Andrea Gibson, spoken-word artist who poignantly wrote about gender and a terminal diagnosis, dies at 49
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Their wife, Megan Falley,
Since being diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer in 2021, some of Andrea's work focused on how accepting mortality enriches life.
'The funniest thing through this time is that folks will interact with me as if I'm going through something that they're not going through,'
really
want people to know that they are.'
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Andrea said that in facing death, 'you tap into the brevity of something and all of a sudden everything becomes more special,' and added that 'there is so much more time in a moment than there is in a decade.'
'Andrea was truly a rock star poet,' comedian and writer Tig Notaro, a longtime friend who is an executive producer on the documentary,
The current poet laureate of Colorado, Andrea published several books,
'Renowned for thought-provoking poetry, advocacy for arts in education, and a unique ability to connect with the vast and diverse poetry lovers of Colorado, Andrea was truly one of a kind and will be deeply missed,'
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In a 2017 essay for Out magazine, Andrea wrote about having struggled with the language of identity.
'For a while I reluctantly claimed
bisexual
. Then
gay
. Some years later I was proudly calling myself a
dyke,"
they wrote. 'But when queer found its way to me I threw myself a pride parade, and when I learned the word
genderqueer
it felt like hearing someone say my name right for the first time in my life.'
Born in 1975, 'I was from Calais, Maine/spelled like Calais, France/said like the rough patches on all the millworkers' hands,' Andrea wrote in 'How I Became a Poet.'
Basketball success led to attending St. Joseph's College in Standish, Maine.
'The first time I came out I was 20 years old, studying creative writing at a very Catholic college,' Andrea wrote in the Out essay. 'When I say
very
I mean many of my teachers were monks and nuns and I was playing college basketball for — no joke — The Lady Monks.'
The college went on to make 'some huge strides,' wrote Andrea, who was invited back to the campus a few months after the 2016 shootings at the Pulse LGBTQ nightclub in Orlando, Fla., 'to share all of my queerest poems with students and staff — monks and nuns included.'
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Andrea's unflinching poetry addressed rape, the mistreatment of children, and numerous flashpoint issues. 'It's a political art form. You're trying to write to change minds and hearts,'
Nevertheless, 'I remind myself of that night whenever the political climate of our world is breaking my heart,' Andrea wrote in Out of returning to read at St. Joseph's. 'It's important to notice when things change for the better. It's crucial to our spirits, imperative to the longevity of our activism, and is essential in our own becoming. I never want to stop becoming.'
In one poem Andrea wrote: 'A difficult life is not less/worth living than a gentle one./Joy is simply easier to carry/than sorrow.'
Moving to Colorado in the late 1990s, Andrea was immediately notable in what Notaro described as the state's community of activists, artists, and comedians.
Seeing Andrea perform one night, 'I witnessed the pure essence of an old-school GENUINE rock star,' Notaro wrote on Instagram.
'I couldn't believe the roller coaster of emotion,' Notaro wrote. 'When Andrea stepped on stage, everyone stepped onto that ride with an audience of strangers, holding onto each other for dear life, each person taken aback by their own deep sobs of reflective tears, and then immediately into deep healing laughter.'
According to Andrea's Instagram account, they died at 4:16 a.m. Monday 'surrounded by their wife, Meg, four ex-girlfriends,
In addition to Andrea's wife and parents, survivors include a sister, Laura, whom Andrea wrote and spoke about. A complete list of survivors and plans for memorial gatherings were not immediately available.
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My love, I was so wrong.
Dying is the opposite of leaving.
When I left my body, I did not go away.
That portal of light was not a portal to elsewhere, but a portal to here.
I am more here than I ever was before.
I am more with you than I ever could have imagined.
'I think that the artist's primary job is to tell the truth, but I think that there is an additional job, which is to create hope, to inspire awe,' Andrea said in the April 2024 video. 'I think the poet's job is to remind us that we were born astonished. I have since learned that we are never, ever supposed to grow out of that.'
