Dear Will,

I want to call you.

To hear your voice — that calm, grounded tone that always made the world feel just a little more whole.

I want to hug you.

To see your smile.

To hear your laughter.

To look into your eyes…

…just one more time.

To say all the things rising up inside me now, while the tears won’t stop and my heart feels torn apart.

I miss you so, so much, Will.

More than words can ever hold.

My heart is aching.

Many days into this grief, I find myself holding onto the sacred fragments of our connection — our story — everything we shared and were to each other.

You weren’t just my friend.

You were my spiritual father.

My mentor.

My mirror.

My safe place.

If you had been gifted a seventh daughter, I know — deep in my bones — it would have been me.

That’s how divine and deep our bond was: timeless, fated, written in the stars.

We met in Rimini, 2013, at REX Roundtable — the powerful space you created from your soul’s own vision.

When our eyes met, something ancient stirred inside me.

Words weren’t needed.

We just knew.

Soul to soul.

From that moment, everything changed.

You encouraged me to speak my truth.

To find my voice.

To write my book. (I started on it in January, finally.)

You saw something in me I hadn’t yet seen in myself — and you never let me forget it.

I still remember your WhatsApp message where you said Anna had encouraged you to write a book about your life.

You told me: “I’ve started writing… and I’ve already written a chapter about you.”

Will I ever get to read it?

Was I really part of your story in that way?

My heart hopes the pages still exist somewhere — like a secret waiting to be found.

You even asked me to talk with my father about his own funeral — not because it was morbid, but because you wanted me to free myself from fear.

You taught me to look at life — and death — with wide-open, honest eyes.

And Will — you interviewed my dates.

Not because you were nosy, but because you cared.

Because you wanted me to stop repeating the same old patterns.

Because you believed I deserved a love that was true and whole.

You asked about my daughters, my son, my family — always present, always curious, always loving.

We read Alef by Paulo Coelho together — slowly, intentionally, as if it were sacred scripture.

It wasn’t just a book. It was a memory.

It felt like our story — crossing lifetimes, soul ties, portals beyond time.

You’d underline the parts that moved you and send them to me with voice notes, full of soul.

Always ending with:

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

You once wrote:

“Exquisite, Ecstatic, Energetic Exchange is the gift we share — you are a blessing in my life.”

You were a blessing in mine, too, Will. One of the most precious I’ve ever known.

We were supposed to go to Peru together — to sit in ceremony, to heal, to just be.

We had plans.

Now, the journey takes a different form.

My heart aches for what will never be — and still, I feel you walking beside me in a new way.

I wanted to show you and Mary Norway — my fjords, my fire, my roots.

We dreamed of drinking tea by the fire, talking about mythology, rebirth, the sacred feminine, and the great mystery of it all.

Now… I hold onto those dreams, and this silence.

I keep listening to your voice messages.

I scroll through our photos.

I reread our words.

And I cry.

A lot.

You were my rock.

Min klippe.

The one who steadied me when I was unraveling.

And now…

Where are you, Will?

Where are you when I long to lean into your wisdom one more time?

When I want to say how much I love you?

How much you changed my life?

How much it hurts to let you go?

You once reminded me:

“Remember, Easter is a time of rebirth. Your rebirth, my rebirth, our rebirth.”

I hold onto those words like a thread between worlds — helping me believe you’re still with me.

In a whisper.

In a breeze.

In a breath.

Will…

Thank you.

For your presence.

For your love.

For your fierce belief in me.

For helping me remember who I am.

For calling forth my truth.

For making space for my soul to unfold.

I love you — endlessly.

And I always will.

With all my heart,

Christin

Your seventh daughter in spirit

RIP