I think people think I’m joking, but it’s very real. It has music, photos, videos, and—of course—memes I want shown when I die. People assume I’m being dramatic, or darkly funny, but no. It’s real. I don’t show anyone the contents because… it’s a surprise. If I ever have kids, they’ll probably be the most surprised. Hopefully not disturbed, though.
I don’t want to embarrass them — these hypothetical children. Is that weird? Yeah, maybe. I shrink myself a lot. To fit relationships. To keep peace. To avoid making other people uncomfortable. Sometimes I do it so I’m just…not too much of a person. Is it odd to shrink myself for people who don’t exist? Who may never exist at the rate I’m going?
That’s wild, right?
I used to think my voice mattered. I believed it could help someone. I did a little activism work, and I identified with it heavily. My biggest win was lobbying for a bill that passed, and I kept the momentum up for a time after that. Then, life happened.
Someone recently pointed out that I’m not doing “as much” these days. They didn’t mean it maliciously, but it landed right in my gut. Because it’s true. After everything I went through, I shrank myself to create distance from what felt way too public. I thought maybe if I got smaller, quieter, more respectable, I could reclaim some lost dignity from what I went through. The story I brazenly claimed but didn’t really want anyone to know. I could fix my image. I just needed to be slink into the shadows.
I didn’t want to just hide from strangers. I wanted to stop embarrassing the people I loved. No one told me to stop — well, one ex did. But others dropped little crumbs. Told me about conversations they’d had, people who asked them questions. They laughed it off and told me they were proud of me, but I’m a seasoned reader and my favorite content rests between the lines. Slowly, I folded myself up and tried to become more digestible.
Activism made me want to be an attorney but I started wondering: could I ever really be taken seriously in a courtroom? As a litigator? Would they see me as credible… or just chaotic? I told myself I didn’t go into law because I didn’t want to embarrass the people I cared about. That’s what I said out loud. But the truth is, I don’t think I realized how deeply the shame had integrated itself into my core. It wasn’t obvious — it disguised itself as pragmatism, maturity, responsibility. I thought I was making a smart choice.
Sometimes I look back and wonder how I could’ve done better — how I might’ve recognized what was really happening, what I was actually doing.
I don’t think the bill needed me to pass. I think it would have passed without me. Still, I told myself I had to speak up.
I needed to.
Because my state isn’t exactly known for being safe or supportive for women. You hear a lot about women dying as a result of negligence from the system that we were told was supposed to protect us. That felt like enough of a reason. It was the reason.
But at the end of the day, the bill was bipartisan — authored by Republicans in partnership with the YWCA. It had momentum. It had power behind it. It didn’t need me. I was just a footnote, at best. I will say that my voice in the room appeared to help make the vote unanimous. Several legislators were set to vote against it, and maybe I helped change their minds. Maybe that made it worth it. I’ll never really know. (actually I don’t think it was unanimous, I think maybe 1 person voted against it so…lol)
What I do know is that now I’m getting a fucking MBA instead of a law degree so I can go do… corporate shenanigans? In this economy!?
I used to think the future was a fantasy land. Turns out, it’s a fucking minefield. And every step I take now feels like it could blow something up. When I look at the resources I’ve got — emotionally, mentally, financially — it feels more likely to end badly than well. And that scares me.
The funeral album is my final act of autonomy. My love letter to what was, what could’ve been, what almost happened, and what actually did.
At my grandmother’s funeral, we had maybe 15–20 photos. That’s it. The slideshow was almost five minutes long, and the photos repeated themselves over and over. Imagine how that felt — sitting there, knowing we failed to visually honor the most important person in the room. I had more photos once, but they were lost in a fire. I only saw her twice as an adult before she passed. I miss her every single day. And I miss what could’ve been even more. Days we could’ve spent together. Conversations we didn’t have. Things about her I wanted to learn but thought I had more time. Versions of me she never got to meet. Advice I desperately need.
So I’m making sure my slideshow is full. Not pretty, not polished — full. I want it to show my mistakes, my weird humor, my rage, my grit, my losses, my pride, my softness, and my contradictions. I want it to show the full damn picture. Because even if it’s a beautiful mess, it was mine.
My grandmother used to call me bullheaded. I think she meant it lovingly. I have horns, and I break shit. And she was right. I am bullheaded. I break shit. I try again. I shrink and expand. I’m a walking contradiction with a slideshow in my phone that says: Here’s what I did with what I had.
It’s not over yet so no funeral album on display today, but I’m making peace with the fact that my life will always be a little messy. It’s okay if I keep failing. Someday, there will be a win big enough that it all feels worth it. And if there isn’t…well. I’m a little brave and I’m getting used to the embarrassment. So I’ll keep going — horns out, head high, even if I still don’t know where it’s all leading.
Life can only be understood backwards but it must be lived forwards. -Soren Kierkegaard (but I read it in Moon Knight: Black, White & Blood)
<3 hs