We’re All Going to Die
Matthew Higgins, the chef at The Pitch on Butler, and longtime friend of bar owner Bryan Muha, is dying.
Every other Wednesday night, in Lawrenceville, I host an Open Mic at The Pitch for artists, poets, musicians and storytellers. Over the course of a year, I’ve developed friendships with the regulars and staff. Bryan served Matt his first beer when Matt turned 21. Now, at 33-years old, Matt grapples with mortality, and a timeline.
The End of Life
Originally diagnosed with a rare type of blood cancer called polycythemia vera, Higgins sought treatment. Polycythemia vera occurs when a mutation in a gene causes a problem with blood cell production; a genetic disorder that runs in Higgins’ family. “I had a poor reaction to one of the treatment plans and it mutated [into] leukemia. It's hard to pinpoint an exact time frame, but [doctors] say I might have one or two more healthy years left. Then it's pretty rapid downhill from there.”
I wonder, when you’re dying, how any time left is considered healthy.
Higgins’ body will deteriorate, beginning with his organs. He endures slight damage to his kidneys, lung damage from a pulmonary embolism, and recently suffered a mini stroke. “I try not to think about it too much to tell you the truth. I think [most] people die from secondary infections, or they enter a blast phase, where the body releases a ton of blast fills into the blood, and that… chokes everything else out.”
He doesn’t know what bodily sensations to expect as he nears the end; he’s gone over the generals with his doctors, who are largely experimental with his treatment at this point, but he hasn’t wanted to get too specific. He wants to be surprised by death. Can you be surprised if you know it’s coming?
Higgins doesn’t cling to any ideals about an afterlife. "I believe that anybody alive has no idea [what happens after death], and we'll never know until we die."
Before he was diagnosed with cancer, Matt was a Petty Officer Second Class in the United States Navy, serving 2010-2013. He’s trained for extreme survival conditions. After leaving the Navy, however, he describes a lifestyle many are familiar with, one of complacency. “…12 years going to the bar, working, going back to the bar, sleeping, and playing video games every day. … So now I'm just gonna do something completely different. That's been my dream.”
Matthew Higgins
A Death Pilgrimage
A death pilgrimage is a journey undertaken with the awareness of one's impending mortality, often serving as a means of reflection, while seeking to reconcile the spiritual, emotional, or psychological aspects of dying. Matt has always been called to nature, to the outdoors, and adventure that tests you physically and mentally. On Thursday, March 20, 2025, he embarked upon a mission to fulfill a long held dream—he is hiking The Appalachian Trail (A.T.), through one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world. There is no more time to be lost.
Higgins hopped a bus to Georgia to begin a 2,197-mile hike, destined for Bangor, Maine. He expects the journey to take anywhere from five to seven months, depending upon his health. He carries 35 pounds of gear, six days’ worth of food, and only two pairs of pants, a shirt, and sleepwear. He plans to replenish resources in town every four days, and connect with a friend halfway through for new clothes.
Resistance is futile.
Higgins experiences mood swings about his death; he rides a pendulum from acceptance to depression to curiosity. In addition to receiving cognitive rehab one a week, Higgins began a meditative practice through therapy at UPMC Hillman Cancer Center. He journals frequently to relieve his mind. A fan of tabletop RPG games, his greatest comfort on the trail may be his own storytelling; he is a skilled Dungeon Master. Rewriting personal accounts to make peace is a mental puzzle, and gamifying life experiences can ease the threat of rumination. Intrusive Thoughts—a card pulled; they are simply what his character is facing. As the observer and guide, Higgins is navigating the choices before him. He embraces the trail as a metaphor for life itself—a path fraught with challenges, beauty, and encounters with one's limitations and strengths. He tells me the first third of the hike is all physical, “Then the middle chunk is all psychological.”
According to The Appalachian Trail Conservancy, completing the entire 2,190+ miles of the A.T. in one trip is a mammoth undertaking. Each year, thousands of hikers attempt a thru-hike; only about one in four makes it all the way. There is no information as to how many thru-hikers attempt the trek, and survive, while their bodies are actively dying.
How will your death impact your life?
When you believe you have nothing more to lose, the threat of death can inspire change. Dreams discarded for reasons not remembered come back to life.
Matt and I have related in the pain of family estrangement and loss of companionship; when we first met, on July 7, 2024, his long term partnership was ending—‘til death not a promise made. I was struck by Matt’s grief; his vulnerability unapologetic. Death reminds us life is precious. There will be a last note of this beating heart. In his tear-filled eyes, I saw myself—the me I am when overcome by the wave of grief carrying reminders of my aunt’s unexpected death in 2019. They say she died instantly, which is not how Matt’s “supposed” to go. Surprise is still possible, and preferable to him.
