Seeing Carrie

Three years ago, Carrie Fisher passed away. The force of nature that taught me to embrace my crazy was gone. I had always loved Leia, as a princess and a general, but the person behind the buns meant so much more. It was Carrie who showed me I was bipolar, and it was Carrie who showed me that that was okay. I never met her, but I mourned for her like a dear friend.

Three days ago, I left my bed to go see Star Wars. I wasn’t well enough, but I didn’t care. It was Carrie’s last movie. I took the Princess Leia plush my Mum gave me, so she could see what a good job she did in the film. I was falling apart with exhaustion, but I was spellbound. I teared up every time Carrie came on screen.

I am so grateful for the legacy Space Mom gave us. So grateful for her books, and her films, and the gift of her personality. So grateful for everything she taught me about being gracefully crazy. And so glad she got a last showing as General Leia Organa, the role model I never knew I needed. Wherever she is now, I hope it’s a party and someone just gave her glitter. I hope she does what she did in life. I hope she gets it on everyone.

Photo of a white woman with brown hair wearing orange ear defenders and a black coat sitting in a wheelchair. She is holding a small Princess Leia plush. Behind her are two illuminated posters for Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker.
Stuck in the middle with Carrie.