"Hi. How has your year been?"

“How has your year been?”

***TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of death, addiction, grief, & suicide.***

2024 has kicked my ass, and left me breathless. 

I’m tired, angry, grateful,

& tenderly, quietly, determinedly still open.

The most “And, both” type of year I’ve had.

After two heavy mental health years, I came into 2024 with dreams of ease, rest, and rejuvenation. At the end of the 2023 season I needed to sit down more than I ever have before. I remember saying that it wouldn’t count if I had to think about when I was going to get up again. 

Layer by layer I came back to myself as much as I could last winter. Through tears and fury and more shame than I knew I could hold. My chosen family’s support, my systems of care I am so fucking fortunate to have, helped me survive, and learn through it. I felt ready to peel back more, to unfurl into the next phase of artistry & deepen into my professional contributions to my community. The plan was to split time between tour & supporting James, with time at home working on my own projects.

Plan is a four letter word.

My paternal grandfather passed away unexpectedly in February. Truman was many things, but for the sake of time, it is important that you know he was a fantastic gardener; that he loved cheering on his grandsons at local sporting events, and he genuinely laughed at his own jokes. He believed in his community, and he was a dedicated blood donor. 

The next few months went fast. I am deeply grateful for being able to have balanced between processing my grief &, and visiting some friends & family in Colorado that I hadn’t been able to see for logistical reasons in too many years. Watching your friends make babies that turn into real little people is both fascinating, & a wonderful distraction.

At the end of May, after months of hospital stays, my aunt Eda died at her home in Minnesota. Eda was a firecracker of a human being. A lover of cats, music, sports, and architecture. Addiction is a terrible illness. Just because alcohol is legal, doesn’t mean it can’t be dangerous.

In the following weeks, I prepared for the wedding of two of my very best friends; I overflowed with joy at being able to not only witness these two become a family, but also craft the florals that would adorn them and grace the day. At the same time, my heart was with my maternal side deep in grief. 

No matter how it happens, after someone dies there can be this human urge to say or do something that will be the Right Thing™ that will “fix it” or “make it better”. I both understand this urge, and also understand that there really isn’t anything you can tell a person who has just lost someone they love anything that will actually make it better. What I found to be kind and helpful came from people who knew grief themselves. They didn’t try to make me or my family members feel better, they focused instead on letting us know that they were there for us. I am immeasurably grateful for this.

In July I turned thirty, and after years of talking about it, was lucky enough to share my love of Italia’s coast & cuisine with James. For seven days we ate, awed, & ambled around bella Napoli, and the Amalfi. I couldn’t believe it had been more than a decade since I’d been to those piazzas, sampled that gelato, or people watched by the port. I missed it so much more than I knew.

When I returned to the states, I continued with family rituals. I’ll never forget the walk to and from the river. It is an honor to be able to celebrate a person’s life with the people they knew and loved. 

Maybe as humans we’re not supposed to get better at dealing with this death thing. Maybe that’s part of the life thing. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say we learn to grow around things like that. That through both the impact of their love, and the course of their death, they never really leave us. Maybe that’s the point.

As I left Minnesota headed towards calmer spaces, I received news that my paternal uncle died by suicide.

Noah was a gardener like his father. He loved his sons more than anything. And believed strongly in cheese, and good food. 

I instinctively blame myself and our systems for not creating a space safe enough for him to get the help that he needed. That illness kept him so far from himself, it ended up costing us him. 

I’m also forever changed by the ways I’ve seen my family show up; By how we have shown love to one another this year. To choose reaching for imperfect connection, instead of disconnection and distance. 

Even myself- I have been able to show up for my family in ways I never thought I would have to, in ways I never imagined I’d be able to. 

It feels strange to be proud of this. 

Amidst the world, it can feel so selfish to work on oneself or do things purely for the betterment of just ME. And yet, I’m positive I wouldn’t have been able to show up the way I have been able to show up without the therapy, the herbalism, the somatic practices, the inner/shadow work, the reading, the podcasts, the trauma informed advocacy & emotional education of the past five years. I have needed every bit of it, and used every piece of it to move through the lessons of this year. 

Between the unexpected family deaths, and other close family members health issues, the political satire we have playing out in the US, multiple ongoing genocides, plus the logistics & tasks of life on and off tour, as well as the absolute BLESSINGS that have come into my life through people, relationships, and experiences– it's been one hell of a year. 

And fortunately & unfortunately, I know I’m nowhere close to being alone in this. 

I’m still processing the grief of my grandfather. Regrets about last Christmas. 

Processing my aunt’s long passing. And all the layers of fear within myself and our family built up about this from the past decades. And remembering that death isn’t a punishment. 

The joys of meeting my friend’s baby for the first time; Of doing wedding florals.

The bliss of wandering around southern Italy with James. 

The grief of brothers’ heartbreak.

The difference between the pain of a loved one’s long illness, and the pain of surprise loss. 

I’m still holding my uncle in my heart space, knowing he has found somewhere safe to rest. 

I’m painting and writing and drinking coffee, and pulling in close.

I’m “riding the waves” and crying a little less often than I need to. 

I’m grieving what it is to be alive, and melting into the gratitude that comes after.