Six Years and a Few More Days

The first reflection in my Dying My Way series

Some stories take six years to write.

Not because the words aren’t there.

Because the person writing them isn’t ready yet.

This is one of those stories.

Years ago, I bought a domain called From the Kitchen Table. I imagined it becoming a place where I would gather thoughts the way families gather stories—around something warm and, in my case, probably slightly overcooked—but always made with love.

For more than six years, I paid for the domain.

I built the website.

I launched it.

I abandoned it.

Then I rebuilt it.

And abandoned it again.

Not because I didn’t have anything to say.

Quite the opposite.

I had too much to say, and I wanted every word to be perfect.

Perfection became analysis paralysis—a pause button that stayed stuck much longer than my wish to fit back into my size‑five jeans.

The stories never stopped coming.

I just wasn’t ready to tell them.

Today, From the Kitchen Table has found its place as my reflections page within The Empowered Crossing, and Dying My Way has become a space where I can write about life, death, grief, purpose, and the strange gift of learning to laugh through all of it.

Ironically, these reflections may eventually become an AI podcast.

Apparently, technology was more patient than I was.

When Death Became My Teacher

People are often surprised when I tell them I’ve never really been afraid of dying.

For me, it has never been about what happens.

It’s always been about how.

Death has always fascinated me—not because I long for it, but because it is part of life. The one experience that quietly reminds us we are all equals.

No matter where we live.

How much money we have.

What title appears on our business card.

Eventually, we all arrive at the same destination.

That curiosity led me to discover end‑of‑life doulas.

Naturally, I began reading everything I could.

What I didn’t expect was that learning about death would introduce me to my own grief.

I realized grief had quietly moved into my life years earlier and had been leaving emotional dishes in my sink ever since.

There were moments when healing felt harder than dying.

There were unexpected losses that changed the people I loved forever.

There were close calls that ended with relief but also left behind one haunting question:

What if things had turned out differently?

Before I could ever imagine supporting someone else’s final chapter, I had to begin healing my own.

One of the first things many end‑of‑life doula programs teach is that this work isn’t meant to begin while you’re actively grieving.

At first, I resisted that advice.

Eventually, I understood it.

You cannot safely hold someone else’s hand if you’re still drowning yourself.

The Doula Who Never Had a Client

I completed the training.

I watched the videos.

I filled five journals with reflections, questions, ideas, and dreams.

And then…

Nothing.

No clients.

No bedside conversations.

No quiet hospice rooms.

Just silence.

And me.

Sitting with it.

At first, I wondered if I had somehow failed.

But over time, I realized something.

Death isn’t always physical.

Sometimes we grieve the versions of ourselves that never had the chance to exist.

Sometimes we mourn the dreams we kept postponing.

Sometimes we say goodbye to identities that no longer fit the people we’re becoming.

Looking back, I can see that my unfinished blog was its own kind of grief.

Not because it died.

Because it hadn’t been allowed to live.

Today, I don’t see From the Kitchen Table as something unfinished.

I see it as a faithful companion.

It quietly protected my stories until I was finally ready to share them.

In many ways, it became the doula for everything that came afterward.

Choosing Our Final Chapter

Although I haven’t yet sat beside someone as they took their final breath, I’ve sat beside many endings.

The end of jobs.

The end of expectations.

The end of relationships.

The end of loved ones’ lives.

Every ending has taught me something about beginning again.

One belief has grown stronger with every passing year:

I believe our final chapter should belong to us.

Whether that means medical choices, funeral plans, cremation or burial, flowers or no flowers, music or silence—it should reflect the person whose life is being honored.

Death is deeply personal.

I believe the way we leave should be too.

Because Even Death Deserves a Sense of Humor

If you’ve read my writing before, you’ve probably realized I have an unusual imagination.

I’ve pictured my ashes being returned to sender because I forgot to update my address with the Neptune Society.

I’ve imagined spending eternity on someone’s guest room shelf next to a “Live Laugh Love” pillow because nobody could decide where to scatter me—or they were too afraid to open the box.

Ridiculous?

Absolutely.

But humor has become one of my greatest companions through grief.

Death is hard.

Grief is strange.

Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is laugh in the middle of the tears.

Preferably with someone thoughtful enough to bring snacks.

Or, if you’re like me…

Maybe a little wine.

Six Years Wasn’t Wasted

For a long time, I thought those six years represented failure.

Now I see something different.

They were preparation.

The stories needed time.

More importantly…

I needed time.

So if you’re carrying a dream that hasn’t happened yet…

A book that still lives in your heart…

A business you haven’t launched…

Or a story you’ve been afraid to tell…

Maybe you’re not behind.

Maybe you’re simply becoming the person who can finally bring it to life.

Like a beautiful vintage pair of stilettos patiently waiting in their box for exactly the right occasion.

Or a really good bottle of wine that refuses to be rushed.

I’ve learned that life isn’t measured by how quickly we begin.

It’s measured by whether we eventually choose to begin at all.

And after six years and a few more days…

I finally have.

And hey—

if you were able to find humor in any of this?

Congratulations.

You’re still alive.

And that’s a good thing.

— Reyna