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Ocean Eyes

I’m here with our daughter. At a concert in the same venue where you and she went to your last concert together — the final one you’d ever attend with her, and the last one she’d share with you. Because you, my love, have left in physical form. Death has robbed us all of the comfort of your presence. My eyes fill with tears when Billie Eilish starts singing Ocean Eyes. My breath catches. Baby, I see you. I see the deep blue depth of your eyes meeting mine. The quiet knowing that used to live between our eyes. It was your superpower, my love— the way you looked so deeply into my eyes when you spoke that I felt seen. It was as though you were looking straight through my soul. And in turn, I could see yours too. Tethered in the locking of our eyes, there was a knowing — that beautiful, wordless understanding that happens when eyes speak loudly because words can never cover the truth of eyes. Now, it makes me think of my new world — the one I’m navigating through grief, agony, and pain. How my eyes now find new delights, small glimmers of hope. Grief has slowed my mind and made me notice the beauty in every natural detail. I’ve always had the gift of sensing things, of reading eyes. And now, the eyes of others in pain shine like a spotlight, saying, “Here I am, too. I’ve been through some s**t.” Isn’t it strange how pain becomes a shortcut to recognizing pain in others? The eyes don’t lie. Show me your eyes, and I’ll know your soul. There are layers and depths within them—the shine of eyes not yet dulled by the agony of being human. I love shiny eyes — that sparkle, that flicker of magic. The way it stirs curiosity and excitement. The way it speaks. Sparkly eyes are contagious; they offer a flash of wonder to anyone lucky enough to catch a glimpse, even now, as I type these words, a small smile forms on my lips. I’ve always been attuned to seeing — to reading — to noticing depth. I remember when our son was in kindergarten, seeing a boy with hollow eyes. Eyes that were stripped of innocence, robbed by neglect or some sort of cruelty. Reminding me of a kid I used to do therapy with, if you can call it therapy, since I would leave the office door open and only play cards with him during our sessions. He had eyes that warned of danger — the kind that makes your body tighten before your mind catches up. And yet, I’d like to believe that eyes can change — that we can add new layers, making them more complex, more beautiful eyes. That pain can soften through gratitude, love, and presence — through truly seeing the human in front of us. Because connection, even in the briefest glance, can make this world feel a little less isolating. The truth is, once we’ve seen, we cannot unsee. So I trust that faith and God are holding me as I keep looking. My eyes wide open. Because that’s what human connection really is — you see me, and I see you. The real you. The mirror of my eyes reflecting your own eyes right back at you. And let’s be honest — who doesn’t want to be seen for all of their layers? Our children have your eyes — the depth of a beautiful ocean, still glimmering with light. But now, that ocean holds new layers too. The kind that comes from the vicarious trauma of simply being human… and from losing you, sweet baby. I see it in them — the tenderness, the ache, the wonder—the knowing. And maybe that’s the legacy of love: when the eyes of those we leave behind still carry the shimmer of our own. Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/sub...)