As I began to rewrite the introduction for my latest newsletter — the follow-up to announcing that my mother had unexpectedly passed away, I wasn’t sure how to start. Or rather, how to restart. Should I go back to basics? Back to “normal”? Offer insights into the confusion that still lingers, eight weeks after she died?
I felt increasingly uneasy. Not because I feared admitting that I’m not okay, though that’s unpopular for some, but because I know many people shy away from the inevitable: death. We don’t talk about it. My mother was a bit like that. I’m a bit like that. It’s not a topic I enjoy. And yet, it comes for all of us.
“We´re all gonna die.” as Sufjan Stevens sings in “Fourth of July” from his brilliant album Carrie & Lowell, where he deals with the passing of his mother. The loss of my beloved mother has had a deep and profound impact on me. It’s a mix of deep grief and a growing reflection on what this means — not only facing a future without the dear person who gave me life, but also confronting the reality of my own limited time on this planet.
In my July newsletter, I shared a glimpse into my life and childhood, mentioning that my mother was only sixteen years older than I am. Just sixteen years! Imagining that this could be all the time I have left makes me pause for a moment. That’s not much. And what if it’s even less?
“Come on, Kai, you never know when it’s going to happen.” I know. I’m not stupid. But I’m human. And I have never cared much about the when. That’s not a bad thing, I believe, and I know that the hectic rhythm of daily life will eventually push that thought to the background again. But when a profound loss happens, it forces you to stop, pause, and re-evaluate life.
My mother and me in 2023.
I’ve been here before: early in my life, at almost thirty, when my best friend Christoph died just eight months after a cancer diagnosis. Later, when other important people in my life passed away. And again, two years ago, when my beloved stepfather died.
Each time, I’ve come away with the same lesson: pause, reflect, and savour the small moments with greater intensity, because they’re fleeting. And now here I am again. This time, it cuts deeper. Over these past weeks, hope has been harder to find, which is not how my mom would have wanted it, nor is it who I am, really. She raised me to be the half-full-glass type. But when the glass cracks and shatters, you start to worry whether the water is starting to run out.
It’s up to me to cup my hands around that glass, to cover up the cracks, to hold the pieces together, and to stop the water from escaping. To be present for my loved ones — and for myself. To take the time to heal. And in the end, to simply try to be a good person.
In that spirit, I spent a few days on a houseboat at the Baltic Sea with my daughter and son. It was beautiful. Calming. Joyful. It gave me strength. I stayed in touch with my wonderful wife, who took care of our dog and had to work. I jotted down a few lines for potential song lyrics, took some photos here and there, and cherished every moment with my children. But I didn’t ask myself, “So, what’s next?”. At the time, it felt right not to think ahead to the next project, the next task.
Now, a few weeks later, as I am writing this, I’m beginning to look forward again. Although the first steps feel a bit tentative, it feels good to pick up ideas and projects I’d set aside.
“I edited this image on June 13, unaware that the day before my mother had passed away. It’s strange to think that one of the darkest images I’ve ever created came at a time when I didn’t yet know - but perhaps, somewhere deep inside, I already felt it.
Looking at it now is difficult. It has become more than just a photograph; it’s a reflection of a moment I can’t undo. Still, it’s also a way of speaking without words.
A fracture in the landscape, a fracture in me.
A puzzle in the dark, some pieces never meant to fit.
Until I learn to leave them where they fell.
Broken, and still somehow part of the whole.
I’m finding my way back into sharing again. This feels like the right place to start.””
How will this loss shape my future work? I can’t say. Maybe it won’t. Maybe it will. My guess is the latter. I imagine it will push me to follow my instincts even more. To say “no” more often to opportunities that may be tempting, especially business-wise, but don’t bring happiness or meaning.
“You are always working!” my wife told me months ago — frustrated but right. Her words keep repeating in my head. Between my part-time job in HR and part-time work in photography, I’ve managed to turn my passion into a second career. I’m proud of that. But I’ve also created a life where I’m constantly “on.” Being more selective and holding onto what truly matters feels like a better path forward. I’m writing this down so that, if I ever reread it, I’ll remember.
In an interview recently — perhaps ill-timed — I was asked what projects or places I’d love to photograph next. Honestly, I didn’t know. But when I looked through some recent images, I was drawn to the ones from northern Spain. I am already looking forward to returning there next year. And I do feel the pull to return to the French Alps and the Dolomites.
While I carry my mother’s loving memory with me and always will, I will try to channel these emotions into art that is meaningful to me. Anything else feels meaningless and not worthwhile.