Proof of Life

Chapter One

You Get to Have This

There I was. Saying one thing and living another. Trudging through my days, Bullshit Stories tethered tightly to me. The ones that said I had nothing to show for myself or my life and that I did not deserve love, and I certainly did not get to be happy. I was in my forties and still trying to convince the world (the world meaning only myself) that I was not bad, and the world (meaning only myself) was not having any of it. Not be convinced, I let myself stay shackled to those stories and took whatever I could beg, steal, or borrow.

Who was I to ask for-or even want-anything different?

The School of the Seven Bells

I was almost pickpocketed. Twice. First in Rome and then again in Paris. Almost, because neither of my pickpockets were very good thieves.

There used to be a school for pickpockets. The School of the Seven Bells is said to be based in Colombia. There are exams, it being a school and all. One test required the hopeful pickpocket to try to pickpocket the teacher, whose suit pockets had seven hidden bells sewn inside. The goal was to pick the mark clean without ringing any of the bells.


Do you ever think about what you have taken? Beliefs that you took to be true when they weren’t? Shame that wasn’t yours? What about mediocrity, misery, and even abuse because you believed it was all you deserved?

I find old notes in handwriting that is no longer mine, written in the margins of poems I wrote decades ago. My handwriting has gotten illegible over time. The letters run into each other as if they don't know where they end and the next begins. I have forgotten how to do this basic thing. Now dot the i, cross the t, and let your fingers find the rhythm.

If, like me, you (mostly) don't listen to yourself (except when you're being hard on yourself), if you listen better and pay more attention when someone else says something, let me be that someone else saying something. What I am saying is: You get to have this. You don't have to beg, or borrow, or steal. You get to have this (whatever your this is).


The most memorable time I was almost pickpocketed was in Paris. By the Seine, I scooped down to pick up a ring glimmering in the sun, even though it was hideous. It was a huge ring, and with my unusually small (but wide) hands, it looked almost as big as my whole hand, like I had a third hand, just filthy and more copper-toned. I don’t even like copper, but I was thrilled at my luck of finding something. It didn’t matter what. I had that rush of excitement we can get when we find something, as if suddenly anything might be possible.

If I found this, what else can I find? inevitably bubbles up, however briefly, before we go back to disbelieving in our own good fortune.

A man ran over and began speaking in a language I didn't understand as he tried to grab the ring from me. I held on tight as if it had always been mine. I lied and told him I'd dropped it. He yelled at me, in English.

You must pay me for the ring! It is mine! he claimed, his arms flailing wildly.

I gave him the ring, which couldn't have been worth more than a few dollars.

I was miffed at how quickly I succumbed to lying and possessiveness, just for the sake of having.

The intricacies of thievery, with its endless possible outcomes, including forgetting what is ours, who we are, and what we get to have.


Have you thought about what you want? I’m talking middle-of-the-night radically honest want of all wants that you can only whisper into crouched darkness. Have you ever tried bringing it into the light? What happens when you name it? I urge you to see what happens for yourself.

I refused to acknowledge what I wanted, even in my most private moments of solitude and darkest of dark hours. Were I to admit what was so (such as my profound hearing loss), or what I really wanted, I knew I'd then have to do something about it. Or else face that I'd surrendered into complacency.

Instead, I chose not to name what I wanted so I could stay feeling safe. Albeit, this was a false sense of safety, which was also a choice. I convinced myself that never changing, and that sameness and consistency, would equal safety. If I could count on it being the same as it always was (nothing ever is, so this was a ridiculous way to lie to myself), then no one would suddenly leave or drop dead.

What it really meant was a lack of growth.

It also meant feeling like an imposter for not being self-expressed and having a longing for something that I did not know I wanted. An ignored longing becomes an itch you can never alleviate because you can't figure out where it's coming from, and each time you think you've got it, it moves.

If you keep naming it though, you'll start to feel comfortable with the words. Like you have the right to hold them in your mouth, which you do. Naming what we are afraid to is a kind of sorcery; you'll suddenly notice what you've named all around you. Eventually, it will become impossible to deny and it begins to feel real, which was the thing I was most afraid of. Because then what? Now what?

If you are willing to investigate what things you might want, which could you live without? Which are you already without?

I carried an ancient belief that I did not get to have what I wanted and had trained myself to not even notice I was going without. It was easy to go without, I thought.

Don't mistake me; my life was fine. I would not dare whisper to even the washing machine what it was that I hungered for: a deep connection with a partner, a true sense of home, big love, intimacy.

I'm still discovering what I want. There are so many things to want in this life, but the beginning and the end is love. If you have trouble remembering what love looks like (and we all do because besides us, love is the supreme shape-shifter) here are a few images to jog your memory:

The friend who stood suddenly in your garage that day just to give you a hug when she knew you needed it more than anything.

The coffee that's there by your bedside when you wake every morning, which could just as easily be a note saying I love you, and how you drink it even though it's cold by the time you wake because the person who placed it there let
you sleep.

The way your mother seemingly one day fell in love with birds and you accepted the bird lady part of her as if it were always there, and maybe it was, because that kind of delight over small-winged things, over anything, is contagious.

Love can be so many things, but one thing about it is unfaltering: No one can take it away from you. Love is what you are, and I can't say that I know the beginning from the end or what either means anymore, but I do know this.

