on presence

on showing up for someone who's running out of time

Cancer patient on my third recurrence. On the surface I function just fine. All things considered, I'm having a good time. I have an amazing support system and a solid imaginary world in my head and great playlists for stuck-in-bed days.

I don't want to vent too much to the people around me because I know they're doing their best, but honestly I'm not sure how to come to terms with the fact that so much has been taken from me and I very likely don't have a future.

- Anonymous

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My dear sweet Anonymous,

I want to start by saying: the fact that you’re functioning, building an amazing support system, an imaginary world, and creating playlists to go along with these is no small thing.

Anonymous, that’s everything. It’s the work of someone who’s doing much more than simply survive, but doing their best to live. And honestly, not everyone can say that.

Having said that, I say this with my hand on yours, a hug following thereafter, and as gently as humanly possible: you don’t have to be okay for everyone else’s sake.

And while I appreciate you sending this letter, knowing that with me, not being okay is fine. I can also hear you protecting those you love. You’re doing the emotional labour of managing their feelings about your illness, despite the fact that you’re the one living it.

I see you lying in bed, in your imaginary world, with your banging playlist in the background, worrying endlessly about burdening those that love you with the weight of what you’re actually experiencing.

I don’t know a lot and I won’t pretend otherwise, but I have a strong inkling that the people who love you? They don’t simply want you to be fine.

Anonymous, I think they’d much rather you be real.

They want to hear the thoughts running through your head as you gaze out the hospital window, as you go through your medical appointments, as you somehow make friends with the hospital staff—and maybe even your fellow patients. What if what they really want is permission to sit with you in the excruciating parts, and not just the good times?

But even more than that, I need you to hear me when I say this:

You are allowed to grieve what’s been taken from you.

There’s absolutely no need for you to earn that grief by venting perfectly nor by somehow making sure everyone else is comfortable with your pain. There’s no need to soften the blow (it is a 100% a blow) with a good attitude and a banging playlist.

And on your claim about not having a future—I think what you truly mean is: not having the future you imagined. And given that you’ve gone through remission before, and it’s back a third time, I can imagine how astute the feeling of hopelessness is at this point. You lost the “someday when I’m better” thrice over.

And that? You can be angry, devastated, and hopeless about that; it’s worth taking up space for. It’s understandable. Expected. And in the case of your loved ones? It is something they’ll do their very best to handle. It’s probably something they’re prepping themselves for already.

My sweet Anonymous, I would let them. At least let even one person in. For I’m afraid that what they may truly be unable to handle is this: watching you disappear into the trappings of fine-ness as you quietly break inside. After all, I doubt you’d have the acting skills worthy of an Oscar. Kudos if you do. But even then, the people that truly love us and have watched us grow up, have an uncanny ability to sense what’s truly underneath.

Let them or someone sit with you in that dark, gloomy, and unfathomable space of cruel devastation. Let them say the wrong thing, let them attempt to lighten the load, let them feel as useless as I feel now writing this to you. Let them love you within the mess, not in spite of it.

As someone who’s sat helpless in the face of truly terrible consequences for the people she loves, all I can say is that it’s no small thing. Our society is obsessed with solutions, but not everything can be solved. Sometimes the only thing we can do is bear witness to other people’s pain and, in doing so, remind them that they aren’t alone.

This entire project of Unsent Letters? At its very core, that’s all it is: a reminder that we’re not alone. Does it feel like nothing to you?

Besides, you’ve already done the hardest part: surviving & attempting to live with what is. That takes more courage and stubbornness than most people will ever know.

Honestly, respect.

My great hope is that you can let your guard down, let someone in. For your future—whatever it looks like, and for however long it remains, might feel a little bit lighter with someone by your side.

With respect and tenderness answering from the void,

it’s michelle d.

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dear readers,

if you could spend a few seconds to write something to anonymous that could make them feel better in any way, please do — that’s what this entire community is for.

thank you.

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Hiii, in case you stumbled upon this serendipitously,

A quick intro:

I’m an intersectional human trying to figure out life, love, business, and help others a long the way. I used to write a lot, literally had an entire IG account on it. But life got in the way, so here I am: battling life back & getting back into writing.

One thing I learned from writing essays is how much I love the interaction and community around it. Hence the core concept of this newsletter: unsent letters.

Send me a Letter

Send me a quiet confession. Dilemmas that keep you awake, unspoken feelings, the truths that live only in your head. I don’t advise severely; I’m not qualified for that. But I can read, reflect, and remind you (& me) — it’s not just you. It’s us.

Unsent letters: 1, 2, 3