NO LONGER WILL OUR FRAGILE DREAMS BE CARRIED INTO SACRED SPACES THAT FAIL TO DESERVE US
Captured by Mitchell Royel in the Fashion District, we find ourselves immersed in the rhythm of self-expression, vibing to "Sl*t Him Out" by Baby Tate. After breaking out into a fierce breakdance, we’ll fade into a serene meditation with bae, guided by the soulful tune of "PREGAME" by Nikki DeMar—a moment of feminine authenticity where fellowship and self-realization become one.
It began with the warmth of amber afternoons and the hushed hum of incense lingering in the air. I'd been chasing a kind of peace that felt elusive, like trying to catch sunlight on water. Hot yoga had become my sanctuary, my quiet rebellion against the chaos of life, but introducing him into this world was a delicate dance. My boyfriend, with his shy smile and hesitant nods, wasn't a yoga kind of guy.
When I sat him down, it was awkward at first. I told him I wanted us to share this, just him and me. Not with the guys, not even with the girls, just us. Somehow, the idea of him stretching in a hot room full of “strangers” in dim lighting made me uneasy. It wasn’t jealousy exactly—more a quiet protectiveness that came from somewhere deep. He resisted at first, called me out on how I was overthinking, but eventually, he said he'd do it—for me.
Money is tight—the kind of tight that makes you double-think the little indulgences. Signing up for private sessions felt indulgent. It might mean a loan, fewer dinners out, and cutting corners elsewhere, but we decided this would be our thing. For the next six months, we’d tackle this together—every hesitant stretch, every bead of sweat, and every exhale. It was less about yoga and more about creating this quiet corner in our lives where time slowed, and it was only us and the soft murmur of mantras. It’s a fragile dream, sure, but it’s ours.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue (Guest Opinion):
The wellness world has transformed into something unrecognizable, blending political extremes in ways I never imagined. Look around, and you’ll see hot vinyasa spaces, meant for grounding the self, now feeling more akin to underground massage parlors. Don’t misunderstand me—there’s a time and place for personal choices if your beliefs permit it. This is not about passing judgment on minorities, sex workers, or LGBTQ+ individuals; it’s not a condemnation of their lives or rights. But we must ask ourselves—what have we done to the sanctity of these spaces? These rooms, once intended for personal growth, self-study, and connecting deeply with mind and body, are evolving into something else.
The mirrors lining the walls reflect more than just bodies—they reflect intentions. Once, stepping into these spaces was about peeling away layers of noise from the world and looking inward. Now, I can’t help but feel the growing tension, where the spirituality once embedded in the practice is commodified and politicized. The candles that burned softly during meditations are replaced with flashing neon, the soothing tones of singing bowls overshadowed by playlists desperately designed to "trend." No judgment on progress or expression, but is it still progress if we stray so far that the purpose is blurred?
It’s time we return them to what they’re meant to be, by any means necessary—a sanctuary where the chaos of the outside quiets, and transformation begins from within. These spaces deserve the reverence they were built upon, as temples to the human spirit’s resilience and hunger for growth. It’s not about turning back time but about reclaiming authenticity, where the hum of collective breath reignites the connection to ourselves and to something larger.
WHERE ALIGNMENT ENDS
Captured in the Fashion District, the energy of the bustling streets mirrors the vibe of my current mood—raw, reflective, and a little dreamy. "Black Hole Friend" by Chymes plays in the background, its haunting melody weaving seamlessly into the chaos around me. It’s that kind of song, the one that pulls you inward while the world spins on the outside. There’s something poetic about being here, surrounded by the noise and the movement, yet feeling completely immersed in the stillness of the music. It’s a reminder that even in the busiest moments, there’s always space to pause and feel.
It was a conversation I’ll never forget. I had prepared my thoughts carefully, rehearsing my words to ensure they were clear, constructive, and kind. But as I sat across from the other person, sharing my perspective with care, I could see my words evaporating, met with a blank stare and a wave of defensiveness. I tried again, rephrasing to bridge the gap, offering empathy to ease the tension. Still, my gentle efforts collided with a wall of indifference. It left me questioning—not just the conversation, but the connection itself.
