Matriarchy rising

Lori Kane

04 Sep 2025 — 20 min read

What Mom smiling looks like now. Isn't she beautiful?

Most days here in these bodies are good. Pretty damn good. The seasons shift, the air here is clean, we can still play and afford to eat and help others now and then, though dental insurance is beyond our reach now. And, nobody at all is dropping U.S.-funded bombs on our innocent heads, or starving and torturing us and our children to take our land, or disappearing us into ICE concentration camps and, worse, into oblivion– making our children or spouses and communities watch and scream as we vanish with masked men– without a trace. So, yeah, my "good" is, admittedly, not the same as it once was for connected-to-everyone me. And. Loving and real is what we are. Not good. Definitely not great. But far more loving and real. And loving even of the mess and pain of life. Out loud.

We have bad days here, too. Really bad days. I've started thinking of them as Other days. Other days are the days where the very worst of the human world tells us that we don't belong here, that we aren't helping or needed or wanted or loved or worthy, or even adults to be trusted, at all– that we don't belong here– and we believe them. We live in an Othering society, with a twisted, ugly and violently Othering government, being fed Othering AI and media and social media and paid-for fake accounts for breakfast, and the trick here in the USA is not believing them. Not letting the ancient and modern systems that support only too-wealthy, under-melanated, greedy, abusive men getting a foothold in your beautiful heart and mind, family, and community. Every day we believe we don't belong here is an Other day. This believing-the-worst-we-can-imagine, this embodying a rejected, unwanted Other. Very bad days, typically, at least in the moment. Pro tip: One hint you've been Othered is that your "we" becomes "I". You've accepted that you are smaller, more powerless, and much less than you actually, in reality, are.

People who celebrate differences– who rejoice in the presence of all non-violent, non-intentionally-cruel others– are the only folks I trust these days. I don't care how much fracking money or influence or ability to jail or disappear others you have. But I digress... I'm here to say, and show, that I had a big Ah Ha! moment this week. I noticed this week what a lot of you probably already know. I stopped believing the cruel Otherers out there decades ago. Started reading and watching and learning with those whose people and communities have been Othered across this history of my country. The only way the cruel Otherers get to me now is if they show up within a person I deeply love and value. Then, wow. All bets are off. One loved one can shatter me. Not with one cruel sentence but with a series of them. A series I should have stopped long ago--but I loved too much. There is such a thing, I've learned. Holding the weight of the world doesn't shatter me. Holding the cruel words and indifference of a loved one still can. And thank God. Yay hearts!

I wrote the following poem "Matriarchy rising" on a very bad day. Two days ago. If you choose to read it, you can decide what it's about for you. For me, it's about what caregiving for decades can feel like on the inside on the very worst days. And, what being a family elder and a family matriarch with limited to no in-person support can feel like some days. And, it's definitely about what 23+ years of living with Younger Onset Alzheimer’s in both your immediate and extended family can feel like when you try to always stay present to hold the hardest parts and everyone else seems content to vanish. To stay away. Or happy to look away. As if Alzheimer's disease and caregiving are contagious. As if those strong enough to hold it all– and yet somehow still be full of wonder & love most days– are a burden. Are the problem.

I wrote this intro to the poem so people I love know– before you read the poem– that despite what the poem surfaces, I am not in eminent harm's way as a human being. I love life. Love being alive. The emotions expressed in this poem are me venting deep pain. And not just my own pain. Family pain. Cross-generational pain. Global pain. The pain of mother earth. Pain others won't– can't– face yet. This is a poem of the time of the Matriarch Rising. It's both for everyone, and, wow, it's really not for everyone. You do you. I can only be for everyone if I'm also deeply happy that I'm not for everyone! 😄

If you read my other work, you know that poets are of the jellyfish family. We float submerged in the water of life, invite everything in through our happily translucent skin, and then we look at/move/write and/or transform all the nasty shit present, turn it around, and send it right back out again. Just by moving as our true, open, unhide-able selves, we are ok. Other people can hide how they feel. Some can even hide how they feel from themselves. Those are the people to worry about– not me. I can't do that. I can't hide how I feel. I won't. Because what I feel is for everyone, not just for me. Jellyfish are super soft and squishy, but we don't hide. Yesterday was a very bad day. Today this poem is me getting all the pain of yesterday out, looking at it, staying with it, transforming as I must, so that tomorrow can be a much better day than yesterday and today were. Having written it, I've already shifted back toward being me again. A new me and the same me. Clear. Floating. Wandering. Wondering. Content with everything and everyone present. Harvesting fruit and making jams to fundraise for friends and families in Gaza (locals, that's Saturdays this fall, 11 am to 1 pm, at the Bayview Park & Ride, corner of 525 and Bayview. Also, at the silent auction to benefit The Gaza Soup Kitchen on Sept 27th 4-7 pm, at Langley Methodist Church). I'm ok again for now.

