Still Here

A Season of Loss and Reflection

 It’s been a heavy couple of months, and honestly, I don’t even know where to begin. Last June, we lost our 13-year-old ginger cat to old age. Then, in July, another heartbreak followed—this time it was our 14-year-old dog, Yumi. I didn’t see it coming. Losing one pet was already difficult; losing another so soon after was devastating. Just when I was starting to process the first loss, the second one came like a wave I couldn’t brace for. They were part of our lives for more than a decade. The house feels quieter now, emptier in places that used to be full. It was a sad stretch of time. I’m grateful I was preoccupied with work and life; otherwise, I might have spiraled into something darker. So far, 2025 hasn’t been kind. To honor them, we transformed a quiet corner of the house into a tiny sort of shrine. Their urns sit there now—a place of peace, memory, and gratitude. I even ordered an updated collar for Yumi with her name on it, along with tags for our other pets. Sadly, it arrived too late. She was already gone. So, I placed the collar around her urn instead—a small gesture to hold on to what little I could. Life is unpredictable. Sometimes I wish I could erase certain memories altogether—the ones tied to loss, grief. But memories, even painful ones, shape us in ways we don’t always understand.

On Disappearing and the Johatsu Phenomenon

 Lately, I’ve been reading about a strange but fascinating concept in Japan called *Johatsu*—literally translated as “evaporated people.” These are individuals who choose to disappear from their lives entirely, often due to overwhelming debt, job loss, or broken relationships. At night, they’re assisted by “night movers,” companies that help them vanish without a trace. When I first heard of it, I thought, *Would people really go that far?* But, as I learn more about it, I’ve come to understand the impulse. It’s not always about giving up. Sometimes it’s about choosing to begin again—away from the noise, the expectations, the hurt. I’ve thought about disappearing too—not in a dramatic way, but more like quietly stepping out of a life that no longer felt like mine. It wasn’t because I’d given up, but because I had reached a point where I questioned my purpose. That existential moment where you ask, *Why am I still here? What else is left for me to do?* But then, I remember—we don’t get to override the timeline we’ve been given. Maybe there’s more I’m meant to see, do, or learn. Maybe the reason I’m still here is something I haven’t discovered yet. I’ve made peace with not having all the answers. Disappearing may seem like surrender, but maybe for some, it's a form of self-preservation. Still, I realize that unless I’ve walked in someone’s shoes, I can't truly understand the weight they carry. Everyone has their own threshold for pain and their own way of surviving it.

Of Monsoons and Misgivings

 While grieving, we’ve also been battling relentless monsoon rains and rolling power outages. Where I live, the past month has been soaked in storm after storm, with barely a day of sunlight. The constant power interruptions are exhausting. It’s hard to function, let alone work or feel human, when everything feels waterlogged and powerless—literally and emotionally. Even with backup power, you’re limited. Solar panels are no match for weeks of overcast skies. It’s frustrating, to say the least. At times, I find myself questioning whether this cycle will ever truly end—not just the changing weather, but the deeper, systemic failures that continue to worsen our situation. The corruption within our government, the misuse of public funds, the absence of long-term planning—it all feels like we’re trapped in a vast, inescapable void.