There’s a point in every connection where the heart whispers, Is this still a two-way street? Feedback conversations aren’t just exchanges of words—they’re sacred moments of clarity, alignment, and care. When we share feedback, it’s not just advice or critique; it’s a declaration of deeper intention. It says, I care enough to say this. I care enough to try. But what happens when your heartfelt signals seem to disappear into an emotional void, unheard and unreturned?
Here’s a truth that can feel heavy but is ultimately liberating: feedback shouldn’t need to be a never-ending loop to create understanding. One, maybe two sincere conversations—with hearts open and minds present—should reveal whether mutual respect and alignment are alive in the connection. If you find yourself trapped in an endless cycle of rephrasing, explaining, or pleading to be understood, that very lack of resonance may carry a message louder than any dialogue. It’s not about them “getting it” every time; it’s about whether their heart is even in the exchange.
Because there’s a distinction—a powerful one—between someone needing time to process and someone closing their heart to the dialogue altogether. When someone isn’t responding—1) emotionally, 2) with action, or 3) with presence—it’s an opportunity to turn inward. Not into guilt or blame, but into self-awareness and self-respect. Ask yourself, Am I overextending? Am I chasing clarity at the expense of my own peace? Do I keep trying to connect because I’m afraid of what silence might reveal? Sometimes, we reach not because we believe the other person will meet us there, but because we’re scared to honor the quiet truth that they may not.
Love, respect, and alignment don’t require chasing. When it’s mutual, it moves naturally—like water flowing downstream, like breath filling the lungs. And when it’s not… that’s where the real practice begins—listening to the silence, to your boundaries, to your worth. The deepest truths often surface in the spaces where words dissolve, where the echoes fade, and where our inner compass finds its clarity.
Here’s the gift in the discomfort of unreturned feedback—it’s a nudge from the universe, an invitation to pause. Not to close off, but to open—to yourself, your values, and your energy. Some people may not meet you where you are now, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you dim your light. It means you keep it burning brightly, creating warmth for the connections that are meant to come your way. What flows will always flow; what stays through the quiet will stay.
Honor that.
Honor you.
-Ryder, Mitch
BLUNT BREAKS AND THEATER SEATS + WANDERLUST IN THE CATACOMBS OF US
First day of community college, the air tasted like something new, like cigarettes and cheap perfume smashed into the smell of notebooks fresh from the pack. She walked in late, wearing ripped fishnets and combat boots, like she’d fought her way through the summer to get here. Her hair was dyed some wild shade of blue, electric and bleeding into her collar. She sat next to me, threw her bag down like it owned the place, and pulled out a pack of gum she didn’t even chew. She smelled like rebellion, like splattered paint that refuses to dry. And when her eyes met mine, I knew we were going to burn through the kind of time that leaves scars for the better.
Shot by the lens of Mitchell Royel, deep in the gritty heart of the Fashion District. The air buzzed with raw energy—no pretense, no filter. Now blasting through the scene, "LEAN" by Kreayshawn, Jason Legacy & Commotion. It’s chaos and couture colliding, unapologetically electric.
We didn’t start slow—no, we threw ourselves into it, headfirst. Trips to sketchy midnight showings at the dollar cinema, passing nachos back and forth like communion wafers. The alleys we walked down weren’t just shortcuts; they were art galleries, our own secret cathedrals, gritty murals claiming the walls like tattoos we couldn’t afford. But then she got that tattoo, left me sitting in the waiting room while she screamed and laughed and swore all at once. Black ink scrawled forever onto her shoulder while I just sat there, scrolling through playlists we’d never finish.
Bowling alleys felt like home, the crash of pins our applause. Six-hour metro bus rides? Nothing. We were on our way to somewhere, or nowhere, and the metal seats became our altars. Music class was a joke, a background soundtrack to the chaos we ignited. Top row selfies—our crooked halos on display, eyes glassy, grins loud enough to drown out the quiet stares.
She was irreverence incarnate, a perfect storm I didn’t know I’d been waiting for, something raw and jagged but painfully beautiful. And then there was my other friend. The "urban" one, the “working actress” with her slightly condescending laughs and careful questions. When she asked, “What are you wearing?” that one time, it was like a thread snapped loose somewhere inside. I laughed it off, but later, the weight of that simple question was heavier than a full semester’s worth of textbooks. It mapped out a line in the sand I didn’t want to cross. She wasn’t meant for alley-walks and nacho nights. She was spotless, polished, a “soon-to-be” someone that never belonged in my mess.