Warning: This poem holds intense pain, especially in the middle sections. The wonders that never cease are there. Always there. But so are rage, anger, grief, loss, self-doubt, suicidal ideation, and letting go of a former self– a self that cared way too much for someone, until it hurt us all. All emotions get a seat at my table now and then. Because we're connected, and we care, and if we don't share our pain too, well, you've seen the world. You know what happens when we don't share. And, like intense pain, this poem is not meant to be held on to for too long. Not meant to be stuffed down where it can keep burning, keep hurting you. It's meant to be held for a moment, sat with for a while– digested– and then let go of. This poem is also a witnessing practice. Of us watching ourselves holding some pain, staying with it as we need to, and just seeing it and naming it and either backing away for now to rest or going deeper and being transformed by it like I was– your choice, as always– and then letting it right back out again.

I've learned that some of us feel everything to protect our tender hearts. Others of us feel little to nothing these days, for the same reason: to protect equally tender hearts. Poems like "Matriarchy Rising" come forth to create a meeting space– to help us see ourselves and each other better– somewhere in the middle of the beautiful and horrible mess that is humanity.

Matriarchy Rising

1.
Living for others
is a dangerous game,
isn't it?

So is caregiving
for multiple
elders
for many years,
on an island,
far away from other family and friends,
I've learned.

I find myself alone now.
Alone again today.
Almost all the time now.
Alone and alone and alone.
Most days I love the freedom.

This is about the Other days…

2.
I gave, still give
so many hours
to Mom
to Dad
happily, gladly most days
that years
Decades?
have passed &
mom hasn't spoken
in 9-ish years
& can barely open her eyes now
barely smile,
which strangers think is sad & yet
which is actually a remarkable &
generous blessing
for an empathic daughter
almost always alone with her now
week after week
who has to watch
her teeth rot & crumble
out of her
still-so-beautiful
head.
I love her Mona Lisa smile.

Strangers,
including family,
can’t even see Mom smile
anymore.
Dad can feel it some days.
Some of her caregivers can feel it some days–
when they have a moment to breathe.
Only I
can hold her hand &
feel her smile within
without
using her eyes or her mouth.
She is subtle now
and she's still the most present human being I know.
By far.
But you have to hold her hand
stay fully present
to feel her
be fully there
be fully present.

Nobody else but Dad
& me does this now.
Nobody else fully knows
this her
now.

Dad can’t hear well
& doesn’t listen much
anyway
especially on bad days
& all my friends
& all my other family
can’t afford to visit
or far worse
can’t be bothered to visit.
They've vanished into thin air
happy to be relieved of us–
their burden.

When did we become a burden?
When did I?
But we are.
For them
we are.

We were a we.
Now we're an us
and a
them.
It's shattering.

No Othering hurts worse
than the Othering
of family.

3.
Loss.

Alzheimer's doesn't take one person
from you.
It takes absolutely everyone–
everyone–
from you,
including you
some days.

At least in our
Othering
society.

Back at roughly
20-years-in
to Mom's Alzheimer's
all people
stopped having time
for people like us–
people
who don’t communicate fluidly
or do anything, really,
easily
anymore.

People stop having time
for people
who can’t speak
or hear well
or talk on the phone
or zoom
or obviously smile
or travel
to meet them
where they are.

People become
reflections
of your lived reality.
Have you noticed?
Stop seeing you.
Stop speaking to you.
Stop hearing you.
Stop visiting.
Stop caring
like they once did.

The last year I had time for friends
beyond my parents–
real friends, the kind who
show up in person
gladly &
without being asked–
was when?
It was
12
years
ago.

Twelve years.

Between caregiving & making an
ethical living
I’ve had almost no time for real friends
for too long now—
& now it's too late.

