https://josh.engineer/articles/Stories of adventure, grief, discovery and finding a little meaning along the way.https://josh.engineer/articles/becoming-a-cave-diver-in-mexico/https://josh.engineer/blog/becoming-a-cave-diver-in-mexicoWhen I first turned up to the dive shop in Cancún, Juan, a Mexican diving instructor with a fearsome figure but a surprisingly gentle demeanour, smiles at me and says "so, as we both know, Cave Diving is the most dangerous recreational sport in the world." This remark immediately prompted me to reconsider why the hell I was in Mexico in the first place, where I had just been scammed on my taxi in from the airport, let alone to do something as insane as that. So I nervously smiled and slowly nodded. Paradoxically, acknowledging the inherent risk in the technical sport I've decided to embrace brought a sense of comfort amidst the intense nerves I was suffering from. It validated the legitimacy of my, very normal, and very expected, fear of dying to asphyxiation. Despite Juan's reassurance that nervousness is a positive sign of readiness, and a good benchmark for establishing an important level of respect for the caves we decide to venture into; my leg bounced away under the table as the start of my one-on-one adventure with Juan on how not to die in a cave began. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] My Instructor Juan (left) and OW Gabriel (right) - my dive team on my first introductory cavern at Kin Ha ## Easy Does It: Getting Started A week ago I commenced my cave diving training, with commutes to the nearby Cenotes (caves) located in Tulum and Playa del Carmen. I chose Squalo Divers in Cancún because they turned up online with a great recreational reputation with PADI; and upon chatting to the Course Director there, mentioned he'd be teaching me through both the US (TDI) and UK (RAID) systems to ensure I was equipped with all the knowledge and understanding needing to safely explore caves. I chatted to a few other dive centers, and chance had it that Juan had availability in the dates I was arriving in Mexico. Technical diving is a different game when it comes to selecting an instructor. In place of picking a place out of reputation, and affordability - picking a technical diving instructor is picking a mentor, a buddy and a trusted friend who you'll be diving, driving and hanging out with for weeks, sometimes months at a time. It's also picking someone who you'd entrust your life with in a complex, high-stakes environment. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] One of the cavern entrances at Cenote Kin Ha The first 5 pages in the textbook for "Diving in Overhead Environments" by the Technical Diving Institute (TDI) describes the many reasons why Cave Diving is an attractive sport to do, including exploring some of the world's most extraordinary "alienlike" environments underground; or seeing first hand how water flows and transforms underneath sometimes bustling cities above. A Cenote is a term that is only used in Mexico and comes from the Mayan word dzonot meaning abyss. For Mayan culture, Cenotes were considered sources of life, in addition to providing water, they were an entrance to another world and a centre of communion with the gods [1]. The textbook explicitly details Cave Diving for ego or optics goes against the principles of a safe underwater cave explorer. The textbook does this not to scare you, I think, but to equip you in assessing those who you choose to dive with; as if you're considering cave diving, you're probably already a pretty decent diver, or on a solid track to be one - and this isn't a sport for the faint of heart. Juan described multiple students, ranging from scientists in Costa Rica to Mexican archaeologists, that upon entering their first cave, cancelled their entire course on the spot and frantically asked to leave the cave immediately. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Lowering equipment via rope to Cenote Kin Ha below, Mexico In my case, some would remark that I'm probably pursuing cave diving a bit soon in my dive career, having only clocked 100 dives recreationally. Or that I'm doing it under circumstances I shouldn't, being heavily grief stricken from the loss of my husband so recently. So I made it clear with my instructor, I wanted to be challenged and tested during training, before we even consider diving into any caves. So from there, we spent several days in open water and some large caverns (like the one on the cover of this article) running through safety checks, buoyancy improvements and equipment familiarisation (dual backmount) optimisation. Unlike recreational diving, where you can head straight to the surface if your buddy (your dive partner) panics; in caves, there is a non-zero chance you both die. Sometimes, even if you are lucky to calm down, you're a "dead man swimming" because you're not out of air yet, but it's now too far to get back. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] An entrance to a Cenote ## A Pause After the first five days completing my TDI Cavern and Introduction to Caverns course, we took a break before progressing to the Full Cave course. I stopped by Chichun Itza, and the great calendar El Castillo on one of my days off. A building with details and an entrancing old grace that, like caves, reduces the problems of your small place in the world to a seemingly insignificant blip in the vastness of the tapestry of humankind. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] A highly venomous snake encountered nearby a Cenote On the drive along to Chichen Itza, we stopped for a moment in Valladolid, a small town along the way. On the drive, my tour guide introduces herself, remarking she was a cave diver herself for decades, having made the cover of several diving magazines as a "sexy young woman, before the 45 kilos turned up". I found this to be such a coincidence, so I tapped her on the shoulder from behind, mentioning that I'm from Australia and here for some cave exploration training myself. She turned around and said "That's awesome! Who's your instructor?". I replied, "Juan!" To which her eyes widened with momentary panic. Much to her dismay, Juan and Marcela were lovers decades ago, before breaking it off and splitting off into different specialisations. They both started together as cave divers  in Canada. After the chat in the car, I reflected on my time in the Cenotes of Mexico, and my encounter with El Castillo. I see them both as parallel doses of the world is big, and you are small. Not only in the context of the world in this immediate moment, with billions of independent, unique threads of human life occurring at any one moment; but also the trillions of moments that have come before; before life as we know it today, but also before humankind itself. And that coincidences and chance moments of wonder in life also happen despite this. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] El Castillo, Chichun Itza, Mexico ## Sacramental Submersion: Finding your Flow Juan remarked that out of all the training he's done as a SCUBA instructor over a decades long career spanning multiple continents, that the cave diving training he did was one of the most influential in improving his skills as a diver, and as a person overall. He remarked how the most excellent divers, particularly in cave diving, are those who can apply common sense. And that the most common divers, are those who believe in technical excellence above common sense. In other words, keep shit simple. And that applies to many parts of our lives. Having now finished the TDI full cave course, I think I agree that when cavern diving (not even caves where there's no natural light), you become hyper-aware of the equipment you have, what is and isn't going to be a potential problem, and routinely running your checks over and over again before you delve into a passage. You seek to minimise the potential for failure, by reducing equipment where possible, in line with suitable redundancy. You also, for a moment, look at the sun in a different way before dipping your head into the darkness below. Religiously, you manage the following: 1. Run, hug and maintain your guideline, the line that shows you the way out, 2. Manage your buoyancy, your position in the water across the x, y, z, roll and yaw axes to ensure you don't hit anything delicate 3. Control your breathing to minimise air usage to maximise exploration, and perhaps manage dropping tanks off with their own respective gas mixtures 4. Ensure adherance to the plan to minimise decompression if you're navigating oscillating depths in windy passages For someone dealing with a devastating loss, where your mind frequently wanders,  or negative thoughts can trigger spirals - this experience has been remarkably transformative in finding my peace, and my flow; in a deeply secluded, hauntingly quiet and spectacular space. Even the outside walks through the jungle exhuberate a special mystique that takes you mentally, far far away from the hustle and bustle of city life. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Walking through the surrounding rich jungle of Cenote Kin-Ha I draw diving into a cave as analogous to walking into a church.  You become inwardly focused, outwardly mindful and feel connectedness to the power of forces greater than yourself (these forces, to me, being geological and physical processes spanning eons I couldn't begin to comprehend). I suspect this is loosely related to the positive psychological concept of practicing Awe [2] that comes with spiritual practice. Sacramental Submersion, to me, represents finding connectivity with the earth and all the systems of the universe; leaving your problems, concerns and worries at the door before you walk into a: [church | cave | happy place for you]. Diving is inherently scary. You're submerging yourself as a land-based mammal into a giant abyss, and are reliant on your equipment to survive. You're literally fighting evolution, and winning. There's nothing to take your mind off things like problem solving in high-stakes, where the sweat from your eyebrows vanish into the dark, ever-so-slightly-acidic cave water. Diving in a giant, dark cave with side tunnels flaunting their pristine, white skeletal walls to lure you in; a minefield of sparkling silt along the cave floor poised to blind you from one misplaced fin kick; to swim to places humans used to walk over to pray in thousands of years ago - now that's just plain special, and such a great way to get my mind off things these past few weeks. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] POV in Cenote Tajma Ha, Mexico https://josh.engineer/articles/after-aaron/https://josh.engineer/blog/after-aaronIt's been a little while since I last wrote about you. But in a few days our home will settle, and I think that's a major end to a chapter I shared with you for a long time. I really searched deep and wide within myself to think of some great title and way to open this post. I think it's because I was hoping that I would somehow have the answers I left Australia to find all those months ago. But in all honesty, I ended up returning with more questions than I left with. After what was months wandering the globe solo after experiencing what most would consider their worst nightmare, I write, now, to document this experience, and to tell Aaron's continuing story through my eyes. I'll talk about the people I met, the things I did, and the lessons I learned through each moment. It's also for anyone who might face the unique set of circumstances I do and need reassurance that it is possible to survive. For those who know me well and want to understand how I'm managing. For those who don't know me well to peer behind the curtain. Or to those who may want to learn how some young guy is surviving with something truly devastating. In my previous articles I've been highly introspective on the way I've navigated my grief and the lessons and mental models for surviving spousal death. This time, though, and through the stories seen from my camera, I want to share these past few months, shedding some light on the parts of this journey I hid from view that I have grown to feel more comfortable sharing now. I also want to capture what life has been like as I settle back into living in Australia. # Beginning with the Ending I'm sitting in my new home in Sydney. I'm on a small bench, with a bunch of pillows behind my back that overlooks the water. It's raining at the moment, and I've got some quiet music keeping me company. It's warm in here, especially under my blanket but it's cosy. I've been at work for a few months now. While doing that I've also moved home to here a few weeks ago. Aaron and I's house settles on the market in a few days to a new couple; and I've resigned to continuing to clean and move out all our old belongings and deferred that to be done by some professional cleaners. My life is now in an entirely new place, but it's a strange sensation because although I'm in a new place; old familiar emotions and feelings still return. # The Actual Beginning My husband, Aaron, was diagnosed with cancer on the 23rd of December, 2022 while we were visiting family in New Zealand. At this point, we had been living together for years. We shared our home with two gorgeous sausage dogs, Betty and Bravo, after the restaurant of our first date. We painted our bedroom green, our front room blue; our kettle and toaster was red. Our living room was guarded by a large magpie painting that I bought for us to celebrate our engagement. A tradition therein of filling our walls annually with a colorful tapestry - with brilliant cartography of French wine regions, to moody dancers, to colorful peaches. Our home was scattered with wine bottles both filled and empty, a testament to the many parties thrown over the years there. Our living room adorned with a wonderful piano we fell in love with together, where I was granted the privilege of nights listening to his music - and I slowly learning, and returning the favour with my own. We used to drive to