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As I come to a red light at a busy intersection, surrounded by bleak concrete, I can't help but wonder—why did we create this world we're living in today? We, as a species, had endless options. Infinite branches of possibility. Choices made, chances taken, a butterfly effect of evolution unraveling over centuries—and somehow, we ended up here. In a world of fentanyl billboards and telephone poles. Corroded tar-covered roads. Rust-stained chain-link fences and factories that never sleep. Warehouses bursting with boxes of things we don’t need. Artificial intelligence doing our thinking, while dirty money fuels our decisions. Gas guzzlers barreling into fast-food drive-thru lanes under the watch of dented guardrails lining five-lane highways. Eighteen-wheelers carrying processed food through rust belt towns built on forgotten promises.
How can we not be depressed? Loneliness tempered by Prozac. Movement monetized by the wellness industry. Exercise sold back to us in designer leggings and boutique fitness studios. Everything, even our healing, has a price tag. Did our higher power intend for this? For us to lace her beautiful creations with smog and steel? Did Mother Earth ever imagine carrying the burden of our weight, our waste, our want? I feel disconnected from this world. This rust belt country fueled by sin, greed, and endless consumption. My soul longs for something simpler, quieter, real. A place where I can breathe. Where I can look up and see only sky—no tangled power lines, no glowing neon signs selling salvation. Just stars, space, stillness. A place where the air is clean and the food is fresh, grown from soil that remembers love over profit. Is there a way back from this? Or have we passed the point of no return? Environmental conservation can only go so far if the fabric of our being is still woven by corporations. We preserve wild spaces, carve out national parks like sanctuaries—but are they enough? Are we only putting nature behind glass, keeping it safe from us? I want to believe we can change. That it’s not too late. But some days—like today—I feel the weight of it all. And it saddens me deeply, quietly, relentlessly. Chiron—the planet of healing our deepest wounds. Active under the Libra full moon, I closed my eyes and turned inward, zooming into the galaxies behind my eyelids. Each speck of light and darkness swirled in hues of whites and blues, a celestial dance unfolding inside my brain. The instruments began to vibrate through my body, their reverberations gently pulling me deeper.
Others surrendered to sleep. Soft, rhythmic snoring rose to my left. To my right, a woman released bloated breaths, each exhale thickly punctuated by the wet sounds of saliva. These distractions weren’t just background noise—they lodged themselves deep in my awareness, stirring something primal. A strange mix of agitation and detachment coursed through me, electrifying my senses. My thoughts spiraled as fast as asteroids: from “How could they sleep through this moment?” to—“What a beautiful gift sleep must be.” Does anything really matter? I had come with the intention of connecting to my mother—to feel her presence, to acknowledge my guilt, to sit beside her pain and find peace in knowing she is at peace too, wherever she may be. But the snoring around me felt like static interference, as though it kept me from hearing her voice. I felt the weight of her absence, of her death, settle into my chest. I carry it every day, but in that moment I asked myself again--does any of it truly matter? We give so much meaning to memory, so much heaviness to the past. But what if we didn’t? What if we let go of the stories we cling to, of the sorrow we wrap around our hearts like armor? Just as that thought landed, the instruments shifted. A deep gong rolled through the space, vibrating through my bones, and suddenly a wave of euphoria surged through me. Gratitude arrived—purely and simply. For the breath in my lungs, for the sensations in my body, for the privilege of witnessing this moment. My awareness briefly flicked outward—I heard the bass of a car stereo from the street, giggles from passersby on the sidewalk above our quiet basement space. Distractions, yes. But also gentle reminders that we are not alone. That even in silence and stillness, life moves around and through us. We walk this Earth together. That realization opened something in me. The ancestral connection I had been yearning for made itself known. In surrendering, I finally received. I felt my grandmother clearly, vividly, as if she resided within one of those galaxies behind my eyes. Her presence carried memories of joy, echoes of grief, the shared pain of the women who came before me. It all moved through me—like stardust in a tide. As the sound bath neared its last vibrations, gentle chanting and chimes called me back to the room, pulling me from the dreamy spaces where my spirit had wandered. A rhythmic drum beat over my heart and sealed something in me—a lesson of duality, of light and shadow, dancing together. Five slow, intentional strikes, followed by the delicate tap of a cymbal. A soft punctuation mark on a cosmic sentence. I am a Pisces sun, Gemini moon, Leo rising. And on this quiet Saturday in April, with Chiron eclipsing the Sun, I was given a lesson in healing. A reminder to embrace both pain and pleasure as part of the same whole. To feel deeply, to release, and to say thank you—for all of it. Adjectives mean more than most people know. They aren’t just compliments—they're confirmations. They feel like tiny windows where someone sees beyond the surface, past the shell of the hair, the clothes, and the curated expressions, and into the marrow of who we are. But those words rarely come for some. Not the deep ones. Not the ones that touch the soul rather than skim the skin. The ones that capture one's essence. The way someone anchors a room without trying. The kindness in their timing. The magic of how their laughter lands in your chest. Those are the things that truly glow. So when someone tells me I’m beautiful, I cry. Because it feels like being seen for real, and that is rare.
