Writing a book is both a death and a birth. The book itself labored to be born and parts of me, the writer, had to die for it to do so. I got vulnerable and intimate with my life and just as with many deaths, I resisted, got angry, tried everything but accepting the reality, then eventually surrendered—like we all must do. Here are the people who saw me, sat vigil, and told me I was doing it right. They doula’d me and the book. Please forgive me if I haven’t named you. Your love was still felt.
First and foremost, thank you to my family: Dr. Appianda Arthur, Aba Enim, Bozoma Saint John, Dr. Ahoba Arthur, Aba Arthur, Peter Saint John, Lael Saint John, and Jahcir Murphy. You are a source of constant inspiration, laughter, and a reminder about what I’m made of when I forget. I’m sorry for wishing you were a boy, Aba. I am so grateful you are exactly who you became.
To thirteen-year-old Alua, wearing braids while riding her Marvin the Martian skateboard through the white neighborhood to start a recycling program, and who kept going door to door, when many opened and then were shut, without getting a single can: thank you for continuing to ride. Thank you for staying true to yourself the very best that you could. It’s still a little bumpy, but we’re doing alright, even if we’re no longer riding a skateboard ’cause I want to preserve our kneecaps.
Thank you to my editor, Rakia Clark, for championing my vision, working tirelessly to make it see the light, for your T-shirt with my face on it, for holding space for my messiness, for despising split infinitives. To Lindsey Kennedy and Tavia Kowalchuk, who, with Rakia, fiercely carried this book in their hearts and into rooms where it needed to be seen. To Mark Robinson, for this bomb-ass cover. To the entire team at Mariner Books, for believing that this first-time writer could pull it off. To my agent, Anna Sproul-Latimer, who held my hand, listened to me vent, answered all of my real questions and sent me right back to myself for the answers only I held. To Jayson Greene, who got in the trench with me to complete this book and made me a better writer and a more compassionate human. To Kim Green, who coached and coaxed out the very first iteration of this book. Kim is the first person who said, “I think you got something here!”
To the core team at Going with Grace, who kept the business thriving while I stepped away and into myself to complete this book: Aba (again), Alica Forneret, Sara Westfall, Tracey Walker, Corie McMillan, Nicole Briggs-Gary, Valenca Valenzuela, and Shannon Kranzler. Your dedication, passion, attention to excellence, and the reminder about “why” buoyed me. Baxley Andresen: you get infinite purple hearts. To Corinne Bowen and Corinne Consulting, thank you for the space to play with my ideas to see which we could make a reality. To Emily Marquez—aka Emerald Fields Forever—I would have been lost without you. Thank you for making space for the business to become what it is.
To the students of the Going with Grace End of Life Training course and the past student guides: Wow. You are the realest—the most provocative, thoughtful, hilarious, and creative folks I know. You call me up into more precise iterations of the work.
To Annie Georgia Greenberg: When I struggled with sharing myself widely for Refinery29, you reminded me that people hear the message because of the messenger’s story. If not for that strong nudge, I never would have done this.
To the death and dying community: We are all the messengers. I am honored to be in your ranks. In particular, thank you to Dr. B. J. Miller, Caitlin Doughty, Claire Bidwell Smith, Lashanna Williams, Michelle Acciavatti, E. E. Miller, Katrina Spade, Elizabeth Erbrecht, Narinder Bazen, Dr. Shoshana Ungerleider, and Tembi Locke for not taking any of this too seriously and for holding life lightly. Olivia Bareham: you are a trailblazer and my forever teacher.
To all of the folks who paved the way by talking and writing about how we die long before it was cool, I am filled with gratitude.
To LP123: You are shining examples of leadership and no quit. Thank you for holding me. Jessica Blue: your humor, authenticity, and faith in me over the years have been invaluable. Margo Majdi: You told me to write a book five years before I conceived of it and expanded what I now know I am capable of. I am eternally grateful for your coaching even in your final act. Rest in love.
To my Legal Aid friends who offered a haven when all felt like it was going to shit: Ji-lan Zang, Carolina Sheinfeld, Vanessa Lee—you kept me alive with pastries and laughter. Malcolm Carson, Karla Barrow, Debra Sudo-Marr, Joe Kotzin, and all the Legal Aiders who made the unbearable bearable. Silvia Argueta, you were right. Going to Inglewood Self-Help, aka The Dungeon, was the very best thing that happened to me.
To my many friends who listened to me talk incessantly about the struggles to navigate this process: we did it!! A special thank you to my lifers: Magda Labonté-Blaise, Kim Velez, Richard Frank, Aurora Colindres, Anastasia Baranova, Jessica Amisial, Dr. Kwame Ohemeng, Patima Komolamit, my sister-cousins Joanne Sogbaka and Dorien Agyapon, Breeda Desmond, Folake Ologunja, Brookelin Barnhill, Ariane Aumont, Allison Kunath, Jacqui Ruiz, and my law school and forever buddies Kristin Bowers Tompkins, Rachel MacGuire, Jess Curtis, Jenni Cohen. To my book writing crew: Carla Fernandez, Scott Shigeoka, Liz Tran, you are superstars.
To mah kumah toffee, my heart’s candy, my safest space: Thank you will never be enough. You make me smile with all my teeth and pour love into even the parts of me that I do not want anyone to see and believe are difficult to love. You balance me, ground me, pull me back from doubt, and make my belly flip when you walk in the door or I smell your shirt. I hope you always know that I love you with every fiber of my being. Thank you for never getting tired of talking about death.
To every person who offered me a stage or a simple “your work matters,” you keep me going. To the clients who shared their lives with me, you all doula’d me into new versions of myself and a greater acceptance of the glorious weirdness of life and the power of a single human story.
I also just gotta thank this book. To Briefly Perfectly Human: Thank you for laboring to be born, for forcing my hand at surrender, for teaching me about dying. You kicked my ass. Thank you for pushing me through fear and for showing me the way. I am grateful that you allowed me to be your steward.
To the reader: Thank you for allowing me to share my life and my deaths with you. Thank you for allowing me to be human.