Châlons-en-Champagne, 21 October 2026

Hotel room, this morning. I am writing these lines facing the fields of Champagne, before setting off for Ludres for tonight's session, because what happened yesterday cannot wait until I get home.

Châlons-en-Champagne, last night.

I must share a true story with you. I cannot keep it to myself.

The evening was deeply powerful, and it was so because of them, because of those who were in the room. Not because of me. And among them, a woman.

She came to see me after the session. She told me she had lost two of her children. Two. I know many parents in this situation, and as a father, I know one thing: when a child dies, the parent dies too. They stay standing, they carry on, but something has died with the child.

So I looked her straight in the eyes and said to her: “Madam, may I ask you a question? You who have lived through this tragedy twice. You who are, like all women, the human being who gives life, and who have lost two. I believe it is you I must ask this question, because you are the only one here who can answer it from experience.”

She said: “Yes. Ask it.”

“My dear madam, can you tell me what the purpose of life is?”

Silence. She lowered her eyes to the floor. I let her be. Then she raised her gaze to me, and she said:

“To rise again. That is the purpose of life.”

I know this answer. I have been repeating it for years. But in my mouth it is a sentence, and in hers it is a life. That is why I wanted to hear it from her, and from no one else. I asked her if I could tell you, because her words will shift something in those who no longer hear mine. She smiled at me. There was pride in that smile, and she had every right to it. “Yes, of course.”

This woman buried two children and she rose again. Twice. She was standing there, yesterday, in front of me, saying what a human being must do.

I add nothing. I leave you to reflect.

-Mischa Harmeijer