Fair warning: the thoughts in my mind often spill onto the page. In them, I find myself caught between two worlds—capitalism and death—struggling to understand what it means to be truly alive and live. I have one foot grounded in logic, acknowledging the fragility of the body and the mysteries of the mind. The other reaches for something more, something unseen but undeniably felt, while recognizing that even the space I need to write is sustained by the currency of this world. I live with quiet conviction in my values and a sense of confusion about life’s mysteries, yet I believe this keeps me humble and drives my ongoing growth. 

Can this be the whole story of humanity?

My father died when I was eleven. He was only thirty.  That loss opened my eyes to a world most children never have to see. It wasn’t just the grief, it was the confusion of it all, how someone so lively could… disappear. I learned early that life isn’t guaranteed, and love, no matter how pure, can’t always save you.

After he died, I needed a mother who could hold my pain and reassure me that even though the world had fallen apart, I was still safe. But she couldn’t. She had her own unspoken fears and her own broken pieces. She never quite found the confidence to be herself, so how could she model that for me? So, I became that for myself. Protector. Performer. Provider of comfort… for others, primarily. Because when you’re not seen, you learn to be useful. You figure out how to read a room before entering, to fill in every emotional gap, to be the strong one, the funny one, the capable one. Even if no one ever asks you to be.

And now I find myself fifty-one years into this human journey, with a body that holds both wisdom and weariness, and a heart that’s become more tender, not tougher, over time. I learned early on that my thoughts could consume me; so, I began writing, and when I felt uninspired, I would read. Both writing and reading have been two sides of the same coin for me, helping me understand that words have the power to both drain and replenish my mind. They offer a balance during times of chaos and calm that swirl within and around me. I continue to trust the process of expressing and discovering myself, as it always guides me back to who I am and helps me make sense of the world around me.

I continue to recognize and acknowledge that my journey of self-expression unfolds within the system of capitalism, an imperfect system, yet one that provides me the space to step back and rediscover who I am, as well as the room to explore my inner world. Capitalism and its framework have kept me captive, chasing, and consuming until I faced the one truth I could not escape: we have no idea what happens after death. I’ve learned to play the game, perform roles, meet expectations, and climb the ladder. Yet, the more I achieved, the emptier I felt. No title, house, or handbag ever filled the part of me that yearned for meaning— for the soul, for the kind of fulfillment that comes from being, not having. Consumerism both traps and liberates, creating a tension that I’ve learned to live with.

As I remain in the hive of busyness, caught up in commerce and the currency of survival, death also keeps me on the edge of everything, humbling me with its unknowable horizon. The market and moments beyond price will always coexist within me, nourishing each other in quiet reciprocity. The few moments that cannot be bought and that sustain me are: 

• The gentle, sacred act of mothering.
• Love has both fed and carried me through moments that money could never buy.
• The excitement of arriving in a new country and realizing I know nothing, yet everything that matters is universal.
• The electric connection of randomly meeting someone who also wants more from life, who refuses to sleepwalk through it, who questions what they’re told and who they’re told to be.
• Nature soothes my soul with its healing rhythms, textures, and untamed spirit.
• The act of reading and writing, which offers a power of pause.

I don’t mean to suggest that I have a perfect plan or a flawless idea of the afterlife. I was raised from Kindergarten through 12th grade to believe in God and the Lutheran faith, wearing monogrammed sweaters and reciting scripture in chapel. But by high school, I was already getting in trouble for asking too many questions — questions that made adults uncomfortable. The kind that revealed cracks in certainty and chipped away at the polished surface of doctrine. I wanted to believe, but I also wanted to understand. And no one seemed to have the patience-or the answers, for that kind of hunger.

So, I kept searching. Not just for answers, but for something deeper…. for more.

And that’s what I mean when I say I don’t believe this is it. I don’t mean heaven as real estate in the clouds. I mean the next level of the game—a level where collaboration replaces competition.

Where interaction doesn’t spark conflict but curiosity. Where agency is not rebellion, but a birthright. In this “more,” there is no passing down of behavior issues or inner decay through generations. There is only the quiet joy of growth and breaking free from past pain. Not because you’re forced or broken, but because you want to be more. And that desire, that hunger for growth, is the force that keeps this higher realm together.

Sometimes I wonder if Earth is just a testing ground for something greater. A tough proving space for souls that feel there’s something better waiting—not as a prize, but as a return. Not forward, not backward, but deeper… and ongoing despite the tension of death, taxes, and uncertainty.

Maybe those of us who feel the ache most, who grieve loudly and love even louder, are the ones remembering. Maybe the future is calling us back. And maybe this longing… it isn’t emptiness at all. Maybe it’s a memory, or perhaps it’s me being a lifelong learner and an amateur scribbler with insatiable curiosity and interest in what I don’t know.