work together, where we would squeeze each other's leg and bid our farewells as we wandered to our respective buildings. The city had a way of pairing our work up in places within walking distance of each other. But despite the proximity, we allowed each other the space to thrive in what was important to us - our careers. Him in finance, and I technology. Aaron and I's lives were simple. We very rarely fought, and in the rare occasion where there was disagreement, we always settled it before bed. Even after seven years; we always found ways to generate small moments of joy in each others lives. We always ended our texts with I love you. We always hugged each other upon departure, or arrival. We always kissed each other goodnight. We weren't perfect. And I don't want it to seem as though our lives were some fairytale - because it wasn't. But we truly accepted the flaws in each other, we worked through them, and we put in the work - to make us work. We were confronted with myriad reasons why we shouldn't work. There was a significant age-gap between us which brought social and familial complications in the beginning - which quickly faded as the years together tallied up on the blackboard. We returned home a few days after he found out, and immediately jumped onto the task at hand. Fighting this wretched illness. And I really mean fighting it. Aaron's job was to get hammered with a cocktail of toxic drugs while mine was to keep everything else running like an oiled machine - hospital appointments, scans, sourcing second/third/hundredth opinions, cooking, cleaning - and occasionally sitting on the floor of the kitchen tiles with my face in my hands just trying to keep it together, because I didn't want to waste the little time I had with Aaron being sad. An average day for us used to be: * A morning of chemotherapy - where I would balance doing some work to kill time and to take my mind off things, while Aaron quietly napped away being slowly poisoned by his chemotherapy * an afternoon in the office smashing out as much work as I could - where I spent time with amazing colleagues who were supportive of my insistence to keep working despite what was going on, * an evening of cleaning and running errands around for Aaron - such as heating metal utensils because the chemotherapy made touching cold surfaces agonising for him. Just as I sat down one day, I recall Aaron quietly whispering in my ear that he's in pain but it isn't a big deal, because he saw how big of a day it had been and didn't want to be a burden on me. I remember saltily joking how he always waits until the night, or just before the weekend, just to make sure I couldn't get any sleep or rest - but that we needed to go to hospital, right now. He then (typically) insisted it was okay and that we should just wait, and wait, until eventually his stubbornness would fade and he would finally agree to me dragging him to hospital. I would hurrily pack the car with his favourite blanket, his AirPods (so he can drown out the noise of the ED), some Up & Gos (he loved those) and his PleurX kit (because the ED often didn't know how to use the various valves across his body, so I would have to train them or use our own medical supplies from home). And yes, I kept working, but that's because Aaron insisted I kept working so I would still have a career to return to after... well, after he wasn't with us anymore. Little remarks like that always destroyed me, because from his perspective he still always tried to think of me and how hard this was. As if trying to fight his own cancer wasn't hard enough, he still found a way to incorporate me into his world view and genuinely care. He would even tell people his story, and remark how "it's always harder for the partner, because at the end of the day, they have to deal with what is and isn't left behind." Aaron was always deeply selfless like that. I mean it when I say I spent 2023 wholly focused on making it the absolute best it could be for Aaron. I put my needs behind anything and everything that could have made Aaron's life even just a tiny bit better. I would spend nights in the ED, sitting on a hard plastic stool by his side at 3AM waiting for him to be transferred to the ward - because then I knew he was safe, in a comfortable place and I just wanted to know that he would be okay. Only then did I allow myself to sit in a McDonalds carpark at 4AM, staring at a flickering fluorescent light in the carpark quietly sobbing while the rest of the world seemed to just peacefully slumber the early morning away. After the next 9 months, where some weeks were easier than others and I could feel a slight resemblance of a normal life again, when we still had hope and the scans were looking good - Aaron died to what we now know was an extremely aggressive esophageal adenocarcinoma (cancer) on the 1st of September, 2023. # My Chapter If I'm completely honest, for a brief period, I developed a deep level of resentment for the rest of the world. How was it possible that people can exist and navigate the world while mine was crumbling apart? How will I ever find normality amidst the greatest shift in perspective in my whole existence? I hated the forces that power the universe for deciding that yes, it's Aaron that should be the one to die today. I was indescribably devastated when Aaron died. And I put every ounce of my strength into trying to remain positive through this - trying to warp what was in front of me into something, anything, that I could draw meaning or strength from. I’ve always described Aaron’s moment of departure as something “beautiful” and “perfect”, where some people along my journey have looked at me bewildered at how I could talk about my spouse’s death almost with a sense of awe - but others, who saw the depth of love I had for this man - always could really see behind my wide eyes and appreciate that it’s the only way I can deal with this loss in a way that doesn’t destroy me - and I have worked so, so hard to not let this destroy me. I wouldn’t say the grief has at all shrunk over these past few months, but what I have learned is that instead of wanting the pain to go away, I now accept it as a souvenir. I can confidently now hold up my grief like a receipt shouting look here! Love was once mine! And I’ve done that on this journey. I'm still writing Aaron's story. But today, on his 50th, I thought I'd share the start of this story through my eyes of the most beautiful man I'll probably ever know. https://josh.engineer/articles/3-months/https://josh.engineer/blog/3-monthsMerry Christmas Aaron. It’s my first one without you, and it also means it’s been around 3 months now since I lost you. It’s certainly been a couple months, some easier than others, but I want you to know I’m doing alright. I didn’t realise how tired I was after your big year. I took some time to relax, but looking back I’ve done so much since you went off to wherever you are now, doing things that make me feel alive. I’m doing it all for two now after all. I keep thinking back to our last seconds together, when I put your ring back on and how grateful I am that we shared that moment together. The last sunset we watched together, you told me to fly free like a bird, so I spent this time trying to figure out what you meant by that. I wish we had more time to talk about it, but we were so busy just trying to keep you alive and comfortable, time beat us to it. So I’ve taken that idea and gone with it to see where I ended up. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Yosemite National Park I’ve hiked mountains in Yosemite to look at eagles and to get some fresh air, because you said when we got older together you wanted to bird watch the years away. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] A Cenote (Cave) entrance somewhere in Mexico I’ve plunged deep into the ocean and caves in Mexico to find peace and quiet amongst fish and the darkness, because you loved fish and aquatic animals so much you filled our front room with it. The caves was just me being a crazy idiot, but I loved it. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Someone paragliding above in Colombia I’ve quite literally flown by running off the top of mountains in the Colombian countryside to be amongst birds, allowing them to guide me to greater heights with thermals. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Climbing Cotopaxi, Ecuador I’ll be visiting more parts of the world soon, starting with a volcano in Ecuador next week, because you said the Kontiki trip you did with Jared all those years ago was life changing, and you always hoped I would do something like this. In all of this I’ve had my ring around my neck. I always hold onto it before a dive, a flight or when I’m feeling a bit alone out here on the other side of the world. Whenever I’m toying with danger perhaps. In doing all this, I never expected the massive void in my life to be filled, but I am living a fuller life because I need your death to stand for something bigger. I took time off work because trying to pretend like everything was normal devalued what happened to you in some way. I think you’d be stoked I’ve challenged myself to be in these foreign countries where I can barely communicate to buy a bottle of water. And that I did somehow manage to get emergency medical care out here thanks to Google Translate when I got sepsis and ended up in hospital alone. You’d be pissed off, but I’ve destroyed myself thinking about all the things I should have done differently with you. All the ways I didn’t appreciate you enough over the years. But I think I’ve come to accept I did the best at the time, that we had an incredible time together and I think you’d agree with me - you’d tell me to shut up in that cute playful way you always did whenever I was an idiot. Finding a voice memo saying you love me again was tough, but I found it. Thanks for tolerating me recording us, despite knowing what it was for. These last 3 months have felt like years without you. I’ve cried, laughed, curled up into balls, ran around until I couldn’t anymore, screamed, whispered while holding back tears, and listened to a shit tonne of sad music - but the whole time you’ve been in my heart, just like when you found home in it all those years ago. I miss you Mr. M. You said it felt like we’ve loved each other before this lifetime. So here’s to next time, in the meantime I’ll keep looking for you in all the beautiful things in this one. https://josh.engineer/articles/embracing-solitude-a-journey-of-healing-and-discovery-after-loss/https://josh.engineer/blog/embracing-solitude-a-journey-of-healing-and-discovery-after-lossPeripatetic /ˌperəpəˈtedik/ to travel from place to place, in particular working or based in various places for relatively short periods. Today was my second day abroad after I left Australia for a multi-month trip around the world, starting in South America, through to Africa, before ending in Europe. Having lived in Canberra for over 10 years, it's become the home I never thought I'd find after growing up as a child of global expat parents in Asia - and it'll be a refreshing change to explore parts of the world I've never seen before. As I start this journey, I wanted to reflect on why overseas travel, or even just getting away to a nearby town, may be beneficial to people who have suffered a devastating loss. When things already feel so surreal, being in a foreign country with just a few personal items feels somehow less intimidating. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Hiking somewhere in Australia Most people I've discussed my plans with were exhilarated - pumped to hear I'm throwing myself out there in the face of adversity. Others were nervous and hesitant, quietly asking if this too much for me to manage at such a difficult time in my life. On both sides of the coin, it's something that has typically started a longer conversation around balancing fear, comfort and facing your demons in life. So, to both sides of the table, I wanted to discuss why I thought now was the right time to travel for me. In a loosely scientific way, I hope that in doing so I can reflect at the end of my adventures to see if my theories about tackling grief were right, or if this has just reduced me to even more of a mess. My core reasons to start are: 1. Masquerading normality in the face of a devastating loss feels like the greatest disservice to the vastness of your loved one's existence. 2. Exploiting renewed openness and perspectives towards the world, and experimenting with novelty to fill the spaces left behind 3. Getting away from the constant reminders of the life that was, and entering a transitory space to find what will be. ## (Sidenote) The Gear I've taken a laptop, a camera and whatever else I could squabble into a carry-on sized backpack. I've reduced my needs to a subset of my day-to-day possessions, without compromising on comfort and practicality along the lines of a One Bag model. My backpack holds: * 4x t-shirts * 2x pants * 2x shorts * 3x pairs of underwear * 3x pairs of socks * 1x patagonia puffer jacket * thongs * runners * 2x lenses (Fujifilm prime 35mm and 18mm) * 1x Fujifilm X-T5 * GoPro (Scuba case and all) * My laptop (MacBook Pro 14") * All my travel adapters and chargers * A bunch of my medication (including malaria tablets for 8 weeks) * All my travel toiletries > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Laptop included off screen I've gone one bag to attempt to improve my mobility in transit, minimise dependency on "stuff" and isolate what I actually need to be comfortable as a personal experiment. After building a life with Aaron it's been shocking going through all of our possessions and realising how little of it has any semblance of significance after death. If I can find comfort in less things (minimalism) perhaps upon my return  to Sydney in 2024 I can apply the same principles as I find a new home. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Some Random Carpark in Miami, South Beach, Florida, United States of America on Day One ## The Clown Mask When you have monumental shifts in perspective, it's important to step back and reflect on what parts of you have changed because you wanted them to, and what parts are because you were forced to. It's similar to coming out, where you go through a period of self-discovery in identifying who you presented to the world out of survival instincts in order to fit in, and later on, discovering and identifying what parts of you truly are you. After being Aaron's carer, I found that I had poured so much into somebody else, that behind him a vacuum had formed which was sucking in whatever was around it. I found myself replacing: companionship, with an endless schedule of seeing friends and family; an intense desire for intimacy, with new friends (turns out this is completely normal), the conversations I had with Aaron, with writing online; and the enduring silence, with constant music. When so much is being let in, like sand settling around rocks in a jar, I've found there is an opportunity to make a decision around what is being put into your jar in the first place. Is it healthy to replace silence with music? Yes, but is it always healthy to replace the loneliness with a jam packed social agenda as an introvert? Perhaps. In the face of a devastating loss, it's easy to forget the degree of control you have over the way you respond to situations. It really honed in a similar notion that we all have complete responsibility for our own responses to situations. You can't blame your partner for dying and putting you into this mess, so you're forced to re-establish control of your own emotions in order to survive. I note that this principle of stoicism, I think anyway, should apply to every single relationship you have. Something that has helped me profoundly is making salient that the way we respond to the world is largely chemically driven, which has enabled me to attempt to isolate my emotions in making decisions. I'm not suggesting we never incorporate emotions into our decision making processes, otherwise we would lack empathy; but to be aware of the circumstances driving the way we feel can help to determine what it is that we need that is ephemeral, and what it is we need that is enduring. It follows along the same principles as disregarding things that might seem important today, but are less so next week. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] A treehouse at a ranch a close friend of mine built ## Rewriting the Tapestry When Aaron died and in the months that have followed, I have been drowning in a sea of emotions and decisions. A few weeks after he died, I returned to work and found a great deal of joy in the stability that restored to my life. Doing so made me reflect that in continuing down that track of restoring routine is to wipe away an opportunity to answer questions about myself and what I'm capable of doing. I realised I had an opportunity to assess what was going back into my jar, and whether the jar itself was even shaped in the way I wanted it to be - or if all that is left and is reforming is homeostasis of a life built before, one that was built under different circumstances. To pay respects to my husband is to place the life I built with him alongside an episode of discovery that catalyses not just observing, but living and breathing the vastness of experience that life brings. Something, anything, needs to grow from the ground around our loved one's life. Otherwise, all that remains is loss. But before we plant the seeds of the new life we've been given, I reckon it's a good time to wander around for a while and see if there's a spot with a better view... So alas, here I am in Miami. Tomorrow Texas. Next week, Mexico. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] South Beach, Miami, United States of America https://josh.engineer/articles/after-the-wards-navigating-lifes-turbulent-currents-as-a-widower/https://josh.engineer/blog/after-the-wards-navigating-lifes-turbulent-currents-as-a-widowerThe silence when it happened was similar to when we were first told the news. I distinctly recall no longer hearing the murmurs of conversation in the hall, or the wind blowing in the trees outside, or the rabbits roaming lightly over the grass outside the ward room. I didn't expect to feel panic though, like I did when he first got diagnosed. This time I was hoping more for peace - but instead, it felt like I had just been plunged underwater and was taking my first frantic, shallow breaths from my tank. Saying goodbye to my husband, Aaron, as I held his hand, was the last thing I ever expected to go through as I waltz through the later half of my 20s. People describe losing their spouse as losing everything. I described my relationship with Aaron as being fiercely independent, wherein we found happiness in the times that we came together. I say this because we thought it would make my life after he died easier. I now think this is total bullshit. When you construct a life around someone, they fall into the crevices of every facet of your existence. I say this, as someone with a solid, supportive career; a great network of wonderful friends; a loving family, who have been there for me every step of the way - but even I feel incredibly vulnerable, and sometimes straight up lost. Stephen Colbert shared a beautiful sentiment in an interview with Anderson Cooper wherein he described learning to love the thing that he most wished had not happened. He highlighted that it’s a gift to exist, and with existence comes suffering. There’s no escaping that. To that, I fully agree. Tragedy in life is inevitable, and as Nora McInerny describes it, everyone you love has a 100% percent change of dying. It can be said, then, that going through an experience like this is perhaps the truest, and most natural expression of one's humanity - to confront and live through the death of those most important to us, and to somehow emerge from the other side. I have a deep respect for people who can pour happiness and joy into the world, despite the loss or pain or challenges that they may be shielding from the public eye. I now look to those people as models for how I, and I think Aaron, would want me to navigate my grief. That is to find it as a passage for generating something good in this world. We never have enough time with each other, no matter if you live through to 60, 15 or 99. I hope this grief stays with me because it's all the unexpressed love that I didn't get to tell said Andrew Garfield in an interview on the passing of his Mother. Although the unexpressed love we have can be poured into a quickly depleting stock of tissues, I've found it can also be poured into a new found empathy and appreciation for the vastness of experiences all people in our lives have. It perhaps can be said that it is possible to be both incredibly sad, but also incredibly grateful - sometimes even happy - for the suffering that comes with remembering those closest to us. It loosely explains why I sometimes oscillate between crying my eyes out in my car, through to maniacal laughter about