Hey Mavens,

I’m so glad you’re here.

You might be wondering — why “mavens”? Well, a maven is someone who is an expert or an insightful guide — someone who cares deeply, asks questions, and knows how to listen. But more than that, it’s a word about community. Because none of us has to do this alone.

I call you mavens because I see you as thoughtful, brave souls who want to live deeply — to face the realities of grief, loss, and mortality, and in doing so, to find meaning, connection, and maybe even joy.

I call myself a maven because I’ve walked some of these paths alongside many of you — as a death doula, artist, and guide — learning every day how embracing death teaches us how to truly live.

Maven’s Musings is where I’ll share reflections, stories, ideas, and gentle nudges about grief, legacy, and planning — all through a queer-centered, compassionate lens. It’s a space to make the hard things a little softer, the unknown a little less scary, and the conversations around death a little more human.

Each month (or when life calls for it), you’ll get a note from me — sometimes a story, sometimes a ritual, sometimes just a quiet thought to sit with. If you ever want to reply, share, or ask questions, I’m here.

Thank you for trusting me to be part of your journey. Let’s walk this path together, one musing at a time.

With care,

Chris (they/she)

Founder of MavenHaven

lettsmavenhaven.com

P.S. If you haven’t already, don’t forget to download your free Soft Beginnings guides — your companions for grief, legacy, and planning. Find them here → [link]

It's a story I hear often in grief work.

It’s a sentiment born of survival. When we’ve lived through trauma, sometimes the only way we made it through was by not looking back. We packed away memories in sealed boxes and tucked them deep in the closets of our minds. We convinced ourselves that forgetting was the only path to moving on.

And sometimes, for a while, it is what we need. Sometimes we need distance to stay afloat. There is no shame in that.

But here’s the quiet truth I’ve witnessed again and again: avoiding the past doesn’t erase it. The memories don’t vanish. The body remembers. The heart remembers. And eventually, that hidden grief finds its way to the surface—through anxiety, sadness, chronic tension, or a vague sense that something vital is unfinished.

What if remembering could be an act of liberation?

What if revisiting our losses and naming what hurt us is a way to reclaim agency over our own story?

When we dare to acknowledge what was—what we survived, what we lost, what we needed but didn’t receive—we create space to grieve honestly. Grief isn’t only for the death of people we loved. It’s also for the deaths of safety, innocence, possibility, trust. It’s for the selves we had to leave behind to get by.

Remembering is not about staying stuck in the past. It’s about giving our pain the dignity of recognition.

When we bring our past experiences into the light, we can finally ask ourselves:

• What did this teach me about my worth?
• What did I lose?
• What parts of me are still longing to be heard?
• What might healing look like now, with all the wisdom I’ve gained?

In this way, remembering becomes an opening rather than a closing—a chance to gently lay down the burdens we’ve carried alone for too long.

Healing rarely happens in a straight line. But each time we honor the truth of where we’ve been, we loosen trauma’s hold on the present. We allow ourselves to imagine futures rooted in choice and self-compassion rather than fear.

If you’re feeling called to look back, do so with care. Bring along trusted companions—a therapist, a friend, a community—so you don’t have to face those memories in isolation. Make rituals of remembrance. Light candles. Write letters to your younger self. Speak aloud what was once unspeakable.

May remembering be a portal to your own wholeness. May you find that the past, when honored, can offer medicine to your present and hope for your future.

You deserve that healing.

If this reflection stirred something tender or overwhelming, you are not alone. Here are some resources that can help you feel supported as you navigate remembering and healing:

🌿 National Resources (U.S.):

🌿 Specialized Support for Marginalized Communities:

🌿 Find a Trauma-Informed Therapist:

• Psychology Today (search by specialty and identity)
• Therapy for Black Girls
• Inclusive Therapists
• Open Path Collective (low-cost therapy)

Legacy is rarely a tidy, polished thing. We like to imagine it as a curated record of accomplishments—carefully chosen moments and virtues, arranged so the flaws fade into the background. But real legacy is messier. It’s a mix of triumphs and mistakes, of the ways we rose to meet the world and the ways we fell short.