Why does nobody warn us
all our friends
& even family have
an expiration date?

4.
Come right in, rage.
Welcome.

And now
now
all I have is now
& all I have is time &
nobody comes.
Nobody helps &
nobody comes &
all the care
that I receive
comes from trees
& sky
& screens.

Almost nobody.
Almost never.
I'm 55 & I know
almost exactly
what it is
to be 95
already.

And I've learned
that there are far worse things–
far worse–
than nobody visiting.

The worst of the worst
are those who
say they’ll come–
repeatedly–
but then are just too busy
again
& never do.

Fuck you.

I'm done with cowards.
With excuses.
With you.
Just face the truth.
Just speak your truth.
Say– out loud– that
we don't make the cut.
That only guilt made
you visit before. And that nothing
at all
would make you visit now
without coercion.
Except, what?
Maybe, a funeral?

Apparently
we have no cards left to play here but death.

Last year I said to someone:
"This may be the last year we have with her."

These are the words
that came back to me
via text:
"You say that every year."

Fuck you.

And this year someone who
once loved us
& who promised to visit
three or four different times,
this year alone–
texted their newest apologies:
"We have a lot going on right now.
We are helping [a friend] care
for her 96 year old mother
who has dementia until her sister
or cousin can get here."

Oh really?
[deep breath]
Ok.

No more fuck you's.
This time I heard what I wanted to hear.

I wanted honesty and I got it.
You don't have to say the words.
Your chronic absence
speaks volumes
about your priorities.

You couldn't be louder if you
screamed the words.
You couldn't care less about us.
And you couldn't hurt me more
if you actively– intentionally–
tried.
Which you never would, I know.
Your self abandonment
just lands on me
repeatedly.

You think a fucking poem burns?!
Here every space
between every letter
& every line
also holds
empathy.

Try
telling your rapidly aging elder Dad
& your Mom who only feels deeply &
doesn't think or move much
at all anymore–
that those who love them
said they'd come, again,
but they can't come, again.
And again. And again.
And again. And
again.
And again.
And again.

Screw your maybes.
Like yoda said
"Show up or don't show up,
but for the love of god, please,
just shut the fuck up when half-truths
are in your mind or mouth."
Whoops, maybe that was me.
Yoda is more succinct.
Or he was, until now.

I'm done.
How's that for succinct?

I'm done with loving you today at all.
It hurts too fucking much today.
I'm a writer entirely out of words
to spin
abandonment
into love
for Mom & Dad
& me
anymore.
Tired
of accepting straw
from those
whose simple presence
is gold to us.

Just let us go.
Disappear us completely
from your lives.
That would be
so much easier on me
than your maybe we'll come
& your cancellations
& always expecting me
to rip Mom & Dad to shreds again
on your behalf
& myself to shreds again
&
watching you prioritize
everything–
everything–
literally anybody & everything now–
above us.

August was the month
I stopped
trusting you. I stopped even
telling Dad when you say you'll
maybe visit this month. He doesn't
even know you said it
& then backed out
again.
Because I don't believe you now
at least they
are spared
the pain
I hold
for you.
Sadly, I did tell Mom.
And why get Dad's hopes up
again?
I've also officially stopped
passing messages
on to him at all.
Want to visit them? Tell him.
Want to cancel on us again?
Tell Mom & Dad your
fucking
self.

At least I'm honest.
I'm stuck here.
I'm not going anywhere
at all.
And I can show up only
to help people we love,
now and then,
and only when D can stay here
to care give
in my absence.

5.
Stop.

Just stop. Breathe.

Stop not listening.
Stop
not hearing.
Stop
not caring about how you impact
you or them or me.
Stop
with all the flimsy promises & excuses.
Just stop.
Silence would be so much better.
Honesty would be so much better.
Being the real you again would be so much better.
At this low point, now,
your permanent absence would be so much better
than learning
again & again
that I–
that we–
that you–
don't make your To-do list
again
this year.
We get it.
We've got it.
We really, really do.
Do you?

But no.
We can’t even get that from you.
We can't get silence or honesty or being the real you or even
permanent absence from you.
You stretch yourself to bleeding
& then don't notice that you bleed all over us
every step of the way.
We get razorblade half-truths,
paper cutouts, &
not
you.