how exhilarating life is with the windows down driving over Sydney Harbour Bridge. I said this to a close friend, that when you feel the full range of human emotion; that's the greatest gift of life. To feel, to experience, to embrace and to suffer, and to walk in and out of each of those experiences taking something with you. What I thought would be the greatest challenge in navigating his death, isn't the emotions or the pain, because that is expected with loss and something I've embraced in the same virtue as above. Instead, I have struggled most in navigating living a solitude life in the spaces of what was a whole. Life makes it obnoxiously apparent of what was; from asking about marital status in visa applications, to going to house inspections where the agent remarks how surprising it is that you came alone. It's bizarre being lonely in a room full of people. So to that, and to other people in similar situations to mine; the sadness and the emotions are the greatest gifts I have had in this time, despite it being the most unbearable at times. One of my most significant challenges has been navigating life in the newfound and enduring isolation of the crater of what was. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Playing "Mia and Sebastian's Theme" for Aaron ### Lessons from Time Passed Before him, funerals were always a regretful slot in a busy schedule. A moment to pause, reflect, perhaps cry for a moment, before shielding myself away and moving on to whatever was next.  Western society teaches us to lean away from grief, to fiercely move forward and find your new normal as quickly as possible - sometimes to unconscious criticism if too slow - so as to not get your sad all over other people. I unknowingly did this in all the deaths I've confronted years past. Hiding my sadness for loss, and not sharing the questions death raised because why bring the mood down? I recall being in the car with my Uncle a few weeks after his wife passed away from cancer, where I put on some breezy coastal songs in the car and discussed how sick the bass line was and that he just had to hear it. Except, I forgot that the song was called "Find a New Woman" which awkwardly popped up on the stereo screen. So, to say I was just as clueless navigating being around a deeply grieving person before this happened to me, would be a sweeping understatement. Grief is complicated, and hard, and confusing, and entirely non-linear. I attempted to return to work a few weeks after he passed, and connected my headphones to my work laptop therein greeted by "Aaron's AirPods Pro”. I had been using his headphones and renamed them on my phone a few days prior, because I lost mine. That descended me to a sobbing mess in my office’s kitchen because it was one more piece to erase of his existence. Life, in the weeks immediately after, felt like traversing a minefield, especially when you shared and built a home together, of places, things, and smells, all ready to pounce on you at any moment. Some days, it's feeling drenched by the tidal wave of change that just crashed onto you, and deciding if you're either going to tell your barista that you're fine thanks, or that you just finished up 9 months of being a carer to a cancer patient where he died holding your hand, your rear-right tyre is leaking air and you just remembered the milk in your fridge you used this morning to make cereal probably expired weeks ago. So yeah, I'm fine thanks. With my customers and colleagues at work, through to my friends and most new acquaintances (maybe not your barista); opening up about the emotions, experiences and challenges I'm faced with has enabled me to more intimately connect with the people in my life than I ever did before. There is no experience more human than connecting empathetically with another person on the full breadth of experience life brings - and it typically invites people to share their experiences too. When you have gone to hell and returned, and still have time to smile and express positivity and warmth to the people you encounter; there is no greater gift you can deliver into this world. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] The park nearby our home for a group photoshoot ### Cardboard Facade People have often made comments to me that I’m dealing with this incredibly well, that I’m somehow powering through this in a way that they couldn’t imagine. But I want to be clear, to anyone who may find themselves in circumstances such as mine, that I do this because it is the only option available to me - at least in my eyes. I could sit at home, and cry in a state of paralysis (which to be clear I frequently do, usually with some pizza and some Tina Wafers) - but then I would be stuck in limbo for an indeterminate amount of time - and that certainly isn’t really living anymore. Thus, the bereaved are forced to pick up the pieces of a life, and try to play inverted Jenga, reassembling a tower on that single slot on the bottom of a wobbly mess ready to tip over at any moment. Over Halloween, I had my closest friends come around for dinner the day prior to a dress-up party I was hosting at my house. As a side story, I dressed up as a Edna from the Incredibles, photos available only on request after signing an NDA. They turned up at around 10PM on Friday night after driving down from Sydney, and for the preceding few hours I found myself drinking whisky, listening to sad music, mourning my dogs going to a new home and just bawling. As soon as they turned up though, my spirits were lifted and we spent the night laughing, ordering Nugs' (McNuggets) and drinking nice wine. Managing my grief has been the same as managing a bucket with a faucet. The bucket is always filling up at a constant rate. Sometimes, to get ahead of overflowing, you just need to let it out on your terms. In the days after he died, the bucket was constantly overflowing; but now, 2 months on, it feels as though it fills up significantly slower than it did before. ### Vaporised Insecurity Something interesting in circumstances like this, is the vaporisation of my insecurity and anxiety. I've struggled deeply with Imposter Syndrome, particularly amongst my incredibly bright colleagues at work; but when a significant event takes place, it sets root that you've now qualified as a human. As someone who has lived, has felt, has lost - in the same way that I expect experience and maturity stems from tenure in a job, where loss, failure and obstacles overcome are signs of someone successful. The second month after he passed away, I felt liberated. Not from the beautiful components of my life together that I so desperately longed for, but liberated from expectation. Perhaps it's because I feel like my life is a mess regardless of what I do now, so I might as well just try my best. Perhaps it's the fact that anything better than surviving is winning now. I realised how much pressure I imposed on myself from other people, family, friends - to be something, or to achieve something. But underneath it all, I now realise that