The Kind Man: A Cosmic Ego Death

On becoming weightless.

Oct 28, 2025

My 35th birthday was earlier this month.

I woke up, like most mornings, before the birds. The sky beyond was dark; the palm trees, darker still, barely perceptible in its expanse.

I chose stillness for the day. I wished to embrace gentle, nurturing affirmations of life’s tenderness as a counterweight to a year of violence.

I went to the gym and returned home before the sun showed her face. I walked our dog beneath a pink sunrise, a few blocks farther this time. I prepared myself a hearty breakfast. I packed my laptop to head to a local coffee shop and write. I told my wife the night before that I could think of no gift greater on my birthday than to speak with our late daughter. To rock Etta again in a cradle of words.

But the words never came. I found my solitary corner, secured my tea of spices and steamed milk, and opened my computer, expecting the floodgates. But the dam was dry. No words flowed, no new ideas or small openings. I sat there for two hours, the mouse flickering on the page like a finger patiently tapping. Between the trumpeting of pop music and jubilant musings from cafe patrons, my sorrow found no home. I no longer belong here, I thought. I can’t match their joy.

I arrived back home, solemn and disappointed. I did not get time with my daughter. I always feel her near, even from across the void, but sometimes, I can’t speak to her. I couldn’t find the words to tell her about what weighed on my spirit. About this grief, which finds new ways to threaten me and her mama.

At my doorstep, I saw a birthday card from my mother in the mailbox. I sat inside for a few minutes before opening it. In the letter, my mother cited three quotes between thoughtful reflections from 35 years of motherhood. From Rilkes’ Letters to a Young Poet, the first read, “The world has not forgotten about you.”

I paused and looked up at the ceiling as if to take it in. I repeated the words in a whisper. “The world has not forgotten about you.”

I was unable to finish the card. I hung my head back and closed my eyes. Fatigue overwhelmed me. Tears welled. Amidst the bellow of wind and the songs of finches and sparrows in the lemon tree beyond our windows, I surrendered my defenses. I finally had a language for the weight I’d been carrying for months. This was not just sorrow; this was abandonment. I felt forgotten. Forgotten by goodness. Forgotten by the world and the universe that harbors it. Forgotten by some in a community I helped build. Forgotten by God. Worst of all, I feared the world had forgotten my daughter. That my healing somehow rendered her invisible, a moment fleeting to others, but marked in me forever.

The collateral damage of Etta’s brief life and death—beyond the deafening silence of childlessness and debilitating grief—is that everything I’d come to know about myself I buried with her. As if I’d spent three decades chiseling away with broken tools at a stone slab in pursuit of an elusive sculptural vision. Then, when the stone began to yield the life I’d always dreamt of, something toppled the sculpture over, shattered on the floor.

Now, all that’s left are the fragments. I’ve been sitting here for a while, amongst the rubble. It’s hurtful to accept my brokenness; it leaves me defeated, as it did that birthday morning in the cafe. But surrounded by ruins, I’m finding a new kind of peace. This place is lonesome, but there’s a fullness present I hadn’t known before. In the devastation, I am learning to let go of all expectations. To find beauty in the wreckage and tranquility in the heart of disrepair.

I’m calling this cosmic ego death. Simply, the understanding that nobody is spared from tremendous pain. That a vital part of our galaxy’s orbit is the swirling of chaos. An impartial vortex of life and death and all the wonders in between, barreling down at us like comets.

I always believed in karmic forces; that for every ounce of benevolence I showed, goodness was due. Be kind. Don’t be a nuisance. Leave the room better than it was before you entered. Go to sleep with a smile on your face. Be grateful for the things you have. Be a friend to strangers. Childhood lessons from elders and philosophers and pastors. Despite my faults and over-zealousness to please, I was largely good—a kind, decent man who always did his best.

For years, my voicemail declared to solicitors and family alike, “I love you and there ain’t a thing you can do about it.” I started and led a nonprofit (with no profit) instead of accepting a full-ride for a master’s degree to fulfill my lifelong passion for architecture. I over-prioritized community leadership to create pathways for others. I regret none of it, to be sure. But I often did these things at significant cost to myself because I believed in a universe that honored kindness. I put aside my sustainability and the comforts of my family. The value of “selflessness” I’d always praised was full of self, driven by an ego that expected goodness in return

Then, after a stretch of difficult years and a brutal queue of unnecessary losses for me and my wife, the worst happened: our daughter died. Throughout Etta’s gestation and short life, I thanked the heavens daily for my gifts, reveled in every moment. “I’m so grateful,” I’d say to my wife, eyes welling with gladness. “If we never have anything else, I’m happy.” And still, our daughter was taken from us. My sculpture shattered. The kind man, abandoned.

The ground I’d always trusted, even when it showed its volatility, was ultimately pulled from beneath my feet. Now, I’m learning how to trust my steps again. But how does one stand with no floor?

Etta’s passing marked the demise of whatever hubris I had left. And, in time, helped me find resonance in the void. This I now know: Nothing I do, no level of intention or virtue, makes me impervious to great pain.

When Etta died, I understood with the precision of a blade that there was nothing left to fear. I lived through my worst nightmare. Somehow, nearing the anniversary of her birth and death, I have welcomed the sun again upon my cheek. I know I can face whatever battles remain in this life.

I have not surrendered goodness. I still wish to be kind, to improve the lives of others, to serve community and cultivate care. I am not letting go of dreams. I yearn for plenty and maintain hope for a life that grants my family much-needed relief. But I no longer cling to these pursuits. I do good because good is worth doing, not because it grants me anything. I trust that what is meant to come will come. Tomorrow, anything is possible—good and ill.

Despite the forces of grief and despair, my daily intention is to practice contentment. I no longer depend on ease, nor view joy as a reward for exemplary behavior. I surrender to life’s impermanence. This life can take from me what I love at any moment. My children. My wife. My house. My abilities. My neighbors. My life. I must live with a deep affinity for all that life grants me, for as long as it does. And help pining hearts find a home in the sacred.

Cosmic ego death is liberating. What was once an anchor now feels weightless. I have become a shell, a vessel through which all things celestial—empathy, wind, water, words, stillness, chaos—have a home. A North Star reborn, without the baggage of expectation and pride.

Searching the rest of Rilkes’ poem online affirmed the marvels taking shape all around me, amidst the fragments of a life of expectation.

“Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.

So you mustn’t be frightened, if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall.”

My daughter has not been forgotten; she lives through me and her mother and a family that reveres the magic of her echoes. A family learning to trust the ruins.

Nor have I been abandoned. I am found. Somewhere between earth and the heavens, between life and death, I uncovered myself. I honor the beauty of this gift, and I surrender the rest to the wind.

I am free.

The Kind Man: A Cosmic Ego Death

On becoming weightless.

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