Maybe we need to hear it more often. Or maybe we need to start saying it to ourselves. People toss around the phrases “beauty comes from within” or “confidence is an inside job,” but let’s be honest—reassurance matters. Words of affirmation have become one of my love languages, one I didn’t speak fluently until recently. I used to chase connection in all the wrong ways—relationships that were more about being wanted than being loved. Good morning texts that fueled the ego, not the heart. People whose feelings ran deeper than mine, and I reveled in that imbalance. The thrill of being desired. The high of attention. The chaos of late nights and blurry mornings. That chaos. That adrenaline. The messy lust that made for better stories than outcomes. The rollercoaster of drinking and dopamine. I realize now, in sobriety, that what I truly needed wasn't another night out—it was tending to the pieces of myself I had ignored for so long. Without substances, the silence grows louder. There’s no more numbing, no more forgetting. Just me and my feelings. And so the pendulum swings. Where I once lost count of Moscow mules and dirty martinis, I now indulge in hot fudge sundaes and thick-crust pizzas. Binge-watching, binge-eating, binge-everything. A search for stimulation, for texture, for variety. If it's not bouncing from classy speakeasies to skeezy dives, it's toggling between artsy cinema and trashy TV. It’s not about the consumption. It’s about the feeling. The novelty. The validation. The stories to be told. Maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all along—in nightlife, in substances, in food. A story. A sensation. A mirror to show me I exist and my existence matters. But the truth is, I’ve always existed. I've always mattered. I just forgot to look inward for proof. And now, I’m learning again. I’m peeling back the layers, letting my soul's reflection speak. Even when it stings, it also soothes. This—this honesty, this depth, this vulnerability—is beautiful. And so am I. How lovely it is to think that somewhere in the world, deep in a lush forest untouched by human hands, there stands a tree—a quiet companion to your journey. On the day you entered this world, that tiny sprout pushed through the earth just as your lungs filled with your first breath.
Miles apart, you and your tree have grown—your limbs stretching toward the sky, swaying with the wind, weathering the seasons. Your branches strengthen. Your roots deepen. And your presence, like the tree’s, quietly sustains the world around you. Without realizing it, you offer refuge to friends and smiles to strangers, just as your tree does—its grooved highways guiding ants on their travels, its sturdy arms cradling the delicate blue eggs of a nesting bird, its rustling leaves a playground for spiraling squirrels, their bushy tails flicking against your chlorophyll-filled canopy. With every passing spring, a new ring forms around your core—a quiet testament to all you've endured, each layer holding wisdom, wonder, and the beauty of imperfection. Thunderstorms come and go, bending your boughs and testing your spirit, but still, you stand. And when the petrichor haze fills the air, when the golden light filters through your dew-dropped leaves, you welcome it, letting the warmth and breath of the earth photosynthesize your soul. How lovely it is to know that you are never alone. Somewhere, in the heart of deep and dreamy jungles, there are trees—hundreds, maybe thousands—growing with you, standing with you, breathing with you. Rooted in different soil but bound by the same air, the same sun, the same rhythm of life. We are all one. Closed eyes, electromagnetic waves of blue flickering behind my lashes—gentle pulses glowing inside my mind. Humming vibrations, stirring memories like sharp pine needles caught in a spiraling current. The past rises, restless as dry leaves lifted by the wind, spinning in each shallow breath of grief before settling back to the earth. Energy fertilizes deeply planted seeds with an earthy exhale, the scent of damp soil and weathered bark wrapping around each inhale, grounding, softening.
A quiet pulse, a shifting rhythm. A subtle illumination stretching beyond the edges of thought, casting with it warmth and affirmation, a reminder that stillness is not stagnation—it's renewal. Tones move like whispers, traveling through marrow and memory. Dissolving tension, loosening the knots of the past, clearing space for new roots to take hold. Dirt does not resist the rain—it softens, drinks, transforms. Healing is not erasure—it's blending each drop of awareness, sinking in, nourishing, becoming. A river finding its way home. My mind is a universe—boundless and expanding. Every star I need to shine has always burned within me, ancient and ancestral. Drugs and alcohol were thieves in the night, eclipsing my light and drowning my world in illusion. Tides of depression masqueraded as moonlit revelry—mushrooms blooming in my brain, whiskey rivers flowing recklessly to my eroded soul.
And now, I've traveled home from the dark side of the moon. Standing on solid ground, embracing the full spectrum of being alive—the nebula of joy, the black holes of fear, and the vast, beautiful in-between. All that is, all that was, and all that will be. Stretching into my experience on this Earth, no longer disguised by the hazy shadows of escape. My awareness is an asteroid burning in the sky—sometimes flickering, sometimes blazing, but always illuminating. With its warmth, I welcome every emotion that rolls into my kaleidoscope, from stormy meteor showers to colorful prisms of sunlight. I honor every sacred constellation, every piece of myself—even the ones that once felt too jagged to hold. What happens in the brain when it's time to say goodbye? When our body's story nears the end, is our mind the last to know? Are we in another place, dreaming of better days? Memories of precious moments passed. Visions of what beauty may come. If we go slow, do we hear the words at our bedside? Do our swan songs go unsung, sticking to the tip of our tongues? Where do our fleeting thoughts go? Thirty seconds after the final neurons fire and fizzle, does it all fade to black? Maybe our souls float free to shape shift into new forms. Perhaps our bodies simply rot to fertilizer. Or do our earthly vessels incinerate into specks of dust that scatter with the breeze as the trees breathe life into the world without us? The last word she said was, "Sara." Before she drifted back to sleep. Did she hear me say goodbye, or were my words too late? Does her spirit still guide me, or is every sign imaginary? She visited me in a dream a few nights ago, leaving these thoughts with me.
We were in a hospital room, but it was more of a five-star hotel. A very bright and white room, the polar opposite of the dim room she died in. The room was shared with a quiet, young girl there alone. The girl's bed was nestled nicely in the corner, while my Mom's was the focal point at the center of the room. Tidy and tasteful, a Virgo’s retreat. After a moment, I was called into the hall, where her doctor told me it was "time." In a bittersweet frenzy, she was free to go. It all happened so fast. When I returned with the stapled paperwork, my Mom was confused. Her blonde bang-covered brows furrowed over unsteady eyes. I could feel the weight of her emotions on me, the weight of another decision. She said, “I’m not ready.” Should she stay or should she go? Neither of us could decide, so we went to the restaurant, which was of course connected to her hotel suite. We sat together at a finely polished cherry wood bar. Stained glass lights warmed the air above our heads as we ate perfectly al dente rigatoni in thick tomato sauce. Making light of the situation, she asked our friendly waitress if she should stay. Almost like shaking a magic eight-ball for a solution. Softly, she said she couldn't make that decision. The night went on. Light and casual, forgetting the fate in front of us. Eventually, we paid our bill and pushed in our bar stools before heading back to the suite. As if she knew something we didn't, the hostess called the doctor to meet us in our room for our decision. When we got there, the young girl was gone without a trace. A moment later, an old woman was wheeled into her place. The old woman’s presence meant that my Mom’s bed had to be moved off-center, altering the perfect order and flow. I could feel that my Mom was worried and flustered. Without rhyme or reason, her sunny room with the bright-eyed girl had transformed into a cramped, uncomfortable closet with a strange and wrinkled old woman with sharp icicle eyes. This isn't the life she envisioned for herself. She didn't want any of this. Without any lingering hint of hesitation, she told me, “It’s time for me to go.” What happened inside when her body made up its mind? Did her brain sing a final swan song? Thirty seconds of light left for visions of better days. Bright blue youthful eyes, crisp white hotel sheets, a last dinner together. Was I dreaming of her last dream? MetroHealth Main Campus on West 25th. October 12, 2017. I last saw my Mom here in the ICU after her fall. The next day, I left a room with the lights off. I left without her. Today, my friend needed a ride for a procedure in gynecology. Seven years later, I felt ready to return to a place I’d long since avoided. Metro is where I’ve continued my care. There is comfort in the familiar, but Main Campus was too close for comfort. Westlake, Ohio City, Rocky River. I'd go anywhere but there. With trauma, we avoid people, places, and things. Seven years later, I was ready to break on through.