to have been, to have loved, to have lost - that's living, not chasing the next pay rise, or buying the nicest car. It's finding solace, and joy in the individual, seemingly insignificant moments that craft a lifespan. It's contributing to something meaningful for you, based on a clear set of values you fundamentally believe in. This is something I'll explore more deeply in the coming months. To me, now, I feel like I have the primitive knowledge of how to construct a full life. One that doesn't feel like it's running away from me. It's flying across the country to go on a Mexican dinner date with a long lost friend in Texas. Or, changing your flights across the globe last minute to hang out with a new companion. ### Decision Free Fall I feel like these past two months have been a constant free fall, I've crashed through the top of a skyscraper of decisions, going floor by floor until my momentum ran out and I emerged exhausted, sore and very, very injured. Do I move out of our home? Do (or even, can) I keep our dogs? What casket would he have liked? What do I do with all these clothes? To top it off, you have to go through all of this without the single person that you would have spoken to about these things, cried next to, or who would have grabbed you popcorn and a glass of wine to calm you down. So instead, over these past few months, I’ve done everything to run away from my problems. I’ve crashed on wonderfully generous friend’s couches like James' because I can’t bear to be at our home alone anymore (especially when home was wherever Aaron was). I’ve flown across the country to spontaneously visit special people like Kassidy from middle school, who I haven’t seen in years, because I just didn’t want to leave the USA. Or, the day after Aaron died, my close friends Matt and Maddie, fanged it through a 4WD track in a Volkswagen Polo to watch me leave a blood trail on a rock face as I scaled it without any fear. Then did it all over again the day after the funeral, this time with the gorgeous Ciaran who has been the shoulder I needed each step of the way through Aaron’s cancer journey. To my families, you have been my rock through everything. Calls, cuddles, company - I couldn't be more grateful for the many ways you have all shared your unique skills for both Aaron and I - from beginning, to the end and now afterwards. Mum, for always being a few short steps away at each key moment in this journey, from finding out at the hospital to the moment he passed, arms or ears always held open to catch me. Dad, for being the company I needed in the quiet in-between times; and in helping me confront the silence at home in the days after I lost him. Jamie, for taking me far, far away from it all when I needed most to leave. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Exchanging rings I reflected on something Madeline observed when I first broke the news to her about Aaron’s diagnosis. She said she could never tell if I was calling to tell her a chaotic and hilarious story about the journey, or if I was about to drop the most horrible news on her ever. I think that’s what grief is. It’s a cocktail of chaos, sadness, happiness, weirdness and then trying to laugh it off because you’re desperately trying to make it not all that you are when you are with people. Grief as a son is trying to (and failing) to dry your eyes out on the streets of Sydney when your Dad texts “I don’t have any words of wisdom, just letting you know I care” because not even your parents have lost their spouse yet. So all they can do is hold your hand tightly for the ride. Grief as a spouse, and as a carer is also being grateful, in some weird kind of way, that all of this happened. To have loved, and have helped someone through their greatest battle, will always be the greatest privilege of my life. And to have the person you love pass away holding your hand because they chose you, is the greatest gift to receive in life. I say without a doubt it's better to have loved and to have lost, than to never have loved at all. The photographs in this article were captured by a wonderfully talented companion to Aaron and I, Lauren Campbell. https://josh.engineer/articles/reflectance/https://josh.engineer/blog/reflectance## enter stage left: develop raport Over the past 12 months I've been conducting research here in Australia in the field of renewable energy as part of my Bachelors in Mechatronics Engineering. At least that's what I told myself coming into the project. As part of becoming an engineer, it's required that you complete a substantial research project which, here in Australia, is called your honours year. The objective being to develop skills in research and to have the privilege of contributing to your field of choice. Yes, I worked across two completely different fields because, as they say, breadth is more important than depth. I believed, going into this project, I'd get more out of something entirely different that really pushed the boundaries on what I've worked on prior. In all seriousness though, I thought that if there was going to be an opportunity to help save the planet, at least even by a little bit, it was obviously in doing research with cameras, giant mirrors and cool (reflectometers shoot lasers btw) gear. This, however, is all peripheral to what it really takes to become an engineer which includes: fixing at least 25 routers, reminding at least 50 people that you aren't an IT specialist and then convincing a further 100 people that there's more to mechatronics than just robots. You also learn that you can't work out how to fix a broken electric couch, even though it's a mechatronics system. But you can try using duct tape and faith. And as it turns out, there's a lot more in this world running on duct tape than I first thought. ## enter stage right: actual content So, the whole purpose of this year is to focus on one big overarching inquiry, called a research question, and then spending the whole year working towards answering that single question. As well as navigating the panic, fear and 2-day-prior rewrites that you all went through when you did a research project as well, right? In my case, my research question was a collaborative effort with my supervisors which stemmed from some existing research into their method of using a stochastic multimodal soiling model to estimate the reflectance of a mirror. Let's rewind a little before we continue on though, and look at some pretty pictures to explain this better. