Noah (Aimara) Mayer
Moreau FYE
Michael Comuniello
3-4-2022

Patient, Steadfast, and Steady

	Aimara had the privilege of choosing her own name when she transitioned. Her deadname, Noah, meant peace or repose. She thought that unfitting for the world we live in, for the life she led. She rarely found peace, whether in the world or within herself. She took the name Aimara, an Old English name meaning steadfast. For that was what she aspired to be. In a world where she had to make her own place, she aimed to stand strong, to be herself. It was hard for her. She confessed to me so many times that she was just tired, tired of having to stand outside of, and often against, the norms and rules of our culture. On her darkest days, she spoke of waiting for the day when death would take her into their arms and she could simply rest. But whenever the darkness closed in around her and she heard death calling her to give up and go to him, she picked herself back up and kept going. Through every struggle and every pain, she kept moving forward, no matter what.
	A common saying is “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Aimara took that to heart, which meant she often said very little. It’s an open secret that she despised many aspects of popular culture, and that, at times, extended to those who partook in it. But she strove to never let that show, whether in word or in action. She also tried to have her thoughts follow her actions. Not the other way around. So no matter what she thought of you, if you needed help, she helped you. She would love you through her actions, even if she hated you in her heart. And she hoped that in doing so, she could come to love you in her heart as well. I remember a time we ran into a high school classmate of hers just by chance, and not just any high school classmate: the classmate she had spoken of as the largest single reason that she had been suicidal through much of high school. The classmate’s car battery had died, and they needed a jump start. Aimara pulled us over and immediately went to help them. As soon as I realized who the classmate was, I began waiting for the sparks to fly. But there were none. Aimara helped them get the car jumpstarted with the same friendly manner with which she helped everyone. The classmate never even recognized her. They had never seen her after she had transitioned. After we drove away, I asked why she had helped him. I thought she had hated him. I’ll never forget her reply. “I did hate him,” she said. “I still do. That’s why I have to love him twice as much.”
	Aimara lived a simple life. She found a job she liked, one that paid well enough, and she stuck with it her whole career. She found a town she liked, one very similar to the town she grew up in, and she stayed there. She never had any children of her own, but she dearly loved all the children around her, and she was already happy to be an aunt to them, even if they weren’t related by blood. She found a person she liked, one that she got along with and that understood her, and she spent her entire life with them. I count myself extraordinarily blessed to have been that person. For those of you who are wondering, no, we weren’t married. We weren’t in any sort of romantic relationship. But we were partners. We loved each other as much as any couple, just not in the same ways as a couple loves each other. And I miss her as much as any widow misses their spouse. As I’m sure all of us here today miss her.

	I think it is safe to say that discernment is a life long process. The path of my life is long, and there will almost certainly be unexpected twists and turns somewhere along it. But with that being said, it helps to have some idea at least of what kind of life you want to lead. That’s what this entire semester of Moreau has been about, after all: what is my life well lived? And that process starts with a lot of questions. What do I value? What kind of work-life balance do I want? Do I want a partner, and if so what kind? What do I want to do? How do I want to serve? Or to sum it all up, what do I want? Thankfully, this question is not something I have to answer alone. I have people who know me well and care about me who can help me answer it, as my parents did when I had a discernment conversation with them. (“Discernment Conversation Activity” – Moreau FYE Week 5). And another important thing to not. I do not need to have all the answers. I do not necessarily need to know why some things are, why I feel a certain way or why something is good for me or why I want a particular thing. I only need to know what I want. What is good for me. What I feel (“The Right Way to be Introspective,” Tasha Euric - Moreau FYE Week 6).
	The first question Father Himes tells us to ask ourselves in discerning what we want out life to be is “what brings you joy?” (“Three Key Questions,” adapted from Father Micheal Himes – Moreau FYE week 3). After thinking long and hard and talking with others, I have come to the conclusion that what brings my joy is small simple things. Getting to see a friend perform on stage, giving or receiving small, thoughtful gifts, just spending time with the people I love. Notice what is not on this list is changing the world, or otherwise serving in some big, visible way. Those things are not a part of my life well lived. Not to say that those who go out and do big things are not living lives well lived. The people like Father Hessburgh who have done so much to change the world for the better have certainly lived lives well lived (“Hessburgh” – Moreau FYE week 2). But their life well lived is not my life well lived. As the career services website tells us, “There is no “best major” out there – but there is a “best major for you.”” Similarly, there is no “best life” out there. But there is a  “best life for me” (“Navigating Your Career Journey,” ND Career Center – Moreau FYE Week 4).  And that best life for me lives in the small things, not in the big ones. It lives in the small acts of kindness, in helping someone with a math problem, or greeting the custodian in my dorm. In a world where it seems like everyone is screaming at you to go out and fix everything, the words of Pico Iyer really speak to me. “Don’t just do something. Sit there” (“Why we need to slow down our lives,” Pico Iyer – Moreau FYE Week 1). It is okay not to do big things. It is okay to simply be and to love.
	To that end, my list of desires for my life is fairly short. I want a job that pays well enough for me to live comfortably. I want an environment that is not overly loud or crowded. And I hope to find a partner. Not a romantic partner, but a partner all the same. I also hope to find a community, however small, where I belong, for I fear I will never belong in the larger world. But just because I do not belong in the world does not mean that I am not in it. And as long as I am in it, it is my duty to love it. I have no doubt there will be times when my heart does not want to love the world that has little place for me, but thankfully it is written “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21) and not “For where your heart is, there your treasure will be also.” It is difficult to move the heart. But moving our treasure, changing what actions we take and what we give out time to, that is far easier. Or as Pope Francis puts it, “Solidarity is not an automatic response . . . it is a free response born from the heart of each and everyone” (“Why the Only Future Worth Building Includes Everyone,” Pope Francis – Moreau FYE Week 7). Although I disagree with the last part of his words. Solidarity is not born from the heart, for “the heart is deceitful above all things” (Jeremiah 17:9). Solidarity and love are born in our actions, and from there they seep down to our heart. Or in other words, love is not necessarily something you feel first and do later. It is often something that must be done first and only then is it felt. And to that end, even when I may hate the world in my heart, I will love it in my actions, until my actions and my heart are one and the same.