Second Skin

April 21, 2025

I feel dead inside. Empty. Lifeless. Passionless. But not to worry, don’t feel sorry for me—this is what rebirth demands.

I’m suspended in that strange in-between, where I no longer recognize myself or the path ahead. I’m waiting, watching, aching for something to begin. And as disorienting as it is, I know this space. It's part of the territory.

Life moves through endless deaths and births—some small, some seismic. We shed skins, identities, stories. We bury parts of ourselves and mourn them, over and over again. Until one day, the death is bigger. It stretches longer. It asks for everything. And that’s where I’ve been.

The hardest part is not knowing when it ends. When something new will begin.

Hope feels further and further away these days, but every now and then, it still flickers through—like today.

I was looking at photos from my 39th birthday, remembering how much hope I managed to muster. I really believed something would shift. I threw myself a party of one, thinking I was stepping into a brighter chapter. But nothing changed. The stagnancy held firm. My expectations dissolved into another year of limitation.

So when 40 approached, I didn’t feel like celebrating. Not because I cared about the number—40 doesn’t scare me—but because I didn’t want to make a moment out of something that felt like nothing.

My cousin had thrown herself a huge party for her 40th, but I had no desire to follow suit. I didn’t feel connected to anyone, least of all myself. I wasn’t proud of my life. I didn’t want to mark the occasion. So I spent it alone. Quietly. And it was fine. Pleasant, even. I tried to bake myself a cake—it didn’t turn out right. I tossed it in the trash. That part stung.

My sisters couldn’t make it on my actual birthday, but promised they’d come the next weekend. I secretly hoped they wouldn’t. That they’d forget. That I’d be left alone. But Friday came, and they were on the road, headed to me.

I didn’t know what the plan was. I didn’t care, really. I just didn’t have the energy to feign excitement. When they arrived, they said we were going to a new casino in Bossier City that had just opened. I was indifferent. I’ve never been a gambler—and neither are they—but that was the plan.

We started at a loud sports bar inside the casino. The food was underwhelming. My fries never came. The waitress was sweet but overwhelmed, clearly out of her depth during opening weekend. We had to shout over the music to hear each other. At one point, we watched our uncle’s funeral on Zoom from San Jose. It was surreal—funerals and French fries, grief and neon lights, all tangled together.

Eventually we made it to the casino floor. My sisters insisted I go first. I didn’t want to. But I sat down at a Buffalo slot machine, slid in the $20 my sister gave me, and started pressing buttons at random. I had no idea what I was doing. They had to help me through it.

And then—I won.

About $400. Just like that.

I was stunned. I came in with nothing. Not even a wish. And there it was, this sudden gift.

After that, we wandered a bit. They played other games, but no one else had my luck. We stopped for pizza at another spot in the casino, talking and laughing about my unexpected win. I wasn’t even hungry, but the joy stirred something in me. I wanted more. More life. More wonder. More surprise. I asked my intuition where to go next.

And I heard: Buddha.

I remembered seeing a row of slot machines with Laughing Buddha (or Budai, actually), graphics earlier. When we got there, all of them were taken. I couldn’t bring myself to play anything else. Something in me said, Wait. So we did. When one woman finally got up, I moved toward the machine—just as another man arrived. But I think he could tell I needed it more. He let me have it.

I sat down. Played.

Won another $300.

We were all stunned. To win once was wild. But twice? It felt supernatural. My sisters were ecstatic. I think they knew how much I needed a win—not just money, but something. Some proof that life still holds joy for me.

I walked out of the casino with $791.25. But the real miracle wasn’t the cash. It was the feeling. For the first time in what felt like forever, something good happened to me. I’d walked in lifeless, indifferent. I walked out reborn.

And today, when the despair came back—when I felt numb, impatient, hopeless—I remembered that night.

It shifted something in me. It reminded me that miracles are possible. That joy isn’t behind me. That the magic isn’t over. It’s just late.

Nine years is a long time to be in the dark. But if this is the long night before the dawn, then I have to believe the light will be worth it.

That experience did something deeper than just restore my mood—it restored my trust in myself. In my intuition. In that quiet inner voice that still knows the way, even when everything around me looks barren. If I follow it, I’ll find my way. I’ll get what I need. I’ll become who I’m meant to be.

I’m standing at the edge of my great transformation—the kind that only happens once. That’s why this purgatory has lasted so long. That’s why I’ve felt so far from myself. I am no one right now. Not who I was. Not yet who I will be. Just waiting in the womb of becoming.

And as I wrote this, I kept hearing a line: “I realize a miracle is due.”

I couldn’t remember where it came from, but I looked it up. Second Skin, by The Chameleons. (Here’s a live version filmed the year of my birth).

I don’t need to explain what that means. I already know. So do you.

So today, instead of letting my mind spiral through all that’s missing or broken, I’m choosing something else.

I’m choosing to believe in miracles.

Not chase them. Not demand them.

Just believe they exist.

And that I deserve them.

That I’ve sacrificed myself—and I am owed them.

Another good thing happened, too. One of my sisters gifted me a trip to Portland—my first real trip in years. I’ll be going at the end of May or early June. I don’t know what’s waiting for me there, but I feel something special will happen.

I’ll tell you all about it.