Corner Crying
The thing I did the most above all else in 2025 was cry. More than I have in any other year in memory, and yes, I think that includes the year my dad died. The tears that were brought on this year were different than I’d experienced before. This year, the tears came from the pain of shapeshifting, growing and contracting, leading with confidence and then doubling over with doubt. I’ve had to grieve in ways I never knew were possible. I learned what deep grief there is from letting go of not only relationships and people, but the dreams and hopes built with them. The grief that surprised me the most, though, was that connected to who I was and the life that person had built. It has, and continues to be, a painful period of transformation and growth.
Very few people witnessed these tears and most of my more difficult moments came when I was alone. It was these moments that I found myself crawling into the corner of my kitchen, between the sink and oven, and simply sobbing. For some reason it felt safe there, on the floor, coddled by cabinets.
In the beginning, I decided to take portraits of myself crying because I wanted a witness to it, even if that witness was only a future version of myself. The one person who used to be there for all my tears wasn’t anymore and being able to acknowledge my sadness was important to me. But practically speaking, I also found that setting up the camera gave me a task to do; it helped interrupt the uncontrollable moments with something controllable. Sometimes it helped me calm myself, and sometimes the tears flowed harder. Eventually, I brought some guests into the portraits, but even though the shots were slightly more staged or planned out, one thing remained the same: they all began with very real, and very heavy tears.
Over the last several months not only did I find myself crying in the safety of my kitchen corner (and in one photo, my friend’s kitchen corner), but I cried almost everywhere I went: on countless subways and sidewalks, in the dugout of a softball field, in coffee shops, sitting in the theater watching the ballet, while shopping at Aldi. As a kid, my dad used to get angry when I cried. “Crying isn’t going to solve anything” he would say. I didn’t feel like I was allowed to cry in my own home, let alone on a bus surrounded by strangers. But he was wrong. Crying is inherently human. It is a form of connection and communication, to ourselves, to our feelings and to others. It is beautiful and ugly. Crying is part of how we work to solve the impossible puzzle of ourselves. It is part of the healing.
These photos are a reminder of how far I’ve come in just half a year. I barely recognize the woman in some of these photos, as I’ve already shed several layers since being Her. I’ve traded my shorts and cut off tees for sweaters and beanies, a house full of ghosts and memories for an apartment with a blank canvas. I see that slightly younger self and can say to her “Let it out. You’re going to be okay.” I am humbled by what I’ve learned, and what I’ve felt. It has taken many years, but now, I don’t feel shame when water wells up in my eyes. It is a practice I now embrace without judgment. And I hope that by sharing this, you too can feel welcomed to cry when you most need it.
