When someone dies, yes, their physical form ceases. But their energy? That doesn’t just disappear. The impact they had, the love they gave, the way they laughed, the way they sat beside you in silence, all of that lingers. Even the atoms in their body return to the cycle of life, finding new homes in wind, earth, or stars. We don’t vanish. We just change state.
That’s the first law of thermodynamics: Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.
I’ve come to think of my emotions as energy too. Raw, potent, often inconvenient, but deeply mine. I don’t like letting them run wild in my space, so I alchemize them. That heartbreak? I write. That rage? I run. That longing? I draw or move or throw it into a poem. My emotional energy is my currency. And just like any system drifting toward disorder, I’ve learned it takes intention to manage it. To line it up, tame it. I stand at the gate like a quiet guardian, even when I’m the one unraveling.
That’s maybe one of the better things I’ve learned with age.
This maturity. This reluctant grace. This knowing that, really, it’s just you. The love or care you pour into others often goes unmeasured, misread, or evaporates before it’s felt. That’s not on them. That’s just how energy works. It moves. It changes. Sometimes it just fades into silence.
I still roll my eyes at myself whenever I get heartbroken. Like, again, did I not learned anything? But I cry anyway. Because feeling is part of transforming. And I guess that’s the magic and cruelty of it. You don’t get to choose how others receive your energy.
But you do get to choose what you do with what’s left in you.
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So, dance to your song, plan your trip, write your sorrow, celebrate your pain.
Because what remains in you, that’s yours to wield. Turn it into something only you can make. Not because the world is watching, but because the energy has to go somewhere. Let it become you.
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