The air was crisp and clean. The on-ramp to 90 East was stained white with salt. I felt energized and optimistic. On my way to the West Boulevard exit to pick up my friend, I tried something new. Something light, something casual. A carefree conversation with Mom. A conversation like the ones before. Before she was sick. Before she slowly lost parts of who she was. Before she died completely. Like an ordinary hands-free phone call so many daughters have with their mothers daily, I told her where I was going. Who I was going with. When I’d be home. All of the simple things she asked me to do as a teenager, but I would mindlessly forget back then. It was the first time in years that I felt anything resembling a conversation with her. I felt her presence in the present tense. I even laughed a little. It might sound crazy, but I could anticipate her responses. Her lightheartedness. Her wit and wisdom. I told her I was a little nervous to go back. She told me, "it'll be okay." My friend was called to see the doctor, and I made friends with an itsy-bitsy spider scurrying across the arm of the chair next to mine until I felt ready to leave the waiting room to wander the halls. First to pathology, where I once waited for my Mom's routine blood tests. Pausing to remember, I thought back to a time she had gotten lost in the labyrinth of passageways after an appointment. When she still drove to the doctor alone. When I felt helpless, trying to navigate her to the parking garage over a phone call. Her fear and confusion stood beside me and her hair-line fractured ego. I walked to gastroenterology and rheumotology, where she saw doctors for her primary biliary cirrhosis and osteoperosis. Where together, we had conversations about end stages, transplants, and medications that brought a possibility of hope we couldn’t afford. Being in these places again was eerie. It felt like time traveling. Visiting a previous life. One where I was balancing the delicate art of being carefree and caretaker. Life of the party and another life of worry. Before I knew seven years without her. Twenty-five, and my Mom was still alive. As I turned to walk down another hall, my friend, waiting for her procedure, texted that she was feeling little nervous. I texted her back, "it'll be okay." Crossing over the sky bridge closer to the main hospital, I saw a glimpse of the ICU. For the first time since, I held space to focus on the place where she left this world as the curved towers contrasted against the dreary January sky. Not a monumental sight. Grey and cloudy. Nothing remarkable from afar. I zoomed in on each scene behind the dim windows and imagined small rooms full of life, death and the in-between. Full of wishes, hopes, and dreams. Full of beautifully written story endings and fresh haiku just landing on the page. I felt a sense of peace and acceptance. I sent love to the people behind each tall window, casting hope with each fragment of winter sun that illuminated their beds. To everyone connected to the people in those beds. To everyone who left this world in those beds. To everyone who's feeling a little nervous. It might be today. It might be tomorrow. It might be seven years from now, but "it'll be okay." In Chagrin Falls, sound bathing on the first of the year. My back melted like a block of ice into the warm floor of blankets beneath me. The crystal bowls vibrated in deep tones, warming my muscles. My brain tickled along with them, encouraging me to clear space for new beginnings, for rebirth. Inspiring me to have fun with her again. I invited good memories to flood my mind, starting with unforgettable firsts. Wining and dining to the nines in New Orleans. Seeing the Glass Menagerie in New York City. Going to Cedar Point to ride the Blue Streak. I was exhilarated with gratitude. How lucky am I to have these moments in my heart. Simple memories of ordinary days dripped into my brain like cool rain on a light and breezy morning. Watching the Young and the Restless and the Bold and the Beautiful. Eating in the car at McDonald's and using the glove box as a table. Going grocery shopping. Listening to What's Up by Four Non Blondes. Laughing together. I'm learning. I'm figuring it out. Everything's coming together. The sounds intensified. The energy shifted to uplifting bells. I felt a closeness, a connection. A realization of how much time it took to invite her in again. Her true spirit, free of pain and free of worry. An appreciation for a fresh start with our spiritual journey together as mother and daughter.