Something had to give. I split my time like a crumpled dollar bill. The actress took the spiritual stuff, the arts center events, the moments I could fake like I wasn’t breaking into pieces. But my blue-haired storm? She had the rest—the wild nights where nothing mattered except the music and the lights and the way our laughs rebounded off the ceiling.
Years later, we drifted apart, like all careless storms eventually do, sinking into other lives, other loves, and chores that eat at our dreams. I keep my old friend tucked away like a graffiti-ed keepsake I can’t seem to throw out. And that other girl, the actress? By then, she’d climbed her sparkling ladder, gotten where she wanted. She was a star. But me? I stayed here in the in-between. And the one I ran through fire with... no, we won’t be friends again. We can’t. That door burned shut a long time ago. It's too sacred to touch now.
But damn, if she isn’t still one of the most irreverent, messy, beautiful things that’s ever circled the orbit of my life.
Long live the chaos.
Long live her.
-Mitch, ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: For a long time, we tried to make sense of it all—the chaos, the collisions, the way seasons change us as much as time does. Back then, it felt like we were writing our own hymn, crafted from stolen hours and reckless moments. When you’re young, it’s easy to believe that every spark you ignite will grow into an eternal flame. But the truth is, some fires are meant to burn quick and wild, leaving behind an ash that lingers like nostalgia, like the echoes of a half-forgotten song. Community college wasn’t about the classes; it was about the people who walked into our frames and rewrote the scenes we thought we knew. It was about finding beauty in imperfection, in the mislabeled, in the unpolished journeys we all stumbled through together.
That first day, none of us knew what we were stepping into when she sat beside us. She wasn’t just chaos; she was the lesson. She showed us how to live unapologetically, how to paint outside the lines even when everything screamed for order. Through her, we learned that not everyone fits neatly into the puzzle we try to build. Sometimes, people are meant to upend everything, to scatter the pieces, and force us to see that life isn’t about finishing the picture—it’s about creating it. Even now, through years and transitions, her voice still echoes, like a guitar riff reverberating down an empty hallway. And those echoes? We’ve learned to love them more than the silence because they remind us that not every connection needs closure to matter.
Some chapters are meant to stay as they are—unfinished, sacred in their lack of completion. That’s what makes them unforgettable. Bits of those moments, those people, stitched themselves into us, even as we moved forward and collected new stories. The actress, the storm, the in-betweens—they’re permanent, in ways we no longer need to untangle. Life has taught us that we don’t get to hold onto everything we love, but if we’re fortunate, we carry pieces of it forward. Long live the chaos, for it’s there, in those messy, fleeting moments, that life truly thrives.
30 Tips for Thriving in the Chaos
Stay open—life reveals its beauty in the unexpected.
Trust that every collision is shaping the greater mosaic.
Hold space for endings without needing closure.
Allow the unfinished to remain sacred.
Lean into the lessons of the people who disrupt our patterns.
Celebrate the spark, even if it doesn’t become a flame.
Remember that seasons leave imprints as powerful as time.
Find grace in imperfection—it’s where humanity resides.
Rewrite the hymns of your life as often as you need to.
Community is built in moments where we dare to be vulnerable.
Forgive the mess—creation is rarely clean.
Welcome the storm; it clears paths for new growth.
Walk alongside those who paint outside the lines with reverence.
Seek to understand rather than to categorize.
Trust the echoes—they are teachers in their own right.
Recognize that some echoes will stay longer than silence.
See beauty in the mislabeled and misfit.
Carry forward the fragments of love—we are their vessel.
Turn ash into remembrance, not regret.
Keep writing your story, even when the script feels incomplete.
Learn the art of letting go while still holding gratitude.
See chaos as its own kind of order—a divine balance.
Create without expectation, only intention.
Remember that every chapter serves its purpose.
Be in fellowship with life’s transitions; they are holy ground.
Honor the echoes of those who’ve taught us how to live fully.
Focus on the lessons gifted, not the ones withheld.
Trust that life is building bridges even in its storms.
Surrender to the flow without losing your roots.
Long live the chaos—it’s the language of thriving.