Not only is love what is worth having, it also is what we all inherently get to have. It's our birthright.

But Mommy, We Can't Be Two Things at Once

Bear with this time jump. Although I haven't shared much yet about the dissolution of my marriage, this interlude is important. It was the moment I knew I had to embody I get to have this.

Robert, my then husband, and I had been separated for only a few months. Charlie and I were sitting in bed watching a movie when he began to cry. I hugged him and asked what was wrong, even though I had a hunch he was struggling with what was happening between his dad and me. A couple days earlier, he had an outburst in the car, moaning things about his daddy and me that I couldn't make out because he was in the back and I couldn't read his lips. It's frustrating that I can't understand anything coming from the back or passenger seats when I am in the car with other people, but when it's your own child and they are upset, go ahead and just cue a panic attack.

I begged him to wait until I stopped driving, but to no avail.

Why can't Mommy and Daddy be at the house at the same time? I don't want you to get divorced, he cried while we were watching the movie that night.

We had said nothing about divorce to him, but he has the emotional intelligence of an old wise grandma (probably channeling my Bubbie).

I wondered what he believed divorce meant? At the time, we were flip-flopping the house and apartment, or nesting, as it's commonly called. The child stays put, and the parents shuffle. I held my son as he cried in my bed, and a minute later, he asked if we could put the movie back on. He was upset, but not inconsolable.

Even when we had been in the house at the same time, Robert and I were rarely in the same room together. I had never allowed myself to really consider how we were existing. We were more like roommates.

It occurred to me how it must have already seemed to Charlie like Mommy and Daddy didn't live together. It apparently seemed that way to everyone else.

The morning after he'd shed those tears, he was his normal, cheerful self. Nothing delights me more than the fact that my son came into the world with a joyful disposition, because sometimes, the apple does fall far.

We cuddled and did our silly morning dances.

I said, Charlie, remember how you were upset? You kept asking why Daddy and I can't be here at the same time? Well, sometimes mommies and daddies do better as friends. Daddy and I are really good friends. We are happier that way.

He looked at me, confused.

But Mommy, he said, you can't be two things at once.

There it was.

I decided to gift my son with the possibilities of what we get to have in life, if we are willing to allow for them. This meant I had to walk my talk.

His best friend's parents were divorced and couldn't be in the same room together. The police were involved, and there was fighting and restraining orders. Charlie had intimated that Robert and I were going to divorce, so he associated the word with all he knew of it: what he'd seen and experienced at his friend's house. I was blown away by his ability to communicate that.

He explained that he did not think you could be divorced and also friends.

Oh, honey. You absolutely can be two things at once. In fact, you can be way more than two things at once. So much of life is about holding more than one thing at a time, I said into his hair as I kissed him.

Nothing is more important to me than having the courage to be who I say I am. I want to model to my child that I live what comes out of my mouth, as best as I can.

I wish we all learned at a young age that life isn't binary and that it's never just one thing. That there's always an and.

I explained this all before school, which made him late, but I like to ignore the Imaginary Time Gods and will often choose cuddling with him over being on time to school. Come arrest me, Mom Police. I'll even make you coffee.

Doing It Anyway

At my Italy retreat in 2023, Stephanie Monds joined us. She is one of my I Got You People, through and through. Stephanie is a writer who has fought to see herself as one. Does that sound familiar? Even if it isn't about being a writer, necessarily?

She has been in a cycle of poverty for her entire life. Being the primary breadwinner, she often had to travel to find work as a nurse, sometimes living states away from her family, which was exhausting and unsustainable. She didn't allow herself to grieve-something I understand and perhaps you do, too. She found other coping mechanisms instead, so that she could return to work as soon as possible to continue supporting her family. She believed that she couldn't afford to grieve, in any sense. I get it, and even though it's rarely true that we don't get to grieve, I understood what she meant in every part of me.


At the retreat in Italy, Stephanie stood and told us about the early days of grieving the loss of her daughter. If someone would’ve just held my hand instead of repeating all the usual shitty things people say to a person who’s grieving, it would’ve meant the world to me. They said things like, “Well, at least you have your other children.” Or “I remember how hard it was when my granny died.” Or “God’s got her now.” And of course, the standard: “She’s with the angels at last.”

On the rare occasions I'd snap out of my state of catatonia, all I wanted to say was, "Fuck you, the horse you rode in on, your God, and your damn angels." But I didn't. I'd just nod my head and force a fake smile.

I hated everyone, especially myself, for feeling that way.

Before the retreat, as I boarded my flight, Stephanie had sent me a text.

She'd never left the country and was petrified.

I'm just a ball of nerves. I'm bringing some of Avah's ashes. I may do a small ceremony for her. She's the reason I met you. The reason I'm going to Italy. It's only right to leave a piece of her there.

It took so much to get her to say yes to the trip. Some of the things it took:

Releasing irrational fears about traveling, leaving the country, flying, and getting lost.

Letting go of any belief suggesting she wasn't worthy.

Putting down the guilt she carried for leaving and for Avah dying.

Putting down her imposter syndrome and her Bullshit Story that she didn't belong in Italy with us.

Allowing herself to accept funds that were raised for her, without shame and without making it mean something
other than that she was supported and loved.

She did what it takes to say I get to have this, and she boarded her flight with the extreme prowess it took to bring her daughter's ashes along, in her suitcase.