Lamplit - On Four Years of Lamplight
Unsinkable Author: Mikaela Brewer
About Mikaela: Mikaela Brewer is a multi-disciplinary published author and qualitative researcher. She has played basketball for Team Canada and Stanford University where she studied human biology (brain, behaviour, and mental health), creative writing, and science communication. Mikaela writes, speaks, and builds projects from her experiences as both a suicide attempt and loss survivor. Outside of work, she loves to run, read, and eat great food.
Nearly four years ago, I wrote an essay, Lamplight, after my therapist died by suicide. He was unwavering, rooted in uncommon kindness, and attended many of my speaking events; shared memes; read my writing; scheduled early morning sessions so I wouldn’t miss basketball practice; and prepared on court sessions so I could one day believe (as he did) in my ability to play the sport I love.
The lamplight metaphor initially spoke to the idea that mental health care providers dedicate their lives to embodying how a single lamp can light up a room. On the receiving end, “light up” can mean feeling warmth for the first time, unparalleled care, or awakening/learning. Lamplight is also soft and gentle, rather than harsh and abrupt. I wanted to spotlight the necessity of this impulse in our world. But, as always, many necessary things aren’t sufficient.
For four years, I’ve wrestled with how to be a lamp in return when the mental healthcare system was built under capitalism and colonialism. I had to ask myself if there was a difference between leaving a wake of lamplight or lamps I chose to switch on. Which is the bridge?
Lamplight was raw and reflective—I was raw and reflective—as I realized how familiar deep, exhausted emptiness is. Nobody is immune, and Maria Popova’s words, “Anything you polish with attention will become a mirror,” echo.
She also says, “It always hurts to grow twice as alive.”
In wayfinding toward allyship as someone who isn’t a mental health care provider, this is what I’ve tried to do: refine my learning until it became a mirror within which I was gifted a second self, aspiring to be twice as alive (I don’t believe we ever arrive here). If anything, I’ve moved from noun to verb. From lamplight to lamplit. And I hope to share this journey.
I’ve long said that caring for our mental health should never be reserved for times of crisis. I still believe this, though I think crisis needs nuance and definition.
We’re enmeshed in a mental health crisis. Crisis is the fabric of our lives—the common denominator and constant state of being. And mental health care providers—very much experiencing this, too—support us in surviving it. Phew.
In a blog post by Bayo Akomolafe, titled A Slower Urgency, he asks, “What if the way we respond to the crisis is part of the crisis?” What if instead, though it seems counterintuitive, we paused intentionally and questioned what action actually means? What does doing something mean?
On an episode of VS, Ross Gay vs. Entanglement, he speaks to the idea that appealing to timelessness—in writing or anything else—isn’t what’s best for any ecosystem. Really, he’s emphasizing the importance of the slow, present moment. Now is cyclical, not linear. Healthy soil, not indestructible plastic. What many of us associate with flow. And to me, flow invokes wonder.
Wonder seems an odd thing to fold in here. As does rest. As does joy. But these are what sustain us—what allows us to remain cyclical and nonlinear. But I’ve had questions about wonder too. It’s not neutral and neither is curiosity.
Oxford says wonder is:
as a noun, “A feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.”
as a verb, “a desire or be curious to know something” or “to feel doubt.”
To be very honest, this is what I feel when engaging with decolonized mental health care work, healing, and poetry, largely crafted by People of the Global Majority (PoGM)—surprise, admiration, curiosity, and doubt (directed inward). This is wonder in practice. Decolonizing Therapy, by Dr. Jennifer Mullan, is indisputably my new root system, but I want to unpack this sense of wonder: not stop at feeling it, questioning—wondering—how we wonder, engage with it, and why.
Contradictions for White People in Racial Justice Work, by Hannah Baer, is an incredibly helpful diagram for anybody or body of work that we seek to be in allyship with. But how do we navigate these contradictions?
As she always does, Safia Elhillo, one of my favourite poets, opened a door for me. In a stunning essay, against simile, Elhillo writes about how using simile—describing what something is like rather than what it is—can be deeply painful if it takes a description of what something is like (or now thought of as) to gather attention, momentum, and support, especially when what it is like has long been uplifted at the expense of what it is. She uses the example of a map of Sudan being superimposed over the US and Europe to provide a sense of scale for the suffering there.
“Because like will never be is.”
Elhillo spotlights, further, that she’s interrogating her impulse to be this bridge—to create “connective tissue” with her own body between the room she’s performing in and her people in Sudan, by describing what something is like in a poem.
But suffering is unlike anything. Suicide is unlike anything.
“My body cannot bridge it. Cannot find the words to bring it across.”
And I believe this is because she shouldn’t have to be the bridge. I should. We could.
Lamplight is a metaphor for what care is like. The bridging practice of turning on lamps illuminates what care is and can be.
Though necessary work, I think about the time I’ve spent reading to learn and unlearn—exploring what mental health for mental health care providers is like. Not what it is. Mental health is slow, intentional, and not timeless. And if “the way we respond to the crisis is part of the crisis,” then we must be slow, present, and not timeless in using our voice.
I’m reminded of Margaret Watts Hughes’s Voice-Figures—garden-like visualizations of her singing voice using damp colour paste, a glass plate, and an eidophone. Each sung note produces a different arrangement, resembling various flowers, trees, and landscapes. It’s breathtaking when we use our voice.
And so, as a unique approach to publication, the next phase of Lamplight was born into a space where my voice in this essay—switching on lamps along the way—is the bridge for mental health care providers to share their experiences as is.
In an interview with The Fight And The Fiddle, Elhillo says that, often, “someone else’s poem will be the ghost behind the poem that [she’s] written.” Her work is a ghost of Lamplight alongside my therapist and many others. In a way, Lamplight keeps his impact—what is—alive.
In this deeply moving video, Mikaela Brewer shares a personal voice message to honor the anniversary of her therapist’s passing—a professional who tragically lost his life to his own internal struggles. Mikaela’s story sheds light on the often-overlooked mental health challenges faced by those in the mental health profession—those who dedicate their lives to helping others, yet often face their own silent battles.
As the founder of LampLight Magazine, Mikaela is committed to amplifying the voices of healthcare practitioners and advocating for their mental well-being. This video serves as a powerful call to action, reminding us that those on the frontlines of care need care themselves.
Together, let’s break the silence, create spaces for open conversations, and foster a culture of support, healing, and advocacy for all who face these challenges.
Connect with Mikaela here:
LampLight Magazine officially launches on November 13th. Follow them on Instagram for inspiring and impactful stories from the healthcare community: https://www.instagram.com/thelamplightmag/