Scripture Reflection
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” - James 1:2-3
“Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.” - 1 John 4:8
“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” - Romans 12:2
WHEN HOT VINYASA FADES INTO ARCADE LIGHTS AND LOVE BECOMES A MIRAGE
DRIFTING THROUGH SMOKY NIGHTS AND THE POEMS LEFT SCATTERED IN THEIR WAKE
Captured in New York City by Mitchell Royel — where the streets never sleep, and the pulse of the city feels electric. Hot yoga studios here hit different, sweat becomes your second skin, and the grind doesn’t end—it transforms. We’re vibing hard to "Deal With It (feat. Kelis)" by Ashnikko, her voice slicing through like a blade—raw, unapologetic, and untamed like the city itself.
When we first come to yoga, it’s often because we feel a calling—a pull toward something deeper, something more meaningful. For me, yoga was a revelation, a profound awakening to the truth of who we are and what we are capable of becoming. It wasn’t just a set of physical movements or a trendy lifestyle choice; it was a sacred discipline, a way of living that merged body, mind, and spirit in complete harmony. Yoga was a path of self-discovery, guided by the eight limbs—tools not only for the individual’s liberation but also for fostering a connection with the divine and the world around us.
But in the whirlwind of modern obsession with trends and spectacle, yoga’s essence has been diluted, commercialized, and lost in translation. The ashrams and sacred spaces where yoga’s wisdom was nurtured have been replaced by sleek studios and online platforms touting mere fragments of a holistic practice. It’s painful to watch how the richness of this tradition has been stripped down, rebranded, and repurposed, leaving out its heart and soul.
The rise of the new-age adaptation of yoga mirrored a shift that many of us could not help but notice. Elitist circles—many led by privileged women from the West, predominantly white females—have repositioned yoga as a commodity rather than a practice of selfless devotion. This cultural distortion has turned yoga into a status symbol rather than a bridge for inclusivity and inner transformation. Worse yet, in their rush to curate an image of social consciousness, marginalized individuals have been reduced to tokens in the pursuit of diversity optics. We see this in yoga's accessibility—or lack thereof. Classes are priced exorbitantly, studios are often unwelcoming to those who don’t fit specific beauty standards, and the deeper philosophical roots of yoga remain ignored or misunderstood.
We, as a community—sisters, brothers, all of us—must take a hard look at where we’ve gone astray and join together to mend this sacred thread before it frays beyond recognition. Yoga is not about perfection, competition, or belonging to a specific social tier. It’s about remembering who we are at our core, an ancient practice for everyone—regardless of race, social standing, or economic power.
To bring yoga back to its roots, we must be brave enough to strip away the glossy veneer and return to its foundational teachings. We must re-embrace the true depth of the eight limbs—starting with the yamas and niyamas, the ethical and personal disciplines that guide us to live with integrity and kindness. Beyond the physical poses (asana), we must practice pranayama to unify our breath and life force. We must meditate (dhyana), seeking the stillness within, and aspire to reach samadhi—the state of spiritual enlightenment that binds us to the universal consciousness and ultimate truth.
Sisters, we cannot sit idly by while our sacred practice, this gift of unity, is appropriated and exploited. We have to support one another, uplift marginalized voices, and champion inclusivity within the yoga community. We need to create spaces that honor and celebrate the fullness of yoga's traditions, not just the parts that are marketable or palatable to modern tastes.
The path back to the heart of yoga begins with humility, respect, and devotion. Together, we can restore yoga to what it was always meant to be—a mirror for self-realization, a balm for the human spirit, and a practice that connects us all. This is our mission and our calling. Now, it’s time to act.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: When we first meet ourselves on the mat—eyes closing, heart softening, breath steadying—it’s often because we’ve been drawn there by something unseen. Maybe it was longing. Maybe it was heartbreak, mascara-streaked cheeks meeting the floor. Or maybe it was the sheer weight of living that finally brought us to a place where silence could hold us. Yoga, for so many of us, wasn’t just a trending activity or a passing phase; it was salvation. It peeled back the layers of our defenses, made the pain unavoidable, and then offered a way to hold it gently.
And yet, what happens when that sanctity is eroded by noise? When something as pure as yoga becomes another cog in the wheel of profit and classism, dressed up as glossy advertisements of perfection and elitism? We watch its essence fade—a slow undoing of its soul, and what once felt like holiness in motion becomes almost unrecognizable.