Bryan Marquard can be reached at
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New York Post
6 hours ago
- New York Post
Fashion model learning to be a man after being pushed to transition at age 15: ‘I was really crazy on the hormones'
In Catholic churches across Manhattan and Brooklyn, Salomé captivated the congregation, uplifting the faithful with her soulful singing and skilled organ playing. The New York Archdiocese Organist Training Program enrollee's musical gifts had her booking gigs across the city. But for years, Salomé's bashful smile and angelic voice concealed a secret — one not even known in the shadows of the confessional. She was a he; Salomé was born Miles. His story is one that's becoming all too familiar: A child with unconventional interests, swayed by strange ideologies on the Internet, is hustled by doctors into a life of medical dependency — only to find himself questioning everything years later. 8 Miles Yardley, aka Salome Evangelista, walks the runway at New York Fashion Week in 2023. Getty Images 'They very quickly put me on hormones without really any discernment. Looking back, if I were a doctor, I would think this is a much larger decision than the kid thinks that it is,' he tells The Post. Miles Yardley, as his female persona Salomé, arrived in the Big Apple in 2022 from his native Pennsylvania. He (then she) quickly became the toast of New York's downtown fashion scene. Yardley signed a modeling contract, was featured in a Marc Jacobs perfume ad shot by famed photographer Juergen Teller, exhibited for Enfants Riches Déprimés, and strutted Fashion Week runways for designers Batsheva and Elena Velez — all while singing in parishes and mentoring Catholic schoolchildren in music. Soon Yardley was a regular bohemian socialite, a fixture on podcasts, even flown to Romania to meet the Tate brothers, with virtually everyone unaware of Salomé's secret. 8 Yardley signed a modeling contract soon after moving to NYC in 2022. @DollPariah/X But a deepening Catholic faith and a medical scare led Yardley to question how he'd been living his life. Just as quickly as he'd burst onto the scene, early this year Yardley gave it all up and ditched Manhattan's trendy underbelly for a fresh start in sunny California. 'I had to move to LA to detransition because I was like, I don't want to have this conversation with people. I don't want to tell the people hiring me or the parents of the students that I teach that I'm actually a man. I just couldn't deal with that,' Yardley, now 27, tells The Post from his new home in Los Angeles. At 15, Yardley found himself a patient in the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia's gender clinic. He'd been late to start puberty and had interests in singing and dancing. Classmates began to ask if he was gay or a girl. He'd never heard of transgenderism. 'I had not questioned my own identity before other people started asking me questions and putting that on me,' he says. After only his second appointment, a Children's Hospital of Philadelphia doctor put Yardley on androgen blockers and later estrogen therapy, calling him 'the perfect example' of a transgender child. 8 Yardley left NYC for California to detransition. 'I was like, I don't want to have this conversation with people. I don't want to tell the people hiring me or the parents of the students that I teach that I'm actually a man. I just couldn't deal with that,' Yardley told The Post. John Chapple for NY Post 'I thought that there would be less social friction for me if I looked like a female because so many people were assuming me to be that way. And I was not super comfortable with people assuming I was gay,' Yardley says. For many years, everything seemed fine. He graduated from high school, taught music at a West Philadelphia Catholic school, and enrolled in Temple University to study music. In fact, he felt that being transgender gave him an edge. As a singer, his voice remained a soprano. He then met an in-crowder from New York who persuaded him to move to the city and pursue modeling — 'but only if you lose 20 pounds.' 'I think I benefited from the [trans] identity in terms of being a model, being a socialite, a party attendee in New York City, and it was a cool, cosmopolitan, artistic thing to be doing with your body,' Yardley says. 'I had entered a different world, where everyone thought I was really cool.' In April 2024, Yardley was diagnosed with pituitary adenoma — a type of brain tumor — and has hypothyroidism. Both conditions have suspected links to hormone therapy. 8 A 15-year-old Yardley was put on androgen blockers after just two visits to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. He's now suing the hospital for malpractice. JHVEPhoto – At the same time, Yardley was becoming closer to people at his church, which he found a welcome reprieve from the cattiness of couture life. 'I realized that I'm hurting myself. I'm poisoning myself. I'm sterilizing myself. The normal things that bring meaning to normal people's lives I'm shut off from because I can't have children in this state. I can't do the normal things that bring normal people meaning,' Yardley says of the moment he began to question the experts and trans ideology. 