I wrote this post a year ago, but the words necessary to appropriately convey it took a lot longer to set in.
I used to struggle with anxiety, especially around the holidays. Not the run-of-the-mill holiday stress—this was the kind of anxiety that wrapped itself around my chest, whispering, “Someone’s going to die. Something terrible is going to happen.” And because it often did—one after another, year after year—I lived in a constant state of bracing for impact.
I thought my fear would protect me. I thought staying on edge, scanning the horizon for loss, would somehow soften the blow when it finally hit. But here’s the hard truth: anxiety doesn’t prevent loss, it just steals time while you’re still together. I spent so many years worrying about losing people that I missed the moments I still had with them.
And now? Well, everyone’s dead. And everything’s fine.
Because it has to be.
That sounds dark, but honestly, there’s a strange stillness in that realization. When the worst has happened, when the storm you spent years preparing for has come and gone, there’s no longer anything left to brace for. You’re just… here. Alone, in a sense. But also more awake than you’ve ever been.
It’s a funny thing about pain—it takes away what you think you can’t live without, and then it quietly shows you what’s been there all along. That enlightenment didn’t come after the pain. It was the pain. I didn’t get clarity after I suffered; the suffering was the clarity, the thing that forced me to see what I was too distracted, too afraid, or too tightly wound to notice before.
I used to think my anxiety was a protector. If I stayed vigilant—if I anticipated the loss—I wouldn’t be surprised when it came. I carried that anxiety like an umbrella, thinking it would shield me when the rain came. But here’s the thing: the rain still comes, and while I was holding that umbrella, I missed so many sunny days.
When the people I loved were still here, I was already living like I’d lost them. And in a way, I did—because I wasn’t fully present. I wasted so much time worrying about when the end would come that I forgot to cherish the middle.
When Master Roshi died, it hit me differently. He was the last of them—the last of my elders, the last of my core family. He was also the friend my partner and I were closest to for so many years. His death felt like the culmination of all the loss that came before him. I thought it would destroy me, but instead, it gave me something I didn’t expect: clarity.
It taught me to stop fighting the inevitable. It taught me to stop fearing what’s coming and start showing up for what’s here.
And now, a year later, despite all the losses and everything I miss, I’m happier and more at peace than I’ve ever been. Not because I don’t grieve—grief doesn’t just disappear—but because I’ve finally accepted the gifts I’ve always had in my life, by accepting the gifts I hold within myself.
For so long, I thought I had to look outside myself for meaning, for peace, for love. I tied it to people, to relationships, to the roles I played in their lives. And when they were gone, I thought I’d lose all of that, too. But what I’ve come to realize is that the things I loved most about them—their warmth, their wisdom, their laughter—were things I could learn to embody, too.
The people I’ve lost gave me gifts while they were here, and those gifts didn’t disappear when they did. I carry them now in the way I care for myself, in the way I create peace in my life, in the love I extend to others, and in the way I finally allow myself to show up fully—flawed, honest, and unguarded.
I spent years trying to protect myself from loss, but what I was really doing was closing myself off from my own life. Now, I’ve learned that I don’t have to hold so tightly anymore. I don’t have to brace for every storm. I trust myself to stand in the rain and in the sunshine, because I know I can hold it all.
And it’s in that trust that I’ve found the peace I didn’t know I was searching for. I’ve stopped looking outside for what I already hold within me: love, presence, and enoughness.
The irony is, all those years of suffering—the anxiety, the fear, the loss—weren’t barriers to peace. They were the path to it. The pain wasn’t punishment; it was an awakening. It burned away the noise, the fear, the illusion of control, until all that was left was the truth: I am still here. I am still enough. And I can find joy, even in the spaces where grief lives.
So here I am, a year later, not “fixed” or “healed” in the way I once thought I needed to be, but whole in a new way. Whole because I’ve accepted my own company. Whole because I’ve made space for grief and gratitude to coexist. Whole because I know the gifts I hold within myself can’t be taken away.
If you’re still in that place where anxiety feels like the only thing keeping you together, I hope you know this: the storm doesn’t last forever. And when it passes, you’ll still be here. You’ll still have yourself. And that’s where the peace begins—not in what you’ve lost, but in what you’ve always held within.
So let yourself look up. Let yourself see the sunshine, even if it feels faint at first. Life, even with its pain, is still worth celebrating. And so are you.
The Twin Tree Project 