In this intimate essay, Chris Carazas writes about love after psychological abuse, autism, grief, and the terrifying vulnerability of being known again. “I Know Your Name Now” explores fear, tenderness, family protectiveness, and the slow work of trusting love after survival. Proceeds from paid subscriptions and memoir sales help support access to mental health services through community-based care.
I don’t even know where to begin with this. All I can say is I wish more people could express themselves like you; I think this world would be a better place. Whoever you wrote this for is really lucky and I wish you both all the good things this life has to offer. Also, I deeply relate to feeling like a raccoon trying to assemble IKEA furniture in a thunderstorm when it comes to nervous system healing.
I want you to know I read it three times, which is either evidence that it moved me deeply or evidence that I am still determining whether 'I wish more people could express themselves like you' is a compliment or a very gentle indictment of everyone else on the internet.
I have chosen to take it as a compliment. My therapist would call that growth.
As for the raccoon: I believe we are living in a golden age of raccoon-based metaphors for nervous system recovery, and I for one am grateful to be part of it.
The raccoon does not wait for ideal conditions. The raccoon does not read the instructions. The raccoon simply begins, makes four or five deeply questionable choices, drops a shelf panel on its own foot, consults no one, and ultimately produces something that mostly resembles a functioning piece of furniture.
That is not failure. That is Tuesday. That is healing.
The fact that you relate to it tells me you are further along than you think. Because you have to have some distance from the storm before you can find it funny.
I’m not only referring to people on the internet when I said I wish more people could express themselves like you—I’m talking about people in general. The way you’re able to own the things you struggle with and say, this is mine to carry, not yours, is really powerful stuff. And I think it will make for a rich and rewarding relationship (that’s a lot of Rs—I wasn’t trying to do that 😆)
I appreciate you sharing this with me and trusting me with feedback. Keep up the good work, my friend.
The R situation has been reviewed by a panel of linguists, a retired English professor, and one very opinionated German Shepherd, and their unanimous conclusion is that you have accidentally invented a new rhetorical device. We are calling it Recursive Relational Resonance. There will be a conference. You are the keynote, congrats!!
As for owning what is mine to carry: I want to be honest about where that actually comes from. It is not wisdom. It is years of making it everyone else's problem first, watching that go badly, and eventually running out of people willing to absorb it. Ownership was the last option available. I took it because I had exhausted the alternatives. This is what personal growth looks like up close. It is considerably less inspirational than the framed print version.
But I will take the compliment. I will hold it carefully. I will not immediately convene the internal committee that exists to explain why you are wrong and I am, in fact, a cautionary tale.
Wow, Chris. This is so profound in so many ways. The highest praise I can give you is that the part about healing being rude and having poor project management really rocked me to my core because it is so accurate. I felt every single word of that as I read it.
Thank you so much for this. That means more than I can say without becoming emotionally sincere in public, which I believe is still illegal in several New England municipalities.
And yes. Healing is profoundly rude. Just no professionalism whatsoever. No agenda. No calendar invite. No quarterly forecast. It simply appears at 2:17 p.m. on a Tuesday holding a clipboard and says, “Good news, we’re reopening the childhood grief file.”
Poor project management doesn’t even cover it. Healing is the kind of manager who schedules a mandatory all-hands meeting during lunch, cries during the deck, and then assigns you action items involving your nervous system.
So I’m genuinely grateful that line landed with you. It came from the messy little conference room in my soul where all the unresolved material keeps ordering stale coffee and refusing to adjourn. Thank you for reading it that closely. It means a lot.
“And grief does something very specific to the imagination afterward. It trains the mind to rehearse loss in advance, as if running the simulation enough times will make the real thing arrive politely, apologetically, at a reasonable hour.”
This has deeply moved me, Chris. There were tears reading it. I have never lost a partner to illness, but I have lost people I love dearly and I still find myself struggling to sit with that fear of other people I love dying. I wish you everything you need as you move forward so bravely.
This is my new favorite of Chris. It's like watching you grow in real time. Beautifully done.
Thank you friend. Though I am suspicious of compliments.
