My Heart is Full – Grief, Joy, and the Power of Showing Up
There are some nights that remind you you’re alive—not just breathing, not just functioning, but fully present in the ache and the beauty of what it means to be human.
Tonight was one of those nights.
It began with a reunion I didn’t know would hit me as hard as it did.
Part One: My Brother, Still Here
Jason Kilgore is one of my oldest friends. We go back decades—back to the days before life unraveled and reassembled in new, unexpected ways. We were more than friends. At one point, we were roommates. But it was always deeper than that. He was my anchor during some of my most chaotic years, and calling him a friend never felt like enough. Jason was—and is—my brother.
I hadn’t seen him in ten years.
In that time, I transitioned. I lost my leg. I found the courage to stop hiding and start living authentically as myself.
And Jason had a stroke.
It took so much from him. His mobility. His ease of speech. His ability to translate thought into words. But it did not take him. Not his mind. Not his smile. Not his wicked sense of humor. He’s still sharp as hell. Still joyful. Still radiant.
Still Jason.
Seeing him tonight—it broke something open inside me. Watching him try to speak, to form thoughts that his body struggled to release, made my chest ache in ways I didn’t know it could. It wasn’t pity. It was fury. Anger that something so cruel could strip him of so much and yet leave him fully aware of what was missing. It was grief—not just for what he’s lost, but for what the world has lost in having to experience less of him.
And still—gods, I’m grateful. So damn grateful that he’s still here. Still laughing. Still fighting. Still himself.
We talked. We hugged. We stood together as he held my novel—Reborn In Shadows—and for a moment, it was like the years hadn’t passed at all. The world faded, and it was just me and Jason, like it used to be.
Maya and Jason
I told him I loved him.
He is still my brother.
He always will be.
That moment alone would’ve been enough to carry me through the rest of the night. But then the next chapter unfolded.
Part Two: Laughter, Connection, and One Final Copy
Tonight was also the Cooks & Books event in St. Paul—and I don’t think I was ready for just how powerful those three hours would be.
Maya at her table
From 5:30 PM to 8:30 PM, I was surrounded by something that felt like magic. People stopped at my table not just to buy books or admire bookmarks or flip through prints—they came to connect. To talk. To laugh. To listen.
I sold seven books tonight, and the seventh came as I was literally taking my booth down. That last sale felt symbolic, like a quiet exhale from the universe—confirmation that yes, I’m on the right path.
Someone bought my last remaining hardcover and immediately turned to the person standing next to me and donated it to her. As it turns out, that woman was the branch manager of the J. Fred Matthews Memorial Library—and now, Reborn In Shadows has a new home on its shelves.
Moments like that don’t just happen by accident.
They’re gifts.
I also met fellow authors, librarians, educators—people doing the quiet, beautiful work of building community through art and language. And I finally met a fellow board member from Patchwork Kinfolx in person. We’ve worked together virtually, but tonight we got to look each other in the eyes, talk, and celebrate what we’re creating. That connection—that shared sense of purpose—meant the world to me.
For two full hours—from 6 to 8 PM, and beyond—I laughed more than I have in a long time. I had rich, warm conversations with strangers who didn’t stay strangers for long. I saw eyes light up at the cover of my book, and I watched people lean in, curious, moved, excited to discover it for themselves.
I felt seen.
And maybe most of all, I felt like I belonged.
The Weight and Light of It All
Tonight held everything: grief, rage, love, joy, pride, heartbreak, and healing. And somehow, none of those emotions canceled each other out. They layered. They danced. They reminded me that life doesn’t separate beauty from pain—it blends them.
I came home tonight exhausted, but buzzing. Not from the number of sales or the compliments or even the beautiful donations—though I’m deeply thankful for every one of them.
I came home full because this is what I’ve fought for.
A life lived out loud. A life surrounded by chosen family and authentic joy. A life where I get to say I love you to someone who means the world to me. A life where strangers become supporters, supporters become friends, and stories ripple out into the world in ways I’ll never fully grasp.
Thank you to everyone who was part of tonight.
Thank you for reminding me why I keep showing up.
Thank you for making this real.
