it was as if she was already there with me—already present in my thoughts before I even realized it.
And something about that—something about being seen in that moment, while carrying her, while holding that grief so close to the surface—broke through me.
Not because of the doughnut itself. But because, for a brief second, I felt seen. Not the version of me that keeps moving, keeps working, keeps functioning—but the version carrying loss, memory, and everything I hadn’t said out loud.
It was a small gesture.
But it reached something deep.
Later that same morning, I stepped outside after dropping off an order, distracted for a moment, and when I looked up, there it was—a turkey standing on top of someone’s car. Calm. Unbothered. Completely out of place, yet perfectly at ease.
I took three photos because I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.
And in that moment, I realized something:
Life doesn’t pause for grief.
But it doesn’t abandon you either.
It continues—strange, unpredictable, sometimes even absurd—but still present. Still offering moments that ask you to look, to notice, to feel something beyond the weight you’re carrying.
When I think back to that deer in 2021, the way it looked directly at me, I realize now that the moment wasn’t just about curiosity. It felt like recognition. Like I was being acknowledged without words.
That photo was taken just days before my grandmother passed away.
At the time, I was already beginning to process what she meant to me—how she protected me, how she showed up for me in ways I didn’t fully understand until I was older. There was a quiet emotional weight building, even before she was gone.
And when that deer stopped and stared at me the way it did, it didn’t feel random. It felt… intentional. Not in a way I can explain, but in a way I could feel.
Like something was meeting me in that moment.
Like I wasn’t alone in what I was carrying.
And the longhorns back in 2019—resting, grounded, completely still—represent something I didn’t understand at the time: the ability to exist without urgency, without pressure, without carrying everything at once.
These moments didn’t mean much to me individually when they happened.
But together, they tell a story.
A story about presence.
About being seen.
About how even when life feels overwhelming, there are still moments that reach you—quietly, unexpectedly, without explanation.
I’ve often wondered why I feel things so deeply. Why I notice what others might overlook. Why a simple gesture or a fleeting moment can stay with me long after it’s passed.
But maybe this is why.
Maybe the same depth that allows grief to hit hard is the same depth that allows me to experience connection—in all its forms. Not just with people, but with the world itself.
Because even now, in the middle of loss, in the middle of uncertainty, in the middle of becoming…
I am still here.
I am still noticing.
And in ways I’m only beginning to understand—
I am still being seen.
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