We receive
from those we love most
this…

We have a lot going on right now—
on repeat—
we’d like to come—
on repeat—
we wish we could visit—
on repeat.
Next year we should have more time–
on repeat.
We're saving our pennies to come–
Ad nauseam.

We are too busy for you
is almost all
we ever hear.
Here at the heart of things.
Here
at the heart of Alzheimer's
& the heart
of humanity.

"We have a lot going on right now"
are the cruelest words in the English language,
I learned this week–
a language, a people, heavy
with cruel words.
Sent by text.
Even crueler.
Our voice, our spoken words, are precious to us.
Far too precious
for the likes of you.

I want to shove those words down
my fucking friends & families'
throats some days.

I’m tired of
the cruelty
of the healthy
& the always too busy
& the never fully present
& all those who utterly abandon themselves
– and their emotions –
& hide from their emotions
so they can abandon themselves & then
almost everything & everyone,
yes, I mean everyone– why doesn't that scare you?
in favor of
numbing & shopping & scrolling
& excuse making
& too-busy-ing
these precious lives of ours
away
& spreading selves so thin
that here our teeth crumble & fall out
& we've also been seeing whales & porpoises
& salmon literally leaping out
of the sound this glorious month– a whole world
of wonder & pain
are here.
We're here.

And you.

DON'T NOTICE.

Why do you always seem
constantly surprised
& slightly disappointed
that we still have a pulse?
That we still
would like
to see you?

Why
must you insist
that we are dead & gone
& lost to you already
when
we're still
right here?

Hmm. Why?

6.
Sadness.

Sadness is so, so useful.
Rage's more mature
& tidy cousin.

I've come to hate tidy.
She steals you away from me, too.

Chronic sadness is
a poor substitute
for living fully.
I can't believe
you won't see that.
I can't believe
you won't value yourself enough–
eventually–
to insist that everyone present
including you
gets to live
fully.

If fully living
doesn't include you–
you beautiful being–
then nobody in your
absent presence
who loves you
gets to fully live.

Are you content with letting
those you once loved
rot
as long as you
cannot see them
or feel them
or hear them?
Are you content
with never
showing up
with those who
still cook together
laugh together
connect to the land & water together
card playing & games & talking politics
& deep joy & wonder
almost every day
too?

Most of Mom & Dad’s friends
are dead
or live elsewhere or they moved away from here
or, like them, they’re just too old
for travel now.
So here we sit.
We can’t go anywhere.
We can't vacation together.
We receive few visitors
except for Dad's few
local friends &
a few of our friends
who show up
to go fishing
with Dad & D.

Many "friends" don’t even return
my texts anymore. Or if
we're lucky
they'll visit once
every 5 to 10 years.
Many, not at all, in person
anymore.
D still has friends.
I'm not sure I do.
I have people
who show up
to LIKE a social media post
or answer a text
now and then.
I have the ghosts
of our former
lives.

I miss having real friends
beyond forests & flowers & cats & a dog.
I miss housemates & houseguests &
neighbors who just pop by.
I miss collective learning & advice.
I miss wandering with D & others
instead of alone most of the time,
which is all I can seem to do now.
I miss the life we had
that I sometimes see
others lead:
the vacations
the volunteering
the laughing together
the weekly & annual
large gatherings.

We were invited
to two potlucks this year
& I actually thought I'd died & was in heaven.
I felt myself float up & out of this small body
looking down.

I gather mostly with my parents:
one of whom hasn’t spoken much
in roughly 9 years
except through singing, hugs,
and squeezed hands–
which also all stopped
at least a year back
now. Nobody else noticed.
Nobody celebrates her milestones.
I still sing, still hug,
still squeeze her hands
& rub her feet.
But I am alone in these
actions now too.
No more two-way street.
At least we're alone together.

D & I don’t take vacations anymore–
not together. We haven't for years. Certainly not for more than
1 to 3 days, tops. We just planned
a 4-day trip away together
and it still feels unreal. He had to find
a cat sitter because I still doubt
4 days away
together
will really happen.

See how simple it is to just
share the bloody truth?
Stop trying to spare
everyone's feelings
while not listening to
anyone anymore
but the frightened voice
in your own head.

We can’t be far away
from mom and dad,
and they can’t travel.
And there is nobody else on earth
who helps– nobody, that is–
who isn’t paid
to do it.