But here's the truth I’ve clung to, through all the grief and anger of seeing this distortion unfold: peace isn’t gone. It’s resting, waiting for us to return with reverence. To cry the tears that wash away our illusions. To pick up the broken pieces—not to rebuild what was, but to reimagine what could be. We can hold the anger, acknowledge the harm, and still look toward a horizon of healing. It starts in the quiet moments—on the mat, in our service to others, in our unwavering commitment to living the teachings instead of just echoing them.
Yoga is still here. Its roots are deep. And as we relearn what we’ve lost, we come back to a truth that was always waiting for us, standing steady like a mountain in the storm. Sacredness cannot be destroyed—it can only be forgotten. And forgetting, though it wounds, is not the end. It’s an invitation to remember again and again. And we will.
Clothe Yourself in Armor – "Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes." (Ephesians 6:11)
Guard Your Heart – "Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it." (Proverbs 4:23)
Stand Firm in Faith – "Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong." (1 Corinthians 16:13)
Pray Without Ceasing – "Pray continually." (1 Thessalonians 5:17)
Renew Your Mind – "Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." (Romans 12:2)
Resist the Enemy – "Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you." (James 4:7)
Seek Peace – "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." (Matthew 5:9)
Speak Truth in Love – "Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ." (Ephesians 4:15)
Trust in the Lord – "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." (Proverbs 3:5)
Be Steadfast in Hope – "But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength." (Isaiah 40:31)
Live as Light – "You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden." (Matthew 5:14)
Take Every Thought Captive – "We take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." (2 Corinthians 10:5)
Forgive Others – "Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you." (Ephesians 4:32)
Watch and Pray – "Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation." (Matthew 26:41)
Hide God’s Word in Your Heart – "I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you." (Psalm 119:11)
Rely on God’s Strength – "The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me." (Psalm 28:7)
Be Quick to Listen – "Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry." (James 1:19)
Stand in the Gap – "I looked for someone among them who would build up the wall and stand before me in the gap on behalf of the land." (Ezekiel 22:30)
Fear Not – "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)
Practice Gratitude – "Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus." (1 Thessalonians 5:18)
Seek God First – "But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well." (Matthew 6:33)
Speak Life – "The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit." (Proverbs 18:21)
Be a Vessel of Honor – "Those who cleanse themselves will be instruments for special purposes, made holy, useful to the Master." (2 Timothy 2:21)
Be Joyful Always – "Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances." (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)
Study the Word – "Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed." (2 Timothy 2:15)
Carry One Another's Burdens – "Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)
Have Faith Like a Mustard Seed – "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed... Nothing will be impossible for you." (Matthew 17:20)
Be Salt of the Earth – "You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?" (Matthew 5:13)
Be Doers of the Word – "But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves." (James 1:22)
Rest in Him – "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)
These scripture-inspired truths serve as reminders and tools to guide us through spiritual challenges, strengthening us to walk in faith and persevere with courage.
YESTERDAY'S LEGEND, FADING AWAY + THE MIRAGE OF MEMORY
ABANDONING
THE ECHOES OF TIME
I stood on the cold bathroom floor, knees drawn tightly to my chest, as if I could shield myself from the reality pressing in on all sides. The tiles beneath me feel unyielding, their chill seeping through my skin, grounding me in this suffocating moment. The silence is a weight all on its own—thick, heavy, and stretching endlessly. The only intrusion comes from the rhythmic drip of the faucet, each drop hitting the sink a maddening reminder of time passing, seconds slipping away in painful, agonizing clarity. My phone lies forgotten on the counter, its screen dark and lifeless, a reflection of the void I feel inside. There are no messages to wait for tonight. No excuses to pretend. Just this aching emptiness.
We’re listening to Photographs by Rihanna and will.i.am as the moment takes shape. This photograph was captured in the depths of the fashion district, a place pulsing with grit, rebellion, and unapologetic artistry. It’s raw, unfiltered, and entirely mine. It has nothing to do with the city of Agoura, and it certainly doesn’t whisper the sentiments of anyone living there. This isn’t about polished suburbia or curated perfection—this is the other side, the edge where creativity collides with chaos.
What you see here is a moment, a mood, a statement. It belongs to the streets, to the untamed energy of the district, and to anyone who dares to see it for what it really is. But make no mistake, this is not a reflection of Agoura or its residents—it never tried to be. Instead, it’s a testament to the unvarnished truth, where beauty lies in imperfection and raw expression.
