you know that feeling when you witness something profoundly quiet something almost reverent and it just absolutely blindsides you with its weight like you’re not supposed to feel anything because it’s not YOUR loss it’s not YOUR moment but it hits you anyway like a physical blow a recognition of some universal human ache we all carry around it’s not even a sadness precisely more like a deep existential tremor that reminds you of your own impermanence your own brief flickering existence in the grand scheme of things and then you just sort of float for a bit utterly disconnected from your mundane reality of spilled cheerios and endless laundry feeling this incredibly pure unadulterated emotion that has no name no category in your brain it’s just there a raw nerve i saw my grandmother this weekend her last few hours in the farmhouse where she raised four children and countless animals where my mom grew up where i spent summers running wild it was sunday afternoon everything packed away ready for the new owners to take possession on monday and she was just…walking through it her hands lightly tracing the doorframes the worn floorboards running her fingers over the scuffed paint on the kitchen wall where she’d measured all her kids’ heights over the years and you could feel the memories emanating from her from the house itself a palpable energy a kind of psychic imprinting on every surface and she wasn't crying she wasn't even visibly upset just this profound quiet dignity this acceptance of an ending that was so absolute so final and i found myself watching her and feeling this intense almost agonizing empathy this deep understanding of what it means to be human to form these incredibly strong attachments to places to things to phases of life that then just…end and i keep thinking about it how we pour ourselves into these roles these spaces these relationships and then suddenly one day it’s over and you’re left with what exactly a collection of memories a fading imprint on a physical space and it’s making me question everything about my own life right now this whole stay-at-home parent thing this identity that’s become so all-consuming i look at my kids and i love them more than anything but i also feel this strange detachment this sense of observing myself playing a part and i wonder if i’m just marking time if i’m pouring all of myself into something that will eventually just dissolve like my grandmother’s house into someone else’s possession someone else’s story and it’s not guilt i feel it’s more like a profound confusion a cognitive dissonance between the societal expectation of fulfillment in this role and this almost primal yearning for…something else something that is purely MINE that isn't defined by anyone else's needs or memories and i don’t know what that even looks like or if it’s even possible to reclaim that sense of individual self after you’ve given so much away it’s just a blur a constant questioning that never really gets answered