I’m Tukayote, An Unkillable Love
Recovery Through Love. No Anesthesia. No Bullshit. 🥰
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Ego death isn’t a breakthrough. It’s not enlightenment. It’s not a glow-up. It’s the violent collapse of an identity that was keeping you alive while quietly killing you. I ended patterns that were destroying me and detonated my nervous system in the process. I stopped avoiding. I stopped numbing. I stopped performing stability for other people’s comfort. I chose integrity knowing it might never be acknowledged. What followed was months of internal and external torture. Daily triggers. Hypervigilance. Boundaries being tested and violated. People disappearing. Grief without witnesses. Accountability without applause. I screamed into the ocean in cold storms. I…
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This piece was written after avoidance failed and accountability became unavoidable. Behind Old Bellingham City Hall, with the bass of Drowning in the Drip grounding me in my body, I stayed present with the harm I caused, the consequences I earned, and the amends I am making without asking for forgiveness. This is not a redemption story. It is a commitment to never repeating the damage.
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For a long time, accountability felt like punishment. Like a tally of my failures. Like proof that something was wrong with me. What I’m learning now is that real accountability is quieter and far more personal. It’s the willingness to look directly at my patterns without flinching, without turning that awareness into self-hatred, and turning it into positive forward movement. Ownership, for me, means recognizing where I contribute to the suffering of others and myself. It means noticing when I avoid, when I harm, when I overextend, when I take more than I give, or when I reach for relief…
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At sunset on the pier, in the middle of grief I didn’t know how to finish feeling, a complete stranger stepped into my life and quietly changed everything. She didn’t ask for details, explanations, or context. She offered warmth, presence, and long, steady hugs that held my nervous system when words couldn’t. For thirty minutes, the world stopped, grief softened, and I was reminded that kindness, safety, and love exist far beyond romance, history, or expectation.
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Twenty-six years in a row I had someone by my side. Someone to pour my love into. Someone to anchor the day. This year, I’m alone. Because of my old patterns. This Valentine’s Day almost swallowed me whole until I said fuck that and rewrote the story. I walked the city hand-hearting strangers, giving away balloons, trolling grumpy men, and letting love move freely through me. No rushing. No fear. No performance. Just emotional sobriety, a calm nervous system, and a big, unapologetic heart shared with the world.
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Pure play downtown. A sober night dancing to Confusion. Improvised movement, loud bass, zero agenda. Just fun, presence, and creative freedom.
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I woke up anxious and didn’t run. I faced anxiety and didn’t spiral. Thirty-seven days sober in the hardest season of my life, I chose movement over meltdown and discipline over drama. This dance isn’t performance. It’s proof. Identity death cracked me open, and what came back is steadier, sharper, and done selling out.
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