'When you're 15, you think, 'Well, I'm a weird person. I don't need to worry about that.' The long-term consequences were unimaginable to me.' Since quitting estrogen in January, he's come to recognize other negative side effects. 'I was really crazy on the hormones,' he said. 'I was mentally unstable and cognitively impaired. And generally fatigued, tired, not strong at all in ways that I'm only now coming to really understand.' 8 A deepening Catholic faith and medical issues led Yardley to question his transition. John Chapple for NY Post Yet the path has been a solitary one. The medical establishment abandoned Yardley on this new journey to live authentically. While doctors were all too eager to put him on life-changing medications, there's no protocol for what to do if a patient stops treatment. When that happens, doctors seem to simply lose interest. 'I've asked multiple doctors for advice, and they don't know what to do,' Yardley says on stopping hormone treatment, a process that 'makes you feel [physically] awful. It's been difficult.' 'They just say, 'You should ask someone else.' At a certain point, how many other people can I ask before I just figure it out on my own?' Even before President Trump's second term — in which the backlash against childhood gender transitioning has been swift and damning — the United Kingdom, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Finland, and the Australian state of Queensland had moved to ban or restrict puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones for minors.x In a landmark June ruling, the US Supreme Court upheld a state ban on so-called gender-affirming care for minors. This month, the Department of Justice launched an investigation into more than 20 doctors and gender clinics for minors. The nation's largest youth-gender clinic, the Center for Transyouth Health and Development at Children's Hospital Los Angeles, closed up shop Tuesday, citing the Trump administration. 8 In April 2024, Yardley was diagnosed with pituitary adenoma — a type of brain tumor. He also has hypothyroidism. Both conditions have suspected links to hormone therapy. @DollPariah/X The White House also just announced it will cut federal funding for hospitals that provide minors with gender-transition procedures. Yardley has joined the fight, although he's never thought much of himself as an activist. He's suing the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia for medical malpractice. Yardley's hair is now cut short and dyed a brassy blond. He says both old friends and strangers are sometimes confused about how to address him — a problem he never had when he lived as Salomé. 'I've tried to enter the men's restroom a few times, where someone was like, 'Hey! The women's room's over there!' ' he says. 'It was super awkward. Nobody ever redirected me as a woman.' He doesn't know yet if his medicalized youth has rendered him permanently sterile. But it's not all gloom. 8 Yardley says doctors have been of little help as he's detransitioned and stopped taking hormones. John Chapple for NY Post At his new home, Yardley has started a band, Pariah the Doll (he's calling the debut album 'Castrato'), and launched a clothing line, Eunuch for the Kingdom. He'd like to meet a nice Catholic girl and settle down — but he's also preparing for a life of celibacy, should it come to that. 'Having spent 10 years in the female role, I don't really know how to be a man. That's a scary jump for me,' Yardley tells The Post. Still, he holds no ill-will toward those who set him off on this course — and that includes his own mother. 'I wouldn't even say that she was supportive of it. It was just, like most parents, she trusted doctors because if you are a boomer, like she is, you have no reason to distrust doctors. Their legitimacy is pretty firm in your mind as someone of that generation. So I don't blame her.' 8 A bright spot in Yardley's new life has been starting a band called Pariah the Doll. The debut album is 'Castrato.' Spotify As for those doctors, Yardley is surprisingly merciful. 'I don't believe, as a Christian, that people are setting out to do evil for evil's sake. I don't think anyone has that in their heart,' he said. 'But I think it has a lot to do with an overreach of professionals and a lot to do with money. Hospitals make a lot of money from these procedures. They benefit from having lifelong patients, which is what transgender people are. You need the hormones to maintain the identity.' If he could go back, would he change any of it? 'There's no way to live your life without making mistakes or going down the wrong path,' Yardley says. 'My life would be totally different if I made different decisions at 15 years old, so I can't really conceive of a different path. I don't live in a regret state. In many ways, I'm extraordinary lucky.' He does, however, wish that doctors would learn to be more open-minded. 'If you're a gender-nonconforming kid, you should be allowed to be yourself. I think that was the biggest problem. I didn't feel like I could be confident in who I was. And if that person happens to like singing and dancing and cooking and Barbie dolls, who really cares? You can be a boy who likes that,' Yardley says. 'At the time, nobody in my life told me that was possible.'