Nobody.
And when I say nobody
Some days
I mean
nobody.
Even D doesn't even visit Mom
anymore.
He hasn't for years.
Dad skips most days now too.
I don't think men aren't made for
this level of holding pain
& loss
not for this long.
Not built for ghosts like this.
Or birthing of love-drenched deaths.
I don't think my husband
is a ghost. He's present. But
I'm starting to think
that I am. Or, that I'd
very much
like to be.

We invite people
we love
here.
They don’t come.
Can’t come.
Won't come.
Whatever
It’s all the same.

Sad.
Lame.

7.
Joy for others.

D hosts a weekly gathering
of men and he still
makes friends though photography
& work
& lately
through fishing.
I'm so glad that he's happy.

Wish I could be today.
But it's not in me
to lie to anyone
anymore.
It's helpful, though:
this joy
for others.

8.
Regret & othering.

I've worked myself
into the ground
willingly &
on repeat
& now, well–
soon enough–
I'll have little to show for it.
My parents won't live forever.

It's not a glamorous gig,
elder care.
Not for the faint of heart.
Nor for
the thin of skin.

I mean.
Who can't even get their sister to visit?!
What a complete
fucking
loser
I
suddenly
am...

9.
A gift for the moment that death sounds better than wonder.

Why is it only the people we love
can get us to believe– truly believe–
that we aren't worthy or loveable
or that we don't belong here
anymore?

We're lucky in that, humanity.
Though it never feels lucky at the time.

It’s funny.
I spent roughly 54 years
full of wonder &
overflowing with love & energy
& connection
& I still hate to complain.
That 54 years of mine is luckier than so many.
My uncle was diagnosed at 52
gone by 62. And
kids in Gaza today
don't even make it
out of the
NICU.

And.
This year– for the first time–
I've found myself wondering
why more people
don’t commit suicide
& wondering
will social isolation–
the #1 suspected cause of Alzheimer’s–
mean that I will get Alzheimer’s
this year or will it be
next year?

And then I found myself wondering
for the first time, today–
wouldn’t D be way better off
if I wasn't here–
freeing him
instead of subjecting him
to decades more
caregiving?
To decades more
loss & abandonment?

I won't kill myself. No.
But not because it's not a good decision– that is,
a decision based in love–
but because
I wouldn't do that to him. Leave him my space to fill.
Not while my parents are still alive.
I would never
give this decades-long
elder care task, my task–
this gentle tending of unending
loss, emptiness, & abandonment
alone–
to him.

I can’t die until my parents do.
I can’t wait for that day
but, also, I wait. I can wait.

And I can’t ever ask him
if I should kill myself
to free him from this family
Younger Onset Alzheimer’s cycle
of social isolation,
relentless loss
relentless emptiness
relentless abandonment
& then, lucky you,
more dementia:
only
this time
or maybe next time
it's your own.

He loves me too much
God dammit.
So, sadly, he will always– always–
give me
the wrong answer
to this painful & loving
question.

10.
Courage & presence. Not hope, not promises,
& not thoughts & prayers.

Here, we need courage
not hope. Not promises.
Not thoughts & prayers.
Hope & promises are too fleeting & fine-boned.
Thoughts & prayers
far too flimsy.
I'm weary
even leery
of the flimsy.

In the list
of the top 15 things,
researchers say the #1 cause
of Alzheimer’s disease
is social isolation.
How handy of them.
Gosh. What a revelation.
Thanks, again, science.

What they don’t say
is that Alzheimer’s disease
in families
causes daily feelings of loss,
emptiness & abandonment &
social isolation in caregivers.
And that this
American mainstream culture,
of ours, does too.
No matter who you're caregiving for.
Honestly, mainstream culture
is so much worse.
I'm so thankful
to sit daily
looking straight into the face
of Alzheimer's.
At least she's honest. &
she's so fucking loving &
giving & brave.

Yeah, that causation stuff.
It takes a steel set of ovaries
to say out loud
everything we know to be true
from our experience
and to listen to
everything known to be true
from the experience of others
within community.
Balls, gentlemen,
are nowhere near strong enough.
Not even close.
Science doesn’t have the courage
to say that much of value.
This causes that.
Not here in Look Away.
I mean
in the CYA.
I mean
not here.
In the
USA.

