Nothing Changes

There is a beautiful tradition that some aboriginal tribes adhere to when a community member dies.

The very same day of the death, every community member will move something out of place (a piece of furniture, a statue, anything of significance).

In doing so, they show the bereaved in their community that everything has changed, that they too feel the loss, and they too are affected by it.

One of the most powerful realizations I have had when faced with tragedy, losing the being in this world I loved most, is that simply put:

Nothing Changes

For a few days, people asked me how I was doing, offered their sympathy.

For a few weeks, people wish condolences.

Eventually, they stop.

But what about me?

For me, everything changed. For me, I fundamentally see and experience the world differently now.

I wake up every day with a hole in my heart so big that I get physically caught off guard.

Every night, I come home to an empty house.

I exhale, I make myself dinner in silence, take a shower, maybe play my guitar, and then I go and lay in bed with my eyes open for hours.

When people ask me questions about things like business models, and dieting now, my answers are bland.

Things I used to feel so passionately for are now meaningless.

But the world goes on.

Nothing Changes

Although I am drowning, gasping for air, life goes on.

Bills need to be paid, workouts need to be done, food needs to be eaten.

Somehow, while this great white rapid of grief washes over me and I am seemingly weighted down by lead boots, unable to find the desire to move forward, I must find a way to swim.

Nothing changes, but somehow:

Everything has changed.

Maybe my perspective was due for a shift?

After all, the very first thought I had when I got home to find Yogi's body was that I would give up every dollar I have ever and will ever earned to live with him in some shack in the mountains for the rest of our lives.

After all, had you asked me how I was doing when I was on a hike with Yogi last year, I probably would have said:

"Pretty good, but I wish I had 100mm in the bank right now."

Now, given the choice between that hike with Yogi and the latter, I wouldn't hesitate before taking the hike.

After Yogi died, I wrote a letter to my younger self talking about the word:

Énouement

Noun. the bitter-sweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.

In that letter, I promised my younger self that I would experience pain, and joy, and everything in between, and somehow I would be ok.

Maybe this time:

Everything has changed.

Maybe this time, I will go hug my younger siblings, I will cherish my time with them and not spend it stressing about other nonsense.

Or maybe this time:

Nothing has changed.

Maybe nothing had to.

Maybe the present moment has been perfect all along.