USA Today
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- USA Today
Steelers' star pass rusher T.J. Watt got his megadeal. Now comes the hard part
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Watt's historic deal averages $41 million, which tops the $40 million-per-year figure for Cleveland Browns star Myles Garrett and makes him the highest-paid non-quarterback in NFL history. The contract has $108 million guaranteed and came with a $40 million signing bonus. That mega deal is some kind of calling card for the former NFL Defensive Player of the Year. And it begs for comparative context. Consider T.J.'s big brother, J.J. During his 12-year NFL career, J.J. Watt earned three NFL Defensive Player of the Year awards and collected $129.7 million in compensation. That T.J. nearly matched his brother's career earnings with the extension signed last week prompted a hilarious reaction from J.J. In a post on X, J.J. posted, 'I swear if this guy ever lets me begin to reach for my wallet at dinner…' T.J. chuckled when reminded on J.J.'s social media dig. 'We've always had really good banter,' he said. 'J.J.'s covered the checks for a lot of my life. I have no problem repaying the favor, but he's done pretty damn well for himself.' All joking aside, Watt's big contract invites a huge question reflective with the huge hole in his impressive NFL resume. Will Watt, heading into his ninth NFL season, finally help the Steelers win a playoff game? For all of his achievements – Watt was the second-fastest player in NFL history to notch 100 sacks, a pace bettered only by the great Reggie White – he's still seeking his first NFL playoff victory as Pittsburgh has won all of zero playoff games since 2016. 'I think staying healthy is a huge thing. Rotating. Staying fresh,' Watt said, when someone asked what needs to happen for Pittsburgh to avoid its recent pattern of late-season swoons. 'I think it's the way we approach practice and everything. Everything you do is contagious, one way or another. So, I'm just trying to be the best teammate I can be, day in and day out.' No, it's never all on one player, even one as gifted as Watt. 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'I'm very in-tuned with what's going on in negotiations and how things are going. It's fun to see what all you guys are writing, thinking that things are one way and they're completely a different way. So, sometimes it's fun.' Well, it's all business now for Watt. And given his contract and the expectations, it's pretty big business. Follow Jarrett Bell on social media: On X: @JarrettBell On Bluesky:
Vox
2 days ago
- Vox
The taboo that Americans just can't seem to break
is a lesbian journalist and author based in New York City. Her work has been featured in New York Magazine, Cosmopolitan, the New York Times, and many others. When Alana Romero was a child, they'd leave their bed in the middle of the night, sneak through her family's darkened home in South Florida, and slip into her sisters' bedrooms. But they didn't want to play, gossip, or otherwise annoy her siblings — she wanted to make sure they hadn't died in their sleep. 'I would wake up, crawl to my sister's room, just put my hand under her nose and make sure she was still breathing,' Romero, now 26, recalls. 'If she was snoring, that was a good sign.' Romero would then check on her little sister one room over. Is she breathing? Yes. Reassured for the moment, Romero would return to their own bed. Romero didn't know exactly why she was making these anxious nighttime visits at the time — she kept them to herself. What they did know was that in their Catholic, Latino family, death wasn't something that was acknowledged, much less discussed. 'It's like, don't talk about death, don't do the taboo things, maybe don't even prepare for [death] because if you just don't talk about it, don't prepare for it, maybe it won't happen,' Romero says. Vox Culture Culture reflects society. Get our best explainers on everything from money to entertainment to what everyone is talking about online. Email (required) Sign Up By submitting your email, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Notice . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply. When a loved one did pass, the circumstances of their death, and the events of their lives, weren't brought up again, at least not with Romero. It felt like once a family member was gone, they were gone for good. So, like many other children with questions but no answers, Romero carried on as best as they could. She worried, she wondered, she woke up in the middle of the night. In the US, we've long approached death with secrecy and silence. Despite the fact that, according to one survey, nearly half of Americans think about death at least once a month — and a quarter of them think about it every day — many keep these thoughts to themselves. When asked to rank their willingness to talk about various taboos, from money to sex to religion, respondents ranked death dead last, at 32 percent. Furthermore, a 2018 survey conducted by the Institute for Healthcare Improvement found that while 92 percent of Americans agreed that discussing their end-of-life preferences was important, only 32 percent actually followed through. In other words, people struggle to bridge the gap between an internal awareness of death, and the actual external preparation for it. 'Death is the ultimate loss of control. It's the ultimate uncertainty.' There are any number of reasons why people avoid these conversations. You may not know where to begin. You may not want to upset others. You may not know how to answer your child's questions. You may be afraid of aging, illness, the callous indifference of insurance companies, and the creeping of medical debt. You may be superstitious. You may feel too young or too old to worry about it. Or you may hate to confront, once and for all, that you are afraid of what you can't prevent, contain, or wish away. 