Tears streak down my face, leaving tracks of mascara that mark my despair in black, smudged lines. My reflection in the bathroom mirror is unrecognizable, hollow. I glance down at the photographs clutched in my trembling hands, their edges worn and curling as though they’ve been held far too often, memories preserved in glossy permanence. The people in those pictures—the versions of us frozen in time—stare back, faces once familiar and now alien. I examine his smile, the tilt of his head, the warmth in his eyes that once promised so much. But with every glance, those images seem less real. They’re sepia-toned ghosts of a past I can no longer trust. Was it all a lie? Was he really that boy who laughed beside me in the sunlight, who draped his letterman jacket over my shoulders when the evening chill came? Or was that just the version of him I painted in my mind, one I clung to so fiercely that the edges blurred between truth and fantasy?
Each photograph feels heavier than the last, a weight that digs into my soul. The boy in those images isn’t the man I know now—if I can even say I know him at all anymore. That boy, with his shy laugh and secret looks meant only for me, seems like a stranger. And the man he became? An enigma. A chasm lies between them, a vast and impassable void that separates the promises we whispered into the night from the silence he left in their place. I trace the lines of my favorite photo with my fingertips, the moment frozen forever where he grinned and pulled me close, both of us unaware of what was to come. What happened to him? What happened to us? Did something inside him break, or did he simply outgrow the parts of me I thought made us whole?
The questions hammer away at me with no answers in sight, each pounding against the walls I’ve built to hold myself together. The silence fills in the gaps between the tears, between my sobs that I struggle to contain. I don’t even recognize him anymore. He feels like a phantom of my imagination, a figment I constructed from misplaced hopes and scattered dreams. But ghosts, as haunting as they might be, don’t leave. They stay, lingering in shadows, tethered to the places they’re tied to. He didn’t linger. He didn’t fade into the background. He disappeared—abruptly, completely—without an explanation that might help me understand.
Now it’s just me, the photographs, and the cavernous space left behind. A space that holds all the words we never said, all the promises broken, and all the unanswered questions I know will never find resolution. I sit here with my memories and the crushing realization that they’ll never be anything more than what they are—fragments of a reality I can no longer touch. My hands shake as I press the photographs to my chest, as if maybe, just maybe, I can draw some warmth from them. But the truth is unbearable and unchanging. He’s gone. Just...gone. And I can’t close my eyes tightly enough to escape the emptiness he left in his wake.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: We didn’t just lose him, did we, girls? No, we lost the version of ourselves we thought we were when we loved him. That’s the piece no one warns us about—the unraveling of ourselves in the aftermath, as we sift through the wreckage trying to understand not just who they weren’t, but who we thought we were. We comb through the memories, don’t we? Reliving the highs, overlooking the lows, searching desperately for the moment it all began to fray. We see the signs we missed, the warnings we swept aside because the love seemed worth it. It glowed so brightly that we turned our eyes away from the shadows.
But there’s a line we cross when the truth becomes undeniable, isn’t there? A moment when we stop chasing “why” and “how” and start asking, “What’s next?” This is where it shifts. This is where everything—our trembling hands, the cracked voices, the fragments of trust scattered like dust—becomes a foundation. It’s not an easy pivot. It’s raw, jagged, and soul-deep. We grieve, we rage, we hold our breath under water, wondering if we’ll resurface. But within that chaos, we find a rhythm, a flicker of strength we forgot we had.
It’s not about forgetting them, though. Loving them was real—all the sweetness, all the hope, all the possibilities—but our survival isn’t hinged on keeping that love pristine or untouchable. Moving forward doesn’t mean erasing them; it means reclaiming ourselves. That space they left behind? It’s not a void. It’s not empty and desolate. It’s a starting point, fertile soil where only we have the power to decide what grows. We plant forgiveness—not for them, necessarily, but for us. We sow grit, compassion, and courage for the girl who loved recklessly, for the girl who fell apart, and for the woman who is slowly, beautifully rising.
And rise we will. Together, we cradle the idea that loss isn’t the end. It’s transformation. We are spread thin, stretched across pain and growth and the aching process of becoming, but we are not destroyed. The love was real, yes, but so is the love we owe ourselves. We move forward, not with them shadowing us, but with our own light breaking through.
Together, we rise.
Always.