“Disbelief when I first heard the news
It left me angry and confused
Knocked the wind out of my soul
When we lost what made us whole
Now there’s a heat behind my eyes
And I can’t asking, ‘Why, why, why?’“

Not a whole lot in life prepares you for loss at the magnitude of losing someone who you’ve given a home within and thus becomes a large part of your heart. The longer the tenancy, the harder the impact is when the vacancy occurs. This can mean heartbreak or absolute loss; these are hard lessons one learns throughout life. Nearly everyone I know has had heartbreak and I suppose there are folx out there that have been shielded and sheltered from experiencing it, I just don’t know them. Honestly, if I knew someone who’d never had loss, I’d be respectfully suspect and might even distance myself from them. A cynic, I find it very hard to believe that one can get through life without tragedy lest one exists in an all-encompassing state of blissful, willful denial and ignorance. Apart from children, I’m hard-pressed to name a societal constituency that is untouched by tragedy. Even then, there are kids that find themselves in tragic situations of loss in way too many arenas. The world is cruel, yes, and loss is a part of that cruelty.

“They say it’s going to be okay
But it’s doesn’t take away the pain
We don’t have to be afraid
‘Cause I don’t think it’s an accident
That tears are shaped like seeds
So I’ll bury all my fears and trust
They’re turning into trees
Oh, I ‘m fighting to believe
This is not the end of the story…”

At least, that’s what I used to believe in my youth. Yes, I said youth. I’d enjoyed a relatively happy-go-lucky childhood running among the scrub and red dirt of New Mexico. I thought I was immunized from loss up until the tender age of 12 when I was given the news that my grandmother had passed away earlier that day. 5:55 a.m., to be somewhat precise. I’d gone through an entire school day feeling disturbed and inexplicably tired. After surviving a day of early high school, I climbed into the back of my older brother’s car. He was quiet, the car was quiet.

“So…do you remember grandma?“

And before he finished the inquisitive intonation, I knew. I had felt something amiss in the early morning, a disquiet that ran through the day like a diseased thread sutured across my freshman heart. The realization did nothing to dull the deep, cold pain of my boyish heart breaking or the hot, salty tears that streamed down my face. I did remember her, I would always remember her, and my heart would always be broken from that moment forward. Not because of her, she didn’t intend to do this, it was the hard way of the world, a cruel lesson in humanity: One lives, one dies, the rest has to deal with it with no choice in the matter.

“Grief, you’re a loyal friend
Just when I thought I’d never see you again
You caught me by surprise
And took me back to simple times
When we all had a place
Now in every precious moment
I can feel the empty spaces…“

That was over 30 years ago, the loss still stings even though I’m older and more seasoned in understanding the ways of living and dying. I’ve seen folx I loved and looked up to depart, I know there’ll be more to come and I’m not looking forward to it nor will I be prepared for it. That’s the thing of it, isn’t it? With years and years experiencing and understanding life and death, I am reduced to being that 12-year-0ld freshman boy silently shedding an ocean of tears in the backseat of my brother’s car. Knowing that I am unprepared for the losses to come isn’t comforting in the least; however, the fact that I will never be ready is a cool solace. I’ll take it where I can get it.

I came across this song, Tragedy Is Not The End, by Joel Ansett sometime in early-2025. Originally released in 2015, the song is a stark, beautiful rendition of grief. I’d heard it during an episode of a TV show that I cannot recall but the tone stayed with me. Ansett’s delivery is haunting and heartsick, transporting me back to the pre-teen boy quietly quaking and breaking as the car drifted through the dark clay expanse back Home nestled in a mountain shadow. It was during that half-hour trek, I believe, that I learned to dissociate. So great and so deep was the widening chasm screaming through my heart that all I could so was remove from myself from me. I looked for loving arms that would never be there again and finding it so, I slid into the embrace of numbness. A big part of me was gone and I was so young; however, Death has no regard for its pupil’s age, lessons are lessons.

“They say it’s going to be okay
But it doesn’t take away
It doesn’t take away the pain
And we don’t have to fear the rain anymore
No, I don’t think it’s an accident
That tears are shaped like seeds
So I’ll bury all my fears and trust
They’re turning into trees
Oh, I ‘m fighting to believe
This is not the end of the story
This is not the end of the story…“

Over the decades, I’ve lost some amazing people. My whipsmart grandfather, my best friend and mentor Gunny, and most recently, a large figure in my life, Colton Ford (aka Glenn Soukesian). The latter hitting me harder than I thought it would. There was the initial shock of seeing the headline, Colton Ford Dead at 62. No, it’s not real.

“So…do you remember Colton?“

In the hours following the news, the familiar bloom of loss unfurled. Its tendrils darkly, softly enveloping my heart, riding up into my mind, and streaming out of my eyes. I’d been here before, felt the steel-toed kick in my chest once again: Grandma, Gunny, Grandpa…now Glenn.

Fuck.

Every loss I’ve endured is its own cache of vignettes, variations on the theme of mourning. As the sole constant in each play, I carry the most difficult role of the boy and the man breaking down, pulling out the sutures precariously holding his beaten-to-hell heart together. In the first losses, I cursed heaven until I believed in it no longer. When Gunny died, I wanted only to be where he was, to make a deal so he could be here and I could be gone.

Now, this; now, Colton.

“Our lives are a poem
Our sorrow half the lines
There will come a day
When the good lord makes it rhyme
Oh, when the good lord makes it rhyme..”

I took the loss of Colton Ford very hard. The difference from previous losses was that I consciously allowed myself to feel it entirely. That was something I didn’t do before and I was out of practice, it being over a decade since Gunny died. As the loss of Colton made its way through my system, I made the decision to allow myself grace and to find another way through the loss. That’s when I found this song.

I played it on repeat for days when I had the opportunity to be alone with it. I cried when I needed to and listened to Joel Ansett express the shattering sentiments my heart felt too hurt to express. Ever so slowly, the rawness of the rupture began to firm up. With each listen, I began to re-understand the harsh lessons of living and dying. I cried less despite the boot hole kicked through my world. I sang along until the words grew less mournful and more, dare I say, hopeful.

“No, I don’t think it’s an accident
That tears are shaped like seeds
So I’ll bury all my fears and trust
They’re turning into trees
And I’ll keep fighting to believe
That this is not the end of the story

This tragedy is not the end of the story.”

These days, I still cry when I hear this song because it reminds me of the people I’ve lost and that there are more to come. Now that I’ve reached middle age, I know that loss will likely become more frequent and that I will never be ready to hear the news that another star has fallen from my sky.

That’s not to say that I will live in fear and sadness. Far from it. What I’ve learned from loss is that I’ve got to embrace my Authentic Self entirely and live fully, truthfully. I need to relish every aspect of this life including sadness and loss. I am who I am because those who’ve gone gave me the strength to be the Leatherman, the Dom, the Kinkster that I am today. Yes, I may have lost them but I haven’t lost the Love, Light, and Lessons they gave me. There will be more heartbreak on the horizon, true, but my focus is on the here and now. When Death calls, I’ll get to it when I get to it. In the meantime, I will strive to be the best man my Grandmother, my Grandfather, Gunny, and Colton taught me to be.

In closing, I want to pass on to you the words I sent Colton after meeting him at Hunters during Palm Springs Leather Pride 2024. He was emceeing the number pull for the Mr. Palm Springs Leather contestants and I bucked up the courage to approach him and told him what he meant to me especially after I got out of serving eight years under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT). He was gracious and we had a photo taken together. Later that night, I sent him the following message: