Thank you for being here.
Or maybe, more honestly, thank me, for finally showing up. For standing still long enough to say goodbye.
This isn’t a funeral in the traditional sense.
No casket. No headstone. No obituary clipped out and saved.
This is a wake for every version of myself I’ve lived, loved, and quietly let go of.
Some of them died loudly.
Some slipped away unnoticed.
Some fought for their life until the end.
Some I buried too soon.
And some, I’ll admit, I still visit in the quiet. I whisper, I’m sorry, or thank you, or I didn’t know any better.Sometimes I say nothing at all.
Let’s begin with the child.
The one who believed love had to be earned. The one who learned how to read a room, how to shape shift into safety, how to swallow feelings like pills without water. That kid was smart. Sensitive. Always performing, never asking.
They died slowly, over many years.
But they taught me how to survive.
Rest easy, little one. You were never too much. You were always enough.
Next, we remember the one who mistook suffering for identity.
The poet. The romantic. The chaos lover.
They clung to sadness like a lifeline, convinced it made them deeper, more worthy, more real.
They believed pain was the price of success.
God, they felt everything.
They hurt, beautifully.
But their time is over now.
And I’m grateful.
But I’ll never forget the art they created from grief.
Then there was the version of me who tried so hard to be perfect.
The one who apologized just for existing, who overworked, overperformed, smiled until his cheeks cracked.
He feared being found out
for being gay, for being soft, for being human.
I wore him like armor in rooms where I didn’t feel safe.
He got me through.
But I no longer need to be unbreakable.
I’d rather be free.
And then, of course, there are the selves I gave away in love.
The ones who quieted their needs. Shrunk their edges. Softened their truths so someone else could feel more comfortable.
They meant well.
They thought love meant disappearing.
But they faded so fully I almost didn’t notice.
I notice now.
There are more.
The drunk.
The forgiver.
The sponge who soaked up blame just to keep the peace.
The boy who held it in until it exploded.
The man who swore he was fine.
The artist who forgot he was allowed to make things just for the joy of it.
The friend who stopped reaching out because he couldn’t stand his own reflection.
They all lived here once.
They all mattered.
And they all had to go so I could stay.
So tonight, I light a candle for each.
And I say…
Thank you for getting me this far.
Thank you for doing what you could with what you had.
Thank you for holding on, even when it hurt.
I won’t romanticize you.
But I won’t erase you either.
You made me.
And now, I go on without you.
Not because I didn’t love you,
But because I finally love myself more.
To all the versions of me that came before:
Rest well.
Rest proud.
Your time is done.
And to the me who’s still becoming, half built, half broken, but wide awake.
Welcome to the rest of your life.