Exposed and vulnerable. Her soft forehead was unhidden, a sight rarely seen even by herself. She was always so particular about her hair. All my life, she wore perfectly cut bangs. Framing her face with wisping pieces of blonde strands on the sides, everything exactly as it should be. She would spend hours in the morning, painting on her makeup, setting her hair with rollers like science. She said the bangs offset her long German nose. I called it her football helmet. The way she teased it to build volume and hairsprayed the layers to bring texture. A work of art fueled by Folgers, Coffee Mate, and Estee Lauder Cinema Pink lipstick stains on her mug.
The night her water broke in March 1992. Before she brought me into this world. Before going to the hospital, she took a full shower and put on her makeup like any other day. She wouldn't leave the house any other way. Flash forward, and there she was that day in October 2017. In the hospital again, exposed. Her bangs swept to the side. After she fell. After she shattered her pelvis on the kitchen floor, she didn't have time for hair and makeup. Despite all of the pain she endured leading up to that moment, I remember how pure her forehead looked in that stark hospital bed. Soft and untouched. No powder, no concealer. Most other things in that ICU room were so unnatural to me. Unreal. The monitor beeping with the last beats her heart would make. The plastic tube carrying the final breaths her lungs would take. In that sterile, almost lifeless room, her forehead is what I remember most. I kissed it when I said goodbye. I held her hand, noticing her thick veins. I admired the length of her elegant fingers, once smooth and youthful. The strength of her always pink nails. I held the hands that once bathed me in the hands that had recently bathed her. Looking back on this moment now, I know she would have wanted her bangs to be in their place. She would have wanted her makeup done. She would have wanted to go out in style. Just realizing this seven years later, I wish I had thought to do that for her then. I was only twenty-five, and I was losing my best friend. Far too soon. I was doing the best I could. I didn't know everything I know today. And what I know is that her bare forehead was beautiful. The veins on her hands were symbols of a life lived strong. She may have wanted her black mascara and pink lips before heading to the crematorium, but the universe had other plans. We come into this world, naked and exposed. Fresh and oblivious to all that we are. All that we will be. We leave this world gowned and tethered in bleached hospital sheets. Dehydrated and tired. And if we’re lucky, half-certain about all that we are. All that we will be. How frustrating and how beautiful. With death, we experience rebirth. A new unknown. Yet everything else remains as it was. The waves at the beach crash against the rocks. The seagulls fly across the sky. The world continues spinning with or without me or her or you. If everything else stays the same, why have I been living so differently? Why did I stop talking to her? Why isn’t she still the first to know? Her opinion mattered most to me. No one else compares even now. Her advice was my compass in life. She was everything to me. How have I gone all this time without telling her about how I've grown? Today, I decided to start. I got in the bathtub after therapy, and I told her that I'm a content director. I'm three years sober. I practice yoga. I travel every October in honor of her. I have a loving partner. This Christmas, I plugged in the tree we used to laugh about together. Nola interrupted a few times, crying for cuddles. Maybe she already knows all of these things. Maybe she is always with me, watching and smiling. Maybe she has been proud of me this whole time. Somehow, I know she heard me today. I know she is somewhere in some way. The window for communication is opening, bringing with it warmth and light. Taking the weight off the death. Inviting a rebirth of our connection in a spiritual sense. |
Sara CifaniTrauma is not stored as a narrative with an orderly beginning, middle, and end. Writing WorkshopsArchives
February 2026
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