Oh I know!
I knew it
Yet you still gave me one.
Cause I'm a bad guy in disguise.
I don’t even know where to begin with this. All I can say is I wish more people could express themselves like you; I think this world would be a better place. Whoever you wrote this for is really lucky and I wish you both all the good things this life has to offer. Also, I deeply relate to feeling like a raccoon trying to assemble IKEA furniture in a thunderstorm when it comes to nervous system healing.
Thank you for this.
I want you to know I read it three times, which is either evidence that it moved me deeply or evidence that I am still determining whether 'I wish more people could express themselves like you' is a compliment or a very gentle indictment of everyone else on the internet.
I have chosen to take it as a compliment. My therapist would call that growth.
As for the raccoon: I believe we are living in a golden age of raccoon-based metaphors for nervous system recovery, and I for one am grateful to be part of it.
The raccoon does not wait for ideal conditions. The raccoon does not read the instructions. The raccoon simply begins, makes four or five deeply questionable choices, drops a shelf panel on its own foot, consults no one, and ultimately produces something that mostly resembles a functioning piece of furniture.
That is not failure. That is Tuesday. That is healing.
The fact that you relate to it tells me you are further along than you think. Because you have to have some distance from the storm before you can find it funny.
Thanks for reading it!
I’m not only referring to people on the internet when I said I wish more people could express themselves like you—I’m talking about people in general. The way you’re able to own the things you struggle with and say, this is mine to carry, not yours, is really powerful stuff. And I think it will make for a rich and rewarding relationship (that’s a lot of Rs—I wasn’t trying to do that 😆)
I appreciate you sharing this with me and trusting me with feedback. Keep up the good work, my friend.
The R situation has been reviewed by a panel of linguists, a retired English professor, and one very opinionated German Shepherd, and their unanimous conclusion is that you have accidentally invented a new rhetorical device. We are calling it Recursive Relational Resonance. There will be a conference. You are the keynote, congrats!!
As for owning what is mine to carry: I want to be honest about where that actually comes from. It is not wisdom. It is years of making it everyone else's problem first, watching that go badly, and eventually running out of people willing to absorb it. Ownership was the last option available. I took it because I had exhausted the alternatives. This is what personal growth looks like up close. It is considerably less inspirational than the framed print version.
But I will take the compliment. I will hold it carefully. I will not immediately convene the internal committee that exists to explain why you are wrong and I am, in fact, a cautionary tale.
I can’t wait for the RRR conference. Preparing my speech immediately.
Keep doing the good work you’re doing on yourself—and yes, take the compliment. Tell that internal committee they’re not needed today.
Wow, Chris. This is so profound in so many ways. The highest praise I can give you is that the part about healing being rude and having poor project management really rocked me to my core because it is so accurate. I felt every single word of that as I read it.
Thank you so much for this. That means more than I can say without becoming emotionally sincere in public, which I believe is still illegal in several New England municipalities.
And yes. Healing is profoundly rude. Just no professionalism whatsoever. No agenda. No calendar invite. No quarterly forecast. It simply appears at 2:17 p.m. on a Tuesday holding a clipboard and says, “Good news, we’re reopening the childhood grief file.”
Poor project management doesn’t even cover it. Healing is the kind of manager who schedules a mandatory all-hands meeting during lunch, cries during the deck, and then assigns you action items involving your nervous system.
So I’m genuinely grateful that line landed with you. It came from the messy little conference room in my soul where all the unresolved material keeps ordering stale coffee and refusing to adjourn. Thank you for reading it that closely. It means a lot.
Powerful piece.
This part!!
“And grief does something very specific to the imagination afterward. It trains the mind to rehearse loss in advance, as if running the simulation enough times will make the real thing arrive politely, apologetically, at a reasonable hour.”
Thanks for reading it Lynn!
Wow. This is so beautiful.
Thank you.
This has deeply moved me, Chris. There were tears reading it. I have never lost a partner to illness, but I have lost people I love dearly and I still find myself struggling to sit with that fear of other people I love dying. I wish you everything you need as you move forward so bravely.