Here,
eventually,
nobody visits.
Everybody hides.
Nobody helps who isn’t paid.
And it often feels like nobody cares.
Nobody dares to care.
That's the USA we live in.
That's how I know I'm not a snowflake
& why it doesn't bother me
in the slightest
to see
friends paint American flags burning
or holding them
upside down.

The truth doesn't hurt
nearly as much
as half-truths &
lying & niceties
uttered
by cowards.

11.
Acceptance.

This is what it is
to sit at the heart
of a Younger Onset Alzheimer’s
runs-in-our-family
family. In the
USA.

Decades in
you end up content most days
& utterly delighted
by non-metaphorical
sunbeams & breezes
and, most days, alone.
Wondering where all your friends went
because you didn't have time for them.

On very bad days– Other days–
you realize you envy
three groups:
- Those closer to death than you.
- Those already dead.
- Those among you whose
parents died young
just 10 years
after their diagnosis.

Because all of them are freer than you are.
What a horrible thing to live & say.

Here, though
you're also capable
of feeling anyone's pain
& everyone's joy.
Blessings beyond words.
& You
yourself
are rich soil
from which
any willing seed
can rise.

And.

You become
care partner
Young

Then
caregiver
Young

Then
artist
Young

Then
isolated
Young

Then
alone
Young

Stuck
& yet somehow
with all the time
in the world
to notice
Young
that the human world itself
is so full of rot
so overflowing with people
hiding, cowering, twisting, & exhausting themselves–
and others–
that they have
less than zero time
to care
anymore.

With time to notice
you get to notice
that you're freer
in many ways
than all of them.
I mean we.

We are freer, here
right now
as us
together
than all
of them.

12.
The magic of coming home.

And yet somehow
magically
You
Young
ok
Young-ish (55 is only young where Mom & Dad live)
You
have all the time in the world
or at least a few more years
here

To feel
to know
to see & sense–
far ahead of time–
that your family, community, your country
your whole county
the whole world, actually
is fucked, yes
if we don’t
get to this place together
change our selves together, not alone
& change our isolating, hiding, self-abusing,
exhausting, wounding, pain-generating, presence-dampening,
dementia-bringing, humor-draining,
underestimating ourselves & others
ways.

You know.
You see.
You feel.
You understand.
So, you rejoice!
You gather!
You lean on each other!
You play again!
You get what it takes to turn the whole human ship
around.

You get it.
Joy
gets it.
Wonder
gets it.
We're the rudder
together
just below
the surface
beneath even
the darkest water.

We don't hold the weight of the world all the time.
Not exactly.
We set down the weight of the world
often
to play with those
we love most.
Apologies for this are not needed.
We belong in the pattern of things:
a necessary part of holding this family
& this community & this living web –
this beautiful life –
together.

We will stop trying
to fill
other-people-shaped
gaps
in the pattern of things.
We have only
our shape to fill.

May we each fill
our own shape
abundantly.
And yay love-handles!

That
friends
is
matriarchy
rising.

12.5
Coda.

This end notes bit is for nerd people
like me
the lovers
of questions & answers
& floating in spaces
between.

Some questions here are:

Is there anyone fully present
& willing right now
to fully hear
these particular others
right now?
And.
Can that not be Me
today?

And.

Will we welcome or abandon
those still far too exhausted &
terrified
to be fully present? And
can we be ok with
everyone present's
answers
to these questions?

Can we make peace
with almost every presence
& also with
every absence?

How do we rise to meet
the always-cruel?

Here we can now.
Thanks to yesterday.
Thanks to this pain, right here.

Everyone whose shared pain has burned out the flame
of their own loss & rage & abandonment
knows that in the end only a few questions
truly matter. Like

Who were we fully present for today?
Can I show up for me when nobody else can/does?
Did we rest? Accept help? (note: women never need
to be reminded to offer it)
Can I forgive myself? Revel within so much loss?
What did we create? Does it matter if it's messy or imperfect
or nothing at all but a well-rested human today?
What did those I love most do today?
How are they feeling? What did they wonder?
Are they actually ok?
Have I returned
to being
the always-needed person
present
one who can listen
hear
& then trust
what they say?
Not fix for others what they can fix themselves?
Even if I, or they, use the wrong words?
Or have no words at all?