Toward the close of our gathering, Keith (Indigenous & queer co-researcher, age 28) fumbled through their black-bound notebook and asked if they could read a poem aloud. This felt somewhat uncharacteristic of them given that, throughout the program, they had typically sat back waiting for an invitation before speaking – not because they could not share, but because they were intentional and careful about when they chose to. There was a deliberateness to Keith’s participation in this study and, when I introduced the idea of refusal during an earlier session of the program, I remember witnessing an audible sigh of relief from them, as though the commitment to remain not fully knowable offered permission to resist the pressures of disclosure that is so often expected within research encounters.

The room was silent at first, most of us taking in Keith’s words. After a few gestures of gratitude and encouragement from others in the group, I asked Keith if they could say more about what the poem meant to them. They responded:

I’m saying that I know it isn’t supposed to be this way, and because it is, it says something about the kind of world we live in. I keep thinking about whether we can even imagine a life without all these painful feelings. Maybe we have to, and then maybe they can’t erase us after all. But I do think part of imagining is also honouring that the feelings are here and asking why they have to be.

Keith offered a significant closing, both to our time together in the Good Grief program and now, here at the end of this dissertation. They extend an invitation to keep living, keep questioning, and keep imagining otherwise through all that is “painful, exciting, and difficult.”