I wrote this last Friday (2/20/26)
TW: Death & Self Harm
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Yesterday, I couldn’t stay inside my apartment anymore. The air felt too heavy, like it was pressing down on my ribs. So I grabbed Ruby’s leash and drove to Livingston Park, hoping the cold would clear my head.
On the way, a homeless man sat right in the middle of the intersection where the lanes crossed, as if he had run out of places to stand. His clothes were torn, barely clinging to warmth. His hands were cracked and bleeding from the cold. Beside him sat a black trash bag, his whole life in plastic, and behind him, a yellow bag of dog food.
Then I saw a scrap of a blanket and something on his lap shift. A small dog slept there, dirty and worn, curled into him like he was home. The dog was fed. Safe. Loved. The man had nothing, yet he gave everything he had to that dog.
By the time Ruby and I reached the park, the image of them sat heavy in my chest. Halfway around the loop, I stopped at a bench overlooking the snow‑covered water. The cold air hit my lungs, and suddenly I wasn’t in the present anymore. I was back in the past here at Livingston park. Before life cracked open, before grief carved its shape into me.
I was running ahead with Catherine, my childhood best friend, arms out like airplane wings as we leapt onto the big rock by the water. I was hiding behind trees, jump‑scaring her little brother Will. I was dragging a stick behind me, head down, because “loop first, then ice cream.” I was elbow-deep in mud under the wooden bridge, searching for salamanders. I was sprinting toward the playground, climbing monkey bars, hearing my mom’s laugh ring across the park like sunlight.
Then, I was a little older. Sharing a single pair of headphones with Catherine, one earbud each, listening to Fall Out Boy as we pretended we were too cool for spy games with Will. I was walking with my mom, just us, talking about life, about how kids at school made fun of me for being too skinny and disproportionate. She’d teach me the silly dances she taught her preschoolers, and we’d burst into laughter doing the Tooty Ta or the alphabet macarena as we walked.
Then high school came, and I didn’t walk with her as much. But I still remember slowing my pace so I wouldn’t get too far ahead of her and her aching back. The crunch of dead leaves under our feet. The quiet. And then came that same walk, this time after she decided she couldn’t stay in the dark any longer.
April. Fifty‑five degrees. Snow mostly melted. Me and my dad walking in silence, trying to feel close to a man who had been a stranger for most of my 15 years here on earth. The park felt hollow without her. I couldn’t understand how she could choose this place, this place full of our laughter, our memories as the place to leave the world.
For years, I avoided it. Then I went once a year. Then not at all. But sitting there then,, watching the snow settle on the water, I finally understood. She chose this place because it held the last pieces of her light. Because everywhere else had been swallowed by a darkness she couldn’t escape. Because she wanted her last moments to be somewhere that still held beauty.
And somehow, that understanding didn’t break me. It softened me. It let me breathe. I smiled. I took a picture with Ruby, and I finished the loop.
On the way home, I stopped at Dunkins. I got my favorite drink and a plain donut for Ruby and I to share. I didn’t expect the man and his dog to still be there. But they were. He had wrapped the torn blanket around his dog fully and was rubbing his hands together, trying to knit warmth back into them.
I turned around, parked, and put my thick “just in case of emergencies” blanket in the front seat so I could hand it to him at the light. I added the donut too, he needed it more than I did. When I rolled down my window and asked if I could give him the blanket and donut, he nodded quickly, eyes wide. “Yes. Yes. Thank you.” His smile was huge. His dog wagged its tail, licking his face, nosing at the Dunkin bag. I drove away with tears in my eyes. He hadn’t asked for anything. He didn’t ask for more. He was just grateful, grateful for warmth, for a donut, for a moment of kindness.
Today, a police officer knocked on my door. He asked if I knew anything about what happened in the apartment across from mine. I didn’t. He stepped inside and told me my neighbor took his life last week. I barely knew him. I barely saw him. But hearing this, broke my heart.
The world feels unbearably dark sometimes, especially now. It’s easy to believe the darkness is all there is. But then I think of the homeless man with nothing but a trash bag and a dog who loves him. And how that love is enough to keep him going,for now. I hope it keeps him going until life gets lighter.
And I think of my mom, how she loved fiercely, loudly, with her whole heart. How she gave everything she had until she had nothing left. How she chose a place filled with our memories because she wanted her last moments to be wrapped in something beautiful.
And then I think of myself. For so long, it felt safer not to feel anything at all. I became whatever version of myself other people needed, instead of who I was. But now, I’m learning to feel again. To let the darkness in without letting it swallow me. To let it teach me what the light never could on its own.
Because the truth is this: The world is dark, yes. But it is not only dark. And the parts of me that hurt are the same parts that can recognize beauty, and kindness, and hope. So this message is for anyone feeling like there will never be light again.
Don’t fear the darkness. Don’t fear what the light can’t teach you without it. And don’t forget, some of the brightest things grow in places the sun never touches.