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] In concentrated solar farms, like in above, mirrors focus light onto a central receiver which: (1) heats up a fluid; which, (2) produces steam; then, (3) spins a turbine; and lastly, (4) makes power. It's a pretty phenomenal process to generate power, and it works swimmingly. The problem, however, is that dirty mirrors reduce the amount of energy hitting that central receiver. Dirt can be bird droppings, dust or a damn fine roast lunch cooking on a mirror (well, maybe not quite enough to cook a roast lunch but see the image below anyway). My research was designed to extend upon existing research to identify whether instead of using drones to take close up pictures of a mirror to estimate reflectance, we could use one massive camera (or a few smaller ones around the plant) to do it all for us. In other words, remove any need for a human to interact with this whole system, beyond the actual cleaning process. At the moment, this process can actually be really manual using a handheld reflectometer like in the first image, through to a bit more autonomous with drones and finally, my proposed solution, fixed cameras with no human interaction; or at the very least improving the amount of pictures per drone flight, anyway. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] ## but, how? So, in early 2020, I set off with my giant mirrors, my camera and started testing the robustness of the estimation algorithm. Plot twist, the algorithm was in development simultaneously to my research which introduced challenges but let's ignore those for now. Over the following year, I quickly discovered that there is so much more to taking pictures than opening the Camera app and clicking that big white circle. You also have to take off the lens cap. The project involved two stages in evaluating the robustness of the estimation algorithm to pixel resolution degradation in tandem with the effect of changing capture parameters. In English, what I'm saying is, let's say you move further and further away from your subject, how well does the estimation algorithm handle that extra distance (and less pixels per subject). The stages were the Acquisition Phase, where I physically took photos for my study, followed by the Processing Phase, where the images were processed and I made conclusions. Over 1000 images were taken over 11 different days with the total size of the dataset reaching almost 1TB in imagery. Images were captured using a Canon EOS 550D from 2010 with an 18 megapixel (MP) effective resolution (18.7MP total). The camera type was a TTL-CT-SIR AF-dedicated with a CMOS sensor. I used a tripod to stabilise the camera, particularly when using low shutter-speeds, and three separate lenses were used for several different datasets. > [Original photograph unavailable in the recovered cache] Images were captured in ranges from 1m up to 70m across several days throughout the year. Due to dependence of the estimation algorithm on the heliostat mirror being directed at a clear blue sky, the days in which images could be captured were limited to clear conditions with daylight. Heliostat mirrors must be carefully directed, as certain angles can result in sunlight flaring (which is when streaks become white at certain angles) and possibly result in incorrectly classified soiling components. The timing of the image capture varied from early morning to late afternoon to assist in the reduction of sunlight flaring on the heliostat mirrors. The mirror direction and angle relative to the camera was carefully selected as several early datasets were rendered useless as a result of flaring from cleaning streaks. To assist in the heliostat mirror positioning, the mirrors were placed at several angles using an improvised rig consisting of a step ladder and adhesive padding (also known as duct tape and faith) to secure the mirrors in heavy winds. ## well, the verdict? The estimation algorithm is actually really robust to increased distance. Now, by increased distance, yes there's the option of zooming in from far away, but what we're examining here is pixel density measured in PPM (pixels per metre). The lower the PPM value, the lower the resolution and theoretically, the smaller the size of the file. What I found is intuitive at first glance. I mean, of course, estimation is less reliable at lower resolutions. Less information equates to more unsurity and greater proximity to the noise floor (random jibberish underlying everything). What's interesting, however, is that the estimation algorithm is actually way more robust to reduced pixel resolution. This far exceeds our expectations and represents an important shift in perspective on how we can apply the reflectance estimation algorithm. Currently, single images are taken of a mirror by a drone floating above it. But, now we realise we could perhaps have a drone fly way up in the sky and capture images with far more mirrors in a single image, pull them out using a contour detector and automagically estimate reflectance for entire fields in one go! Well, probably not entire fields but significantly more than we could before, anyway. Let's not finish up there though. So, in the above data we found that in simulated imaging conditions, that is, using bilinear interpolation to shrink images down intentionally we're actually getting really solid performance. But with less data, naturally, we're getting far better performance as wel in creating those estimations. Less data to process is a win-win for everybody right? Well, this is particularly the case when the estimation algorithm still produces reliable results. Once the original research is available I'll put a graph here and explain why it looks the way it does, but in the meantime, please take my word for it. ## so, what did I learn? I learned that research is extraordinarily difficult and I have immense respect for the researchers of the world. It's a completely different life traversing the unknown without a defined answer and transitioning from relatively known outcomes in University coursework to unknown domains is simultaneously terrifying and exciting. I also learned that writing a massive thesis about one focused topic is easier than I anticipated in terms of finding content and parts to investigate and explore. What might, on the outset, appear to be a straightforward project, could actually end up being something so much deeper and more advanced than you imagined. This project began with taking photos from far away but extended to so much more within the confines of my research question. I learned that writing profound research is hard. Changing the world is hard. But doing nothing will guarantee failure but trying something will perhaps put you on a path you never anticipated in the first place. This research project was so beyond what I originally expected and there's so many more fascinating results I'd love to share, but I'll have to hold back for now until the primary research is published, so don't fret if you're a bit confused about what this is about. All up, it was a tremendous privilege to work on this research project. 11/10 IGN. I look forward to future opportunities to engage in research both in the field of renewable energy and beyond. P.S. This article contains references to unpublished research (hence the omission of author names). When the primary research that this project extends upon is published, this article will be updated with references and links to the published research as well as an opportunity to download my thesis. Please direct inquiries to my email if you have questions.