Eulogy for My Survival Self
A Funeral for the Version of Me Who Could Only Survive — Laying to Rest Who Kept Me Alive, So I May Rise in Joy, Be Held in Safety, and Return to the Soil from Which I Came
Dedicated to:
My daughter — my joy.
To Joy, who gave birth to the man who gave me the greatest gift.
To my ancestors who held me when the world would not.
To the survival self who never stopped fighting for me.
To the version of me that is finally free.
We are gathered in spirit to lay to rest a version of me that never got to rest. The one who bore every burden in silence, who wore strength like a disguise. The one who smiled through panic attacks, laughed through loneliness, and held it all together with trembling hands — because no one else would.
She was not born from joy.
She was carved from necessity, scraped from the bottom of "keep going,"
birthed in the dark corners where love forgot to knock.
She showed up when my parents didn’t,
when lovers loved the idea of me but not the whole of me,
when friends disappeared at the sound of my truth,
when even the choral homes I once loved turned away.
She stayed. Always.
She was my shield. My alarm system. My GPS through hell.
She was also exhausted.
She never got to say, “I’m scared.”
She never got to ask, “Can you carry me for once?”
She never got to be a girl, or a dreamer, or anything soft.
And when I became pregnant, she kept marching.
When I was in labor, she stood guard.
When I became a mother, she clenched her fists tighter —
because being tired wasn’t an option.
But I am tired.
And I am done.
I no longer want to survive motherhood, womanhood, or life.
I want to live it.
I want to feel joy — not just glimpse it from behind glass.
I want my daughter to meet me, not the weary ghost of a warrior.
Not a woman who had to die a little every day to be strong.
To those who say,
"Now your daughter will know how strong her mama is..."
I say: Fuck that.
Let her know how loved her mama is.
Let her see how well her mama lives.
Let her inherit peace, not pain wrapped in gold.
I am no longer gripping the cross of survival.
I have placed it at God's feet.
I have taken His unchanging hand,
and now walk in the light of what comes after the storm.
Survival Self,
thank you.
You did your job. You got us here.
But I am safe now.
You can rest.
You can go.
I’ve got it from here.
I am the Phoenix.
I am the Taurus rising.
I am the woman in the tower, finally stepping into the sun.
And I am free.
Memorial Dedication
To the protector who never left me.
To the version of me that walked through fire barefoot just to keep me alive.
Hymn to be Sung: “Poland” (Shape Note Hymn, Sacred Harp No. 86)
🕊️ Why I Chose “Poland”
I chose “Poland” — Sacred Harp No. 86 — not just because I sang it as a semi-professional choral singer, but because it has stayed with me long after the performance ended.
The text echoes Psalm 39, a cry of surrender and reflection:
“God of my life, look gently down, behold the pains I feel;
But I am dumb before Thy throne, nor dare dispute Thy will...”
That line alone could have been my prayer for the past decade.
“Poland” captures the ache of a soul that’s carried too much — but still trusts.
It’s not a triumphant march. It’s a gentle release.
It’s what you sing when you’ve done everything you could — and you’re finally ready to rest, to return, to transform.
This song was once a piece I performed.
Now, it is a part of my testimony.
Let it be sung for the girl who endured,
the woman who rose,
and the spirit that now rests in love.
Burial Ritual: May my body return to the soil —
to help grow food, flowers, medicine —
so even in death, I nourish the earth and those I love.
Final Blessing: I said I wanted to have joy all my life.
So I literally brought her into my life — my daughter,
born of a man whose mother’s name is Joy.
Survivor Me made that happen.
She found Joy for us, even when all seemed lost.
She prepared me for shadow work before I even knew I’d become a mother.
She brought me to therapy.
She stayed long enough for me to finally receive the apology I thought I'd never get — from my father, on his deathbed.
And on the day he passed — I felt it.
The moment his spirit left. I knew before the call came. And when that call did come, I was in the arms of my child’s father.
Just like I’d seen in a vision.
Then, like divine timing, his parents called. Not knowing what had happened. And in that moment of grief, they gave me comfort and kindness.
Love and presence.
Maybe my ancestors orchestrated that moment.
Maybe it was them saying: “You’ve done enough. We got you now.”
And so, today, I bury survival.
And I rise.
Joyfully.
Softly.
Fully.
Amen.
Closing Song: “Wayfaring Stranger” — Traditional Spiritual
A final lament and lullaby for the one who carried me through the wilderness.
🎶 Why I Chose “Wayfaring Stranger”
I never got to sing “Wayfaring Stranger.”
Not as a soloist, not in a quartet, not even in the back row.
I remember the Spring semester concert — themed around Americana and hope, redemption, and glory. We sang five beautiful shape-note hymns in the style of Anonymous 4. We used their arrangements from “American Angels,” a haunting, sacred album that marked me forever. The songs were:
The Morning Trumpet — all of us sang it
Resignation — a duet by two members
Poland — the one I sang, performed by the rest of us who weren’t chosen for the song before and the song after this one
Wayfaring Stranger — sung by four members of the group
Sweet By and By — began as a small group and then the rest joined
I wanted to sing Wayfaring Stranger so badly. But again, I was told what I’d always been told:
"We need your strength to carry the group."
Never chosen for a duet, trio, or quartet. Always the strong one. The dependable one.
The one who gets the job done when others won’t.
So I sang Poland. Beautiful, sorrowful Poland. A song in the middle of the set, overlooked and under-rehearsed by others — but one I poured my heart into. I didn’t just sing it. I saved it.
That’s why I chose it for my send-off.
Because Poland was the survival song.
And Wayfaring Stranger is the freedom song.
I’m ending this with the song I never got to perform — because one day, I will.
And when I do, I won’t be the one carrying anyone else.
I’ll be singing for the woman who finally got to lay her burdens down.
That’s the note I want to leave on.
A stranger no more.
Just me. Just my voice. Just the light I carry home.