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Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Today, March 14, would have been my mother’s 62nd birthday. I bought some flowers that she loved to celebrate her, because she was a biologist by education and a flower maniac by fate. Our home once looked like a jungle because of all the plants she looked after. She truly loved it and had a gift for taking care of living things.

She was a wonderful mom, a great wife, a very artistic and beautiful woman. She had a lovely voice and played the piano. When I was a kid, I had a friend in her. She knew all my friends’ names and was always open to the music I shared with her. At some point she had a ringtone from the opening of my favorite anime series lol. She was the most giggly, playful, and kind person I’ve ever known. She had a sensitive soul, but she could be sharp-tongued when she needed to be.

Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she never passed that pain on to me. Maybe that’s why I always felt protective of her and tried to help when her depression slowly grew stronger over the years.

Last night I finally saw her in a dream. Since she died, I had only dreamed of fragments: her voice or the feeling that she was somewhere nearby but missing, and I was always searching for her. But this time she appeared behind me when I turned on the TV. It was a comedy show and suddenly I heard my mom laughing. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair like she had just walked in because she heard the TV. She said she loved that comedian. I told her she should watch her other specials… and then suddenly realized she couldn’t. We both understood it in the same moment of silence. I hugged her tightly and we started crying. I told her how scared I am that one day I might forget her voice or the memories we shared, because now I’m the only one who carries them. She tried to comfort me. She gently patted my hand, which was holding hers so tightly, and said, “Of course you won’t. You have such a good memory.” It sounded both comforting and a little overwhelming at the same time. She cried with me, but still tried to smile through it and calm me down, trying to hold herself together. I asked her to come again, and then I woke up.

Something big happened yesterday. I’m not quite ready to share the details, but it was a significant milestone and turning point for me: especially after a chain of challenging, core-shaking events this winter that tested me in ways I never expected. I want to mark it here as a reminder of how far I’ve come in recent years, how this journey has shaped my character, made me stronger and more resilient, while still allowing me to care deeply, love, and stay connected to the things that truly matter.

I wish my dad were here to celebrate with me. He had been waiting for this moment too. My mom and I miss him deeply every single day. I hope he can see what’s happening from wherever he is.

I’m so grateful for everything I have, every single day.

If you’re going through your own chapter of growth, I hope you take a moment to recognize how far you’ve come too 🫂❤️

🎵💽🎚️🐈🎧⏯️🎧🐈‍⬛🎛️💽🎶

@ 📺🧿

🚸🚳⚠️🚯🔌

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Two weeks ago, on January 1st, my father would have turned 75. A New Year’s Day birthday seemed fitting for a man of such remarkable character and life: 101 parachute jumps in his youth, a lifelong entrepreneur who built businesses, managed restaurants, and even served at a mosque. He had an insatiable curiosity for life and explored, if not everything, then almost everything.

Every year, his old friends would visit him on his birthday morning, after the night of celebration. But this year, everything was different. My father passed away just weeks earlier, on December 14, in our apartment in Kazan, in my mother’s and my arms. Stage IV stomach cancer took him so suddenly, leaving us shocked and unprepared. A month has passed, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep expecting him to call and say, “Privet, kizim,” which means “Hi, kid” in Russian and Tatar. Writing this feels impossible.

On the day of my father’s funeral, we also learned that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, had passed away. Her death, though expected after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, is hard to fully grasp. At this moment, my heart is still with my father, and I can’t quite process everything all at once. Losing people who are so close to you forces you to become someone else. One can only hope to grow better, not bitter, and learn to live with it and through it.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who offered their support and helped me in so many ways during this time. The number of responses to my stories was overwhelming. I never imagined so many friends had experienced the heartbreak of losing someone to cancer or fighting it themselves. You are my heroes! I feel incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.

I’m sorry if I’ve been slow to respond to messages or calls. I’m still in shock. Some days are easier, others I’m a complete wreck. And that’s ok, I know.

Grief, as I see it now, is saying goodbye to a future that’s forever gone. And while I will miss him forever, I will always have our past. Cancer doesn’t make any sense. Life sometimes makes no sense either, but I’m thankful for him and my mother for the opportunity to experience it. Nothing matters but love 🖤

Happy Anniversary🥰
1 year of love!

Photos by @before10am 🎉

Happy Anniversary🥰
1 year of love!

Photos by @before10am 🎉

Happy Anniversary🥰
1 year of love!

Photos by @before10am 🎉

Happy Anniversary🥰
1 year of love!

Photos by @before10am 🎉

Happy Anniversary🥰
1 year of love!

Photos by @before10am 🎉

Happy Anniversary🥰
1 year of love!

