visiting a princess
or: when you're lost, go back to where you left yourself
I saw a baby walrus last month.
The young princess emerges from her tower, and the kingdom rejoices. She frolics in the icy air with her older adoptive sister, equally magnificent. The princess will not let her sister alone for a second, clinging to her as they spin through the water.
For a long and blessed moment, I am their sole onlooker. A travelling knight from far away, I have come simply to pay my respects. To see the princess and feel such reverence which is reserved only for princesses, and to take some of this good cheer with me back home.
“I saw her,” I will tell my fellows. “She’s as beautiful as they say.”
I am at the end of a journey, but I could not turn for home until I saw the princess. I sit on the cool ground before her, my hair tangled and my face sunburnt. It has been a good journey. I am tired, but I am not ready to go home. To be precious about it, coming to see the princess feels more like coming home than anything else lately.
It’s cold, of course. ‘Tis what the princess and her new family require. On the ground, I hug my knees to my chest and keep watching. I wonder if the princess has spent much time alone with her sister yet; she keeps trying to put her sister’s still-growing tusk in her mouth only for her sister to push her away with a big flipper. Does the princess think she’s nursing? How long does it take for a lost princess to find the clarity of what she reaches out for in the murky, icy water? What does she know, how much does she understand? How strange must it feel to be a princess so far from home?
I feel deeply disconnected from myself lately, and I’m not sure how much of it is depression and how much of it is growth. Whose job was it to explain growing into our authentic selves and becoming more confident would include mourning and grieving the versions of ourselves that no longer serve us? On the one hand, I feel deeply and breathtakingly myself in ways which I never dreamed would be accessible to me. On the other, I feel like I am holding a daily memorial service for the lives I am no longer living. For the dead ends, for the haunted woods I trampled out of, for the dreams forgotten, for the hurts I was no longer willing to sustain.
It’s still a slog after you save yourself. Sometimes I fear the main thing I learned from being brave is to keep my guard up constantly; to do anything and everything from ending up in the cave again. I am tired all the time; I cannot get enough sleep no matter what I do. I am trying so hard, I promise. It’s early days, but I’m taking the iron supplement in the morning. I read before bed. I try to keep my post-9pm fears to a minimum. (I don’t always finish my chamomile tea. I made it too hot, I don’t want to wait.)
My body wants to be something small lately. I want to hide, I want to be out of the way, I don’t want to be noticed. I want to be a little mouse in a fairy tale, living in the hollow of a tree and making fresh jams and giving aid and comfort to weary adventurers on their journeys. I want to sweep and drink coffee and bask in the pride of my nice, clean floor. My aspirations feel less grand than they ever have. I want to lie down, I want to clean the floors. I want you to come over to share some soup and then I want to take myself to bed. You can stay, if you like, I just ask that you keep the volume down. (I’d like you to stay.)
I want to help, I want to be good. I do not know how to hold all these disparate versions of myself in my hands, and I’m not sure who I’m supposed to set down no matter how gently. What if he isn’t ready? Am I saving myself or abandoning myself?
I miss my own exuberance.
Two more peasants approach the royal window. They are louder than I think is appropriate this close to the princess, but it is not my place to say so. My sword remains sheathed. It would not do to quarrel here. They watch her for a moment as I do, they see the tusk in the mouth, and the flipper to the chest. They worry and they wonder aloud:
“Are they fighting? Are they hurting each other?”
I am not this princess’ keeper, but I took an oath all the same. I speak up to share what I know when princesses are concerned. From my spot on the floor, eyes still fixed on the fin-footed maidens before me, I say:
“So, the bigger one is her adopted foster sister. The little one was rescued over a year ago in Alaska. This is one of the only facilities in the United States with a population of walruses in human care. I think they’re just playing.”
I can feel them nod behind me, relieved (I assume) to know the princesses are safe. After a moment, sheepish, I add, “I don’t work here, I’m just a nerd.”
“Will she ever be released?” one of the peasants asks. I tell her the truth as I know it.
“Pacific walruses stay with their moms for at least the first 1 to 2 years of their lives. Since she didn’t have that time with her mom, she’ll never really get to learn how to be a walrus.”
It wouldn’t be safe for her out there. But there are scholars and healers here devoted to her. She’ll do what princesses do best; she’ll inspire and she’ll lend hope and grace and beauty to a wounded kingdom.
“Her name is Uki,” I say.
Ukiaq of Seward and Orlando, lost and found princess of Pacific walruses.
To go see a rescued baby walrus when you’re lost in the grim funk of your own thirtysomething transition is to remind yourself of who you are at your core.
Who am I?
(breathe in, hold it at the top.)
I love animals.
(breathe out. through your nose. feel the air tickle your scant little mustache hairs.)
I asked my mother once, “Was I an outdoorsy kid?” She thought for a charitable moment and then said, “Well, you liked animals. And animals are outside.”
Uki isn’t outside anymore. She lives inside at Sea World Orlando with a family of other Pacific walruses. I followed Uki’s story on social media from the time she was rescued in 2024 by the Alaska SeaLife Center. Within the horrifying black hole of Instagram, Uki’s story felt like a miracle; people exist with the know-how and power to save blubbery babies like this. When I realized I was visiting Orlando with my family last month, I realized I could SEE UKI.
The 36-year-old feet which carried me to Uki’s new home are the same feet which carried me around SeaWorld Orlando at 6, 16, 26, onward. “Well, you liked animals,” said my mother. And I do. Before I loved anything else, I loved animals. Sea creatures, especially. I am a child who cried their eyes out in front of the rescued manatees here at SeaWorld, my little heart broken to learn of how easily they are hurt in the wild. I am a child whose eyes well every time a dolphin leaps into the air; I think there’s nothing more beautiful. I am a child who cannot help but pipe up when someone behind me wonders aloud about a baby walrus. This is always how I wanted to help. I did the reading, I memorized all the facts, let me share with you this amazing thing I read about this amazing animal.
At SeaWorld Orlando, I am myself holding my own inner child by the hand. I am patient with them in a way I typically reserve for my summer camp charges. I want to reward them here; this is where their sweetness and enthusiasm and studiousness converge. “This is who you are,” I remind them gently as we visit all the animals and sniffle a little over how much we love them and over how much it hurts that the world does not always protect them.
That was the first champion I knew I wanted to be. For animals. It’s where I learned everything I know about research and learning and listening and the power of sharing correct information with others. It’s where I learned that you should always help how you can, how you should always use your voice for beings who can’t. When I am lost, I turn my heart towards animals and am inevitably reminded of how beautiful life on Earth can and should be. I will not give up on a world which belongs as much to baby walruses as it does to creatures like me.
I must be big because she is small. I must not hide because she needs me to help tell her story. I must be brave because she is a baby walrus and she didn’t ask for any of this. I have to hold on to myself so that I can hold onto her; dry palm against damp flipper.
At last, it is time for me to take my leave. I snap a dozen blurry pictures which do not capture her grandeur, dust myself off, and step back into the late summer Florida sunshine. Something hard and sharp lodged deep inside my heart wobbles a little and I can breathe around it, softer and easier. My armor is lighter on my shoulders than it has been in many months. The princess is safe and I will carry the miracle of her in my heart, wherever else my quest takes me. I go purchase an ICEE in celebration.
I saw a baby walrus last month.
This is so good and true and lovely, thank you for sharing this <3