Will You Be Lost in the Story They Tell About Us?
Returning and Reclaiming Who We Are
The story we were given at the start was unity.
“We’re in it together”, they said. “Stay home and stop the spread.”
But somewhere between yesterday and forever,
we lost the thread —
and those of us still taking precautions from Covid-19 have been living through the polar opposite of those early days of a collective response.
“They” (the masses) returned to their pre-pandemic lives.
They were willing to build their dwellings on shifting sand.
To take what was handed to them — the promises, the particles, the risk — and call it normal.
To behave as if it were more than enough to build a life with.
“You gotta live”, they said.
But some of us journeyed on into the unknown seas of a liminal existence,
exiled by our resistance to forced infections and our refusal to look away
from the science of a novel virus.
But it was more than that.
So much more.
“They” say we bowed to fear and hid behind “the science.”
But what if we were just living with a brave awareness of the fragility of life?
What if we were casting aside the hopium and hubris of human supremacy that permeates this planet?
What if we were choosing awe over certainty?Respect over dominance?
What if we were choosing to care beyond the present moment?
I say we were.
But sadly, these interpretations are not in the stories that have been told about us.
And truthfully, the Still Coviding life has been rough.
Our vessels weren’t prepared for a journey this long, perhaps because we had to build them while sailing.
One hand on the sail, the other on the wheel.
Steering through oceans of friction —not the kind that sharpens, but the type that splinters.
And the lives and the responsibilities in motion before the pandemic began didn’t stop just because we were living at a level of threat never before experienced in our lifetimes.
The compasses, clocks, and calendars we had were
all calibrated for a life we were no longer living.
So, we learned to align ourselves with the kind of wisdom that grows far outside the realm of capitalism and our modern way of life — we learned to co-create new rhythms and rituals, make new meaning with nature’s assistance, and redefine what it means to be “productive” in an ongoing pandemic.
We have found other ships in the storm.
We have docked beside each other… helped each other tap into reservoirs
of hope and grace that we can’t access alone. Together, we have excavated the sediment of shattered dreams and relational ruptures.
We are weary, yet still we sail.
When I first heard the line, "Who will be lost in the story we tell ourselves?"
from Ocean Vuong’s “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous”, I almost panicked with the question it brought to my mind- “are we even found in the stories that have been told about this last 5 years (which happen to be my son’s entire life), or are we just caricatures, contrived by minimizing authors who seem more than happy to continually cast us as monotropic, reclusive, scaredy cats who can’t get back to living?” (which has most frequently been equated with restaurant dining).
When our children are old enough to read about the pandemic in some distant future, which is hard for me to imagine, I wonder what they will find and what it will make them feel…
Will they be able to find stories of our sacrifice, bravery, and creativity in the face of all odds? Will they understand what we stood for, not just what we fought against?
Will they read our poetry or just the polemics written about us?
Will we be the authors or the afterthoughts?
Indeed, we will never be able to stop what “they (the masses)” say about us.
But we can write against the tide.
And we should.
We are the ones who must tell the stories that will enable our children to see the parts of us that have become inventors, historians, weavers, and warriors, to meet the day-to-day challenges of our time. I want them to know what it took to cross threshold after threshold of undefined ways of living —and that we did it for them, for us, AND for the “Other”.
I refuse to leave our stories untold.
“You once told me that the human eye is god's loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil and still it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn't even know there's another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.”
-Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.
To not write is to assume that someone else
will see us and then be able to tell our stories with the honesty, complexity, and beauty they deserve.
I don't have any such assumptions.
And neither should you.
I rage against the external narratives and labels “they” have dared to place upon my life and yours- Evermasker, Fear-Monger, etc.
I rage with my pen, my laptop, and my presence.
I rename myself:
Liminal translator.
Wordsmith of wonder.
Cartographer of collapse.
Poetess of possibility.
But I will also use my poems to name the thieves.
The villains.
The malevolent game-makers —who send us on fool’s errands of survival,
stacking the path with obstacles, then daring to sell us our struggles back
as stylized entertainment. What a meta-tragedy we are living through.
There is so much I don’t know.
Unspeakable uncertainties threaten to topple our vessels every day.
But I know this:
I will not be lost or absent when the stories of this time are being written and told.
And neither will you,
if you write them, tell them, share them.
This is why I persist in writing —
not for perfection, but for presence.
Not for branding, but for bearing witness.
And this is why I’m inviting you today into the Room of Return I told you about last week.
To read your truth — and write it too.
To craft your own headlines, your own stories, your own quiet poems.
Inside a room that requires no explanations for the shape of your life, where you can experience a curated space beyond the friction of a world where we never quite fit.
To be a “rememberer”, a quiet revolutionary.
In this room, we write ourselves back to what matters most.
We remember what led us to this journey in the first place.
We slow down long enough
to feel the grief we haven’t named —
and to witness the wonder we’ve nearly forgotten.
Return.
To yourself.
To what you knew before the divide.
Resist.
Not just the systems,
but the stories that distort, silence, and seek to erase you and your contributions.
Remember.
Not the world that didn’t work —
even in the before-times.
But the one you feel in your soul.
The one made of wonder and joy.
Come sit in this gentle, low-demand room with us.
Let your words find you again.
And let your truth rise, lest the bones of the stories others tell about us are all that remain.
Enter the Room of Return
Monthly gatherings on Zoom – creative, contemplative, low-demand, and honest — rooted in inquiry, poetry, presence, and recovery/nourishment, not productivity or problem solving
🌀 Notes + voice memos from the threshold of liminality – reflections from my process of unmaking, remembering, and communicating
✍️ Writing Invitations – soft prompts to help you return to what matters (via a private Substack chat and in live sessions)
🤝 Occasional co-writing sessions – space to write beside others, not for feedback, but for fellowship
🎁 First access to offerings, workshops, and artifacts born from this unfolding space (e.g. Substack Lives, and experiences like my Flowers for the Living workshop, where we will take a person in your life (or yourself), and use a form of eulogy/portraiture to see them and cherish them in the NOW)
🌱 The chance to co-create a room where what was once sacred can be named, reimagined, and reclaimed
Subscriptions begin at $ 5 per month or $50 per year. Alternatively, if you feel especially moved to support the early development of this space, you can also become a Founding Member.
FOUNDING MEMBER INVITATION
🌸 Flowers for the Living: A Portrait in Return
As a founding member, you’ll receive all the above plus a one-of-a-kind artifact:
A tiny portrait, crafted by me, not to market you, but to witness you.
A few sentences of warm, poetic attention — a spiritual snapshot in ink and honor, not a bio.
I’ll write it based on what I sense in your presence, your words, or what you choose to share when you arrive. How that happens is up to you — a short Zoom, a handful of words, an image you send me. It’s all low demand, and on your terms.
It’s not a deliverable. It’s a blessing in ink.
These portraits may one day grow into:
A community offering
A live reading series
A zine, a publication, or an annual ritual
But for now, they’ll arrive quietly, just between us, and your full consent regarding privacy and sharing will always guide our work together.
You’ll also receive my deep gratitude and the knowledge that your presence is helping me and my family keep this gathering table sturdy and lit.
Founding Membership Option: $150/year
If my writing has helped you feel seen, softened, stronger, or more awake — and this sounds like a room you’d like to step into as a monthly paid subscriber, or a Founding Member, thank you. The door is open, and there’s always a seat at this table.