'Death is the ultimate loss of control. It's the ultimate uncertainty,' says Claire Bidwell Smith, therapist, grief counselor and author of Conscious Grieving: A Transformative Approach to Healing From Loss. 'We can really get very clear and focused and organized about so many aspects of our lives, yet death is the one that we cannot. We can't predict it, we can't control it.' This studious avoidance of death has real consequences: Less than half of US adults have a will, which dictates financial and estate preferences after death. Likewise, only about 45 percent of adults have a living will, which dictates wishes around medical care. These numbers may be surprising given the Covid-19 pandemic, which exposed a generation of Americans to the existential dread, systemic failures, and grief of a global death event. But after a brief uptick in estate planning during the pandemic, interest waned. These cultural seeds have long been sown by organizers, spiritual leaders, academics, medical and funeral professionals — and much of this work pre-dates the pandemic. The contemporary death positive movement, which advocates for a transparent, unabashed approach to death and death care, began in earnest in the early 2010s when author and mortician Caitlin Doughty founded the advocacy group The Order of the Good Death. This movement has deep roots in the hospice care, green burial, and home funeral movements. Still, despite the pandemic's fresh lessons — and the ancient knowledge that death comes for us all — many of us still cannot bear to talk about death. Even when we know it's important. Even though we may want to. So why not? And what would we stand to gain if, instead, we learned to speak about dying more openly? How death became laden down with euphemism American attitudes around death and dying are fairly modern creations, taking root in the 19th century. Until then, most people died at home. Rites were carried out by community members, bodies were washed and displayed in the home for mourners, and funerals were cheap, intimate and hands-on affairs. That is, until the Civil War. In the early 1860s, people were, for the first time, dying away from their homes en masse. To address this, embalming — the process of slowing down decomposition by replacing the body's blood with chemicals — was used to preserve bodies long enough to transport them back to those families who could afford it. Sarah Chavez, a writer, historian, and activist who is the executive director of Order of the Good Death and founding member of the death scholarship organization The Collective for Radical Death Studies, says embalming didn't truly captivate the American imagination until the death of President Abraham Lincoln in 1865. 'When [Lincoln] died, he was embalmed and went on a multicity tour, like he was a music artist,' Chavez says. 'People came out in droves to see the funeral train and his body. That really kind of cemented embalming as this new, American thing.' Embalming became more widely popular and laid the foundations for a new paradigm: dead bodies cared for outside the home by a buttoned-up, for-profit class of embalmers. Over the next few decades, embalmers and funeral workers, who Chavez says signaled wealth and elegance by setting up shop in Victorian-style homes, slowly gained a foothold in the United States. At the same time, during the turn of the 20th century, medical care was also leaving the home and entering more firmly into the purview of trained doctors, nurses, and hospital systems. 'The funeral industry and the medical industry rose up together and kind of partnered to position themselves as these guardians of health and safety,' Chavez says. (Seeking trained medical professionals has obvious benefits for the living, but keep in mind that dead bodies aren't dangerous, and embalming services aren't necessary for health or safety.) By the 1930s, the modern funeral industry had taken off and sold a new, 'dignified' version of death — one that rapidly isolated the living from their own dead. 'Their definition of what a [dignified death] was, is expensive, away from the home amongst professionals, devoid of signs of death through embalming,' Chavez says. 'They come in and they whisk away your person and they return them to you as if they look alive, as if they're sleeping.' If you've ever said 'passed away' instead of died, 'loved one' rather than dead body, or 'memorial park' rather than cemetery, you'll begin to see how thoroughly death has been obscured. There are, of course, vibrant counterexamples of this attitude across American culture. For marginalized communities in particular, elaborate, public displays of death and grieving offer the dead a dignity and power society never offered them in life. Homegoing rituals in Black communities, which often blend African and Christian practices, and political funerals and 'ash actions' during the AIDS crisis both come to mind. Still, throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, death became laden down with euphemism for large swaths of society. This was often encouraged by the funerary industry, whose professionals developed language to avoid talking about death while, paradoxically, talking about death. If you've ever said 'passed away' instead of died, 'loved one' rather than dead body, or 'memorial park' rather than cemetery, you'll begin to see how thoroughly death has been obscured from the common lexicon. This language, or lack thereof, can make every aspect of death more secretive and more confusing, from the actual physiological process of dying itself all the way down to funeral prices. These factors — embalming practices, the expansion of a for-profit funeral industry, and a developing taste for euphemism — gave birth to the modern American death taboo. The cost of silence When we avoid talking about death, we risk living and dying in ways that don't align with our values and needs. If you don't discuss end-of-life medical treatment, for example, you may receive invasive and expensive care you never wanted. Or as a caregiver, you may be forced to make quality of life, death care, and estate-related decisions based on your best guess rather than falling back on the information and documentation needed to confidently honor someone else's wishes. ' Many of us know so many people who've died and didn't have a plan,' says Darnell Lamont Walker, death doula and author of the Notes From a Death Doula Substack. 