To My Boys
On living with impermanence
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To my boys,
If you are reading this, time has already done some of its quiet work. You are older now, taller in body or spirit or both, carrying questions I could not yet imagine when I first held you. I am writing this letter for you to open later in life, not because I had all the answers, but because I wanted you to know how deeply I paid attention while we were here together.
I want to talk to you about impermanence. Not as an idea meant to scare you, but as a truth meant to steady you. Impermanence means nothing stays exactly the same. Not bodies. Not feelings. Not relationships. Not fear. Not joy. Everything moves. Everything changes. Everything passes through.
When you were young, death frightened you. It frightened me too. Death is honest in a way that can feel cruel. It reminds us that we will not always be here. But when I say “you,” I do not only mean your body. I mean your laughter, your kindness, your courage, your stubborn tenderness. And when I say “here,” I mean this moment, this breath, this exact configuration of time.
Impermanence made me sad because life is beautiful. I saw beauty everywhere. In baby laughter. In sunsets that looked like God was painting with fire. In people helping each other without being asked. In music that pulled my body into motion. In the way children on playground swings trusted the sky. In clouds that reminded me the sun was still working behind them.
I struggled because joy felt too big to lose. I struggled because pain felt too heavy to ignore. I struggled because love made me vulnerable. Loving you meant accepting that I could not keep you forever in the way I wanted to. Loving you meant knowing I would one day have to let go.
There were nights when you wrapped your arms around my neck and held on like the world might disappear if you loosened your grip. When you asked what happens after death, I did not give you perfect explanations. I gave you honesty and presence. I told you I was here today. I asked you to be here with me. That was the truest answer I had.
I worried constantly about how to prepare you for loss. I wanted language strong enough to protect you. I wanted words that could soften grief before it arrived. I eventually learned that no sentence can prevent pain. What we can do is teach ourselves how to meet it.
Impermanence is not only about endings. It is also about relief. It means the hard thing will not last forever. It means suffering changes shape. It means despair is not permanent. It means healing is possible. It means joy matters because it is brief, not because it is guaranteed.
I practiced saying hello and goodbye to moments. Hello to people passing on the street. Hello to rooms I entered. Hello to joy when it appeared. Goodbye when it moved on. This practice taught me appreciation without clinging. It taught me how to love without trying to own.
I want you to remember the preciousness of ordinary things. A single breath. A shared meal. A laugh you did not plan. The choice to turn off the noise. The courage to dance. The strength to trust again after being hurt. The bravery of speaking even when your voice shakes. The wisdom of listening when you do not know.
You come from people who endured. You come from ancestors who survived injustice, grief, and fear. Remember history without letting it harden you. Let it guide you toward compassion, not bitterness. Let it remind you why integrity matters.
There will always be someone taller than you, stronger than you, louder than you. Let that keep you humble, not small. Trust yourself even when your inner voice is unkind. That voice is not the truth. It is only a habit.
Take fewer pictures of beauty. Experience it directly. Let moments live inside you instead of on a screen. You are allowed to feel joy without fearing its ending. You are allowed to grieve without losing your way.
One day, I will not be here in the way I am now. That is not a failure. That is the agreement of being alive. When that day comes, remember this: I loved you with attention. I loved you with honesty. I loved you without needing you to be anything other than yourselves.
If you remember anything from this letter, remember this. Life is happening now. This moment is enough. Meet it fully. Say hello. Say goodbye. Keep your heart open anyway.
I hope you learn to sit with uncertainty without rushing to solve it. Not everything that hurts needs fixing. Some things need witnessing. Let your friends cry without interrupting them. Let silence do its work. Choose curiosity over judgment. Choose rest when the world demands performance. Learn the difference between quitting and letting go. They are not the same.
Love bravely. Apologize sincerely. Forgive when it frees you, not when it traps you. Build a life that feels honest from the inside. Measure success by how gently you treat yourself and others. Remember that strength includes softness. Remember that tenderness is not weakness. Remember that asking for help is wisdom.
When fear tells you to shrink, expand instead. When anger arises, listen for the truth inside it. When grief comes, let it teach you how deeply you loved. Keep learning. Keep unlearning. Keep choosing presence. Even now, even later, even always.
Carry joy like a responsibility. Carry grief like a teacher. Walk slowly when you can. Notice the world. Drink water. Breathe deeply. Laugh loudly. Be kind to strangers. Protect children. Question power. Trust love. Come back to yourself whenever you get lost.
I am proud of you, endlessly, beyond time, beyond form, beyond breath, beyond this page, beyond impermanence itself. This love does not end.
With all of my love,
Your mama
Tasjha Dixon is a spoken word poet, trauma-informed yoga teacher, and sacred space facilitator whose work braids healing, hope, wholeness and deeply-reverent heartwork.
There are still spaces open in her deeply experiential and generative class Breathing into Bloom: A Spring Writing Practice for Renewal // with Tasjha Dixon which begins on 29 April 2026!
Through her wellness business, Empowering KC, Tasjha uses words as a practice of liberation, language as balm, and breath as a bridge to collective remembering. Find her on Substack at tasjha dixon .
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Breathing into Bloom: A Spring Writing Practice for Renewal // with Tasjha Dixon
29 April 2026 (CDT) • Online • 4 week course
Holding the Flame: A Night of Writing & Renewal // with Sharon Pajka
30 April 2026 7:00 PM • Online • 2 hour workshop
Writing the Here and Now: Mindful Writing // with Marianela Medrano
03 May 2026 1:00 PM • Online • 4 hour workshop
The Flash Fiction Club Craft Series: “CHARACTER”// with Riham Adly (1 of 3)
06 May 2026 3:30 PM • Online • 3 hour workshop
09 May 2026 • Online • 4 week course
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Tasjha, I read this with tears and tenderness. So much truth and beauty in your words. Your boys are so lucky to have you.
❤️