There are certain losses that surprise you.
When I heard that James Van Der Beek had passed away, I didn’t expect the news to settle so heavily. I remembered watching him in Dawson’s Creek. I hadn’t followed his work in years. He wasn’t part of my everyday life.
And yet, something shifted.
I didn’t just admire him because he was the lead in a show I loved. I admired the vulnerability he brought to the role — the softness, the earnestness. The way he let his character feel deeply and openly. There was something kind and almost awkwardly sincere about him. For a teenage girl trying to understand love and longing, that mattered.
It wasn’t really about him.
It was about the girl I was when I watched him.
About late nights replaying scenes.
About waiting for new episodes.
About reaching toward the screen as if the world inside it could reach back.
About believing in love that declared itself in monologues and meaningful glances.
We don’t just grow older. We outgrow versions of ourselves.
Sometimes, it takes a moment like this. It could be a passing or a name from your youth appearing in a headline. You then realize that the bright-eyed girl who once believed so fiercely is no longer standing where she used to.
I wrote this poem in that space.
Walked Her Out
When I heard you were gone
I felt a part of my youth go with you.
A shard of what I once believed —
that bright-eyed girl
following your every move,
reaching for the screen
as if I could touch your face.
You took her hand
and walked her out of me.
Grief is strange that way.
It doesn’t always mourn the person. Sometimes it mourns the season. The softness. The way we once looked at the world before experience rearranged us.
Maybe growing up is not losing belief, but letting earlier versions of ourselves step quietly aside.
Have you ever grieved a version of yourself more than the person who carried it?
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