My great grand-uncle, Walter Francis White, lived that complexity in full view. As secretary of the NAACP, he risked his life investigating lynchings, pushed for anti-lynching legislation, and fought for civil rights at a time when doing so could cost you everything. His work changed the course of history for Black Americans.

But his story was not without contradictions. A Black man who could pass for white, he navigated a complicated personal identity, sometimes seen as distant from the very community he championed. His leadership was bold, but his ambition and ego could alienate allies. The PBS documentary Forgotten Hero: Walter White and the NAACP and his biography both paint a fuller picture—one where courage and fallibility exist side by side. Hearing about his faults didn’t always feel good, but it made him more real. More human.

That humanness matters to me. In my own work as a death doula, I hold space for people in their most vulnerable moments. I sit at bedsides, guide families through grief, and help shape the final chapters of life with intention. My work is quieter than Walter White’s public fight for justice, but we share a willingness to face hard truths without turning away.

I don’t know how my own legacy will be remembered—or if it will be remembered at all beyond the lives I’ve touched. But I hope those who knew me will say they felt seen, heard, and cared for. That I brought dignity to death, and gentleness to grief.

Walter White’s legacy is a reminder that we cannot control how we are remembered. We can only live with integrity in the moment we have. Our stories will include our victories and our mistakes, our brilliance and our blind spots. And maybe that’s what makes a legacy truly human—it tells the whole truth, not just the parts we’re proud of.

For me, that truth will be this: A reminder that death, like life, deserves care and dignity. That grief is not something to be rushed through, but something to be tended to. That our legacies are not just in what we do, but in how we make people feel. I chose to walk into the tender, difficult spaces of life’s end, to sit with what others might turn away from, and to leave behind not a perfect record, but a lasting presence.

In 2015, the Supreme Court’s Obergefell v. Hodges decision made marriage equality the law of the land. For many queer couples, it felt like a turning point—a long-awaited validation of love, partnership, and the right to build a life together under the same protections afforded to straight couples.

But a decade later, the ground beneath that hard-won right is shifting.

In early 2025, former Kentucky clerk Kim Davis—who famously refused to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples—filed a petition asking the Supreme Court to overturn Obergefell. According to Them, this is just one front in a growing movement: conservative lawmakers are pushing “covenant marriage” bills, state Houses have passed resolutions urging the Court to revisit the ruling, and the Southern Baptist Convention has publicly called for Obergefell to be overturned.

While national support for marriage equality remains at about 70%, the partisan divide is wider than it’s been in nearly thirty years (AP News). Many queer couples—especially in conservative states—are feeling a creeping anxiety about the future of their rights. If Obergefell falls, the fallout could extend far beyond marriage licenses, deeply impacting medical decisions, inheritance rights, parental recognition, and even the ability to be acknowledged as a spouse at the end of life.

I’m not married—and to be honest, I’m not even sure marriage is for me. But I live in Georgia, a deeply conservative state, and I can’t ignore how a Supreme Court reversal would ripple through my life in ways that go beyond “tying the knot.”

If marriage equality disappears, it won’t just affect queer folks with rings on their fingers. It could:

For me, and for many in my community, this isn’t an abstract legal debate—it’s about control over our bodies, our property, and our stories.

Even if marriage equality stays intact, having a strong plan in place ensures your wishes are honored. Consider:

The decade since Obergefell has shown us both the progress possible and the fragility of that progress. As UCLA Law notes, marriage equality endures in a “risky terrain”—meaning legal rights can be gained and lost depending on political tides.

For the queer community, end-of-life planning is not just about death. It’s about living fully with the security that your relationships, values, and identity will be respected—no matter what tomorrow brings.