'And so when they die, the family is falling apart and everyone is thinking, Oh well this is what I think they would have wanted.' In that situation, it's easy for conflict to break out among even the most well-meaning family members. Talking about the logistic aspects of death ahead of time — including your legal and medical rights during and after dying — can help you, your loved ones, and your community act with clarity and conviction. But for some, talking about the logistics of death is the easier part — there are steps to follow, forms to fill out, bills to pay. Instead, it's the emotional consequences that are far more difficult to grapple with. This was the case for Kayla Evans, whose dad died in 2013. Growing up, her family didn't talk about death unless it was about practical matters. 'There was a very utilitarian response,' Evans recalls. 'Like, it's sad, but we have to move on.' From her mother, there was an unspoken message that 'people who were very sentimental about death were silly.' 'Nobody taught me how to deal with grief and nobody taught me how to deal with death.' Then, when she was 18, during her second week as a college freshman, Evan's father died unexpectedly. 'Nobody saw it coming,' Evans, now 30, says. 'As he was dying, my mom was like, We need to transfer your name over to these financial documents … the administrative tasks that follow death, things like that, were very well taken care of. I don't think any of us together processed the emotional side of it. That was something I had to do on my own.' Without anyone to talk to, Evans turned to 'extreme productivity' as a coping mechanism in the months after, piling on projects and jobs and schoolwork — a strategy that came at the expense of her relationships and emotional wellbeing. ' I would like to say I grew from [my father's death] or something, but honestly it was just really fucking hard,' Evans says. 'Nobody taught me how to deal with grief and nobody taught me how to deal with death.' Twelve years later, 'I feel it still trails [my mother] especially, and it trails me, too,' Evans says. Talk about death is, weirdly, life-affirming It's not always easy to have conversations about death. But, clearly, it's not easy to avoid them, either. If you want to start grappling with the reality of death, the first step is to ask yourself questions about the end of your own life, though it can feel scary. What does a life well-lived look like for you? How do you want to die? How do you want to be remembered? Taking the time to reflect on your own can help you clarify what you want and better prepare you to tell others what you need. When approaching loved ones about end of life wishes — either your own or theirs — Kathryn Mannix, physician, palliative care specialist, and author of With the End in Mind recommends breaking down the conversation into two parts: the invitation to talk and the conversation itself. For example, you may say something like, Dad, I want to be able to step up and care for you when the time comes. Do you think we could talk about the care you do and do not want towards the end of your life? Could we talk sometime over the next few weeks? 'Talking about our wishes at the end of life is a gift to our future self and to the people who love us.' Alternatively, if you'd like to start the conversation about your own wishes, Mannix suggests something like: Kids, I'm not getting any younger and there are things I'd like to talk about to put my mind at ease. When can we talk? This approach matters because it allows the conversation to happen when all parties have had time to think and prepare. 'Talking about our wishes at the end of life is a gift to our future self and to the people who love us,' Mannix wrote in an email. 'Talking about dying won't make it happen any sooner, but it can make it happen a great deal better.' But these conversations shouldn't just be about end-of-life care or medical decisions — it's also an opportunity to give and receive stories, explore your spiritual beliefs, get existential with your kids, and connect over grief, joys, and regrets. For example, you may approach an elder and ask: What are some of the defining moments of your life? You may ask a child, What do you think happens after we die? Or you may ask a friend, Have you ever navigated death and grieving? Finding your own way to incorporate death into your life can also serve as a corrective to a wider culture of silence. 'I'm currently getting more and more comfortable with death through spiritual practice and connecting to my family's roots of Santeria,' says Romero, who checked their sisters' breathing at night. She connected to Santeria, an Afro-Caribbean religion that originated in Cuba and blends traditional Yoruba practices and Catholicism, through her grandmother, who was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. 'I also find that I'm coping a hell of a lot better than other people in my family because I do have this comfort in knowing that … I will always have a relationship with her, even in the afterlife, through my spiritual practice.' Evans, whose father died when she was 18, decided to talk about death and grief during her wedding earlier this year. In her vows, she talked about the sensation of watching her husband sleep at night, and the 'creeping dread' of knowing he was going to die some day. ' I think that other people appreciate when you talk about things like that, even if it's hard to, and it was important for me,' Evans says. 'I did feel kind of empowered, or at the very least like I had confessed something, you know, it was a relief.' For Evans, talking about her preemptive grief wasn't morbid — it was a testament to her deep regard for her husband.