Photos by @before10am 🎉

Absolutely thrilled to have been part of this exceptional team! Working with the immensely talented @coni.tarallo and @chekalinastefania was both incredibly rewarding and fun, and meeting the legendary @roisinmurphyofficial, who was even cooler in person, felt like the ultimate backstage pass 🫶

Explore her cover story and exclusive interview with Vogue CS’s Fashion Features Editor, @pakocka

Photo & Creative Director: @coni.tarallo
Publisher: @michaelaseewald_v24
Editor-in-Chief: @danicakovar
Fashion Director: @milenazhu
Art Director: @robert.kov
Styling & Art Direction: @chekalinastefania
Talent: @roisinmurphyofficial
Make-up & Hair: @alextbeauty
Producer: @thisisalecc (@selectservices)
Production Manager: Lola Baleztena
Photo Assistants: @juanditobandito
Styling Assistants: @before10am, @tyanna_geanice, Leah David
Studio: @riversetstudios
Casting: @kincasting

@roisinmurphyofficial wears a dress @gabrielahearst; earrings @monies_official; bracelets @alexisbittar

Shot the visuals for @crowndante single “On Go” some time ago, with @vancepadmore as the producer of the shoot. I love how it came together: a lot of those were spontaneous moments we captured, and that’s my favorite part about it! There are some other shots from this session with different looks that I loved, which I’ll be sharing sometime soon too 🖤 Posting regularly is no joke! 😅

Shot the visuals for @crowndante single “On Go” some time ago, with @vancepadmore as the producer of the shoot. I love how it came together: a lot of those were spontaneous moments we captured, and that’s my favorite part about it! There are some other shots from this session with different looks that I loved, which I’ll be sharing sometime soon too 🖤 Posting regularly is no joke! 😅

Shot the visuals for @crowndante single “On Go” some time ago, with @vancepadmore as the producer of the shoot. I love how it came together: a lot of those were spontaneous moments we captured, and that’s my favorite part about it! There are some other shots from this session with different looks that I loved, which I’ll be sharing sometime soon too 🖤 Posting regularly is no joke! 😅

Shot the visuals for @crowndante single “On Go” some time ago, with @vancepadmore as the producer of the shoot. I love how it came together: a lot of those were spontaneous moments we captured, and that’s my favorite part about it! There are some other shots from this session with different looks that I loved, which I’ll be sharing sometime soon too 🖤 Posting regularly is no joke! 😅

Shot the visuals for @crowndante single “On Go” some time ago, with @vancepadmore as the producer of the shoot. I love how it came together: a lot of those were spontaneous moments we captured, and that’s my favorite part about it! There are some other shots from this session with different looks that I loved, which I’ll be sharing sometime soon too 🖤 Posting regularly is no joke! 😅

Shot the visuals for @crowndante single “On Go” some time ago, with @vancepadmore as the producer of the shoot. I love how it came together: a lot of those were spontaneous moments we captured, and that’s my favorite part about it! There are some other shots from this session with different looks that I loved, which I’ll be sharing sometime soon too 🖤 Posting regularly is no joke! 😅

Shot the visuals for @crowndante single “On Go” some time ago, with @vancepadmore as the producer of the shoot. I love how it came together: a lot of those were spontaneous moments we captured, and that’s my favorite part about it! There are some other shots from this session with different looks that I loved, which I’ll be sharing sometime soon too 🖤 Posting regularly is no joke! 😅

I had a break from shooting portraits because of my full-time jobs (all connected to photo and video, but not portraits directly) in the first years of emigration to the US. Now, reviewing my old works, I’m struck by how this pause has restored my vision. Creation demands complete immersion, but it’s equally important to step back and sort through what still works for you as an artist and what’s not anymore. Actually, over the years of taking pictures, I must say the most challenging part is sorting and choosing. It requires detaching oneself from the work despite the inherent vulnerability of the creation process. What I’ve realized is crucial to me is to think little while creating, allowing the flow to take over, but to think deeply before and after, navigating the course with intention. Glad to be doing that again, this break was very needed.

PS: I like how Instagram is trying to become the new/old MySpace by inserting music everywhere, including profile statuses. I’m here for it.

By the way, does anyone read captions that long in these times of attention crisis? Raise your hand and let me know if you, too, enjoy letters and words, rants of thought. We might become good friends if we’re not already!

👹

Последний раз выкладывала сюда собственную фотографию больше, чем 2 года назад.

С тех пор внешне ничего не изменилось: ногти, лицо и голову не крашу, лифчик не ношу, ботокс не колю (красиво старею, а может быть и молодею, прыщи - это про меня), сладкое, видимо, никогда не брошу (нет, не от этого прыщи), тело своё только-только начинаю понимать и любить (никогда не поздно). Внутренне изменилось примерно все 👽

Recorded a rain today and produced some tears to hide them in it :D Such an interesting time to live in, everything could be captured and transformed into something drastically different. Sorry, fake news, not mentioning you this time!

@dirtypineapple_dp F/W 2020 runway show on @nyfw at @springstudios

Styled by @menamorado
Makeup by #ChikaChan
Hair by @lootypics
Jewelry @chrishabana
Model @jakeparkerlentz