If life must end - only love endures.
Yana Northen • 28 May 2025
Reflections on life and death.
After the passing of my former husband — the father of my daughter
— I unexpectedly felt something stir deep inside me.
Even after all these years, after lives lived apart, something was gone.
And something remained.
This is part of my personal reflection.
When she returned from the funeral, the daughter brought home a small packet.
She placed it on the table and gently opened it, laying out its contents.
There were old photographs — childhood smiles, youthful faces — a soldier’s belt, and a wristwatch.
The silence in the room felt more intence than usual.
“This,” she said softly, “is all that’s left.”
The woman looked at these objects.
Something deep inside her tightened.
She had once loved this man. But over time, those feelings had worn thin and almost dissolved by the passing years.
After the divorce, the only thing that still connected them was their daughter.
Now, looking at the watch with its scratched glass, at the photographs where everyone looked so young, so happy, she suddenly thought:
What will remain of me?
Just days ago, she had watched a film — a story that asks the same quiet question already present inside her.
In the film, the main character asked:
“What is left of us when we die?”
And the answer came:
“We don’t vanish without a trace. We continue.”
Perhaps, years from now, someone will come across a torn journal page, a fragment of a teacup, the cracked face of a watch. Anything.
The woman smiled.
Because she understood — that’s the essence of it.
Life isn’t measured by its size. It’s measured by the traces we leave — in hearts, in memory, in the breath of others.
And if even a tiny piece of you remains somewhere in the world,
then you were here.
A brief reflection on change, loss, and quiet presence. How one bare tree in a blooming garden became a reminder that everything passes, everything moves — and sometimes, the most important thing we can do is simply be.
A quiet morning. A small mirror. A body, remembered.
In this letter-like reflection, I explore what happens when we pause long enough to truly meet ourselves. Through a series of movements — gaze, touch, presence — I reconnect with my body not as an object, but as a part of me that feels, remembers, and responds.
This is a continuation of the project A Conversation with My Body — where photography and words become a form of healing, presence, and quiet truth.
A deeply personal letter from the body to the self — an invitation to listen, feel, and reconnect. This message speaks about pain, silence, self-compassion, and the unbreakable bond between mind and body.
A visual reflection on how ordinary objects reveal our emotions and thoughts — a photo collage made over one week.