As Higgins embraces dying, he focuses on the cycles of the natural world. “I believe things don't necessarily happen for a reason. They just happen. That's the nature of this universe, we're in a constant state of change, always. Change and decay. That is it.”
Who Higgins once was has already died; he had to give up an undying self. A dream reignited from loss is a win to me. By traversing the trail, Matt mirrors the universal quest for meaning amidst uncertainty, inviting us all to ponder our own paths and the end we ultimately face. “Maybe you just need to change your frame of reference. Like, most of my treatments were pretty unsuccessful, and there were a couple other directions I could have gone, that might have led to a little bit more success, but might have also really shortened things for me. And instead of looking at that as a death sentence, I have decided to choose what to do with the time I have left.”
Higgins plans to return to Pittsburgh. He doesn’t expect to die on this trail, but I get the impression he wouldn’t necessarily be upset if he did. If he becomes too sick to continue, he assured me he’s thought it through.
My aunt’s death inspired me to change my life; Matt’s own is doing the same to him. “Keep fighting.” Higgins imparts, “Never give up, even when things seem hopeless.”
If we live in the awareness we will die, all of life is a death pilgrimage; it’s simply how we play the game.
The Artist’s Battle
Pittsburgh Artist CARO
“I really had to kill my ego this year.” Pittsburgh Artist CARO sat across from me, sipping iced coffee from a straw.
We met at Big Dog Coffee in Southside to introduce ourselves in mid-December, two months after she competed in the Pittsburgh Art Battle and won.
“How do you kill your ego?” I asked.
The first time I saw CARO—short for Caroline—she was a returning competitor to the local Art Battle hosted at Athithi Studios in Sharpsburg.
On September 12, 2024, the energy was high; the gallery buzzed from a cocktail of anxiety and anticipation. Some were invigorated by the stimuli; a DJ spun, a food truck fed, and artists prepped to paint against the clock. Attendees vote for the winner of each round and can bid on the pieces at the end of the night. Works created are silent-auctioned with 50% of the proceeds going to the artists. Despite the event being a competition, there was a noticeable sense of camaraderie.
Sensitive to the noise, and without company in tow, I wore earplugs and focused on keeping to myself while noting observations about the experience. If I wasn’t being an art journalist, I might’ve left; it was too stimulating for me, but I was there with a goal in mind: find an artist who inspires you. As the first of three 20-minute rounds began, the music and voices increased in volume. A steady stream of onlookers orbited the artists who painted in circular battle, preparing to cast their votes.
I zeroed in on one of the pieces. A being with a long neck attached to a head with a face expressing intense emotion; a frowning mouth and a single bloody tear leaking from one eye. The background filled in with a deep blue. Feelings of anger, sadness and confusion surfaced; I was reminded of the intensity and scale of these emotions. I was moved by the current of the brushstrokes. I could see myself inside the painting the way I see myself in my own paintings. I paused at the artist’s easel and gave all of my attention to CARO.
The War is Over, 2024
To give an artist’s work attention in a gallery is one thing, to give the artist herself attention is another; to witness the artist in the act of creation however, is an incredible privilege. I find, when attention is paid to my work, it impacts my growth as an artist as much as it can impact the admirer. Now, sitting across from her in a cafe, CARO fills in the picture. She describes her approach to painting as intuitive; she looks at the canvas, “blacks out” and then “this” happens. The pieces [for Art Battle] are unplanned besides the color palette. We are similar in our approach; giving way to creative flow, moving without forethought and trusting the process, is a healing practice I employ within Memoirtistry. The portraits CARO paints are all versions of herself—another similarity; everything I paint are versions of myself.
“You have to feel it at that moment,” Caroline speaks of the intuitive process while I nod along in agreement. “You have no idea the impressions your own work has on you until you’re done making it.”
Art Battle creates a vibrant environment; as a competing artist, you are not only competing with other artists, you are also in a fight with yourself to stay focused and manage personal anxieties over being observed. I tried to imagine myself competing; painting two works, each in 20 minutes to a point of completion, enduring the pressure to produce. The first portrait she painted, in round one, The War is Over, offered CARO’s point-of-view—a hint of what she was going through, right then, as we all watched.
I wondered then what other battles Caroline has been fighting.
CARO has been an artist since she was a child, but there was a time she stopped painting due to mental health confrontations. “Awareness of an ‘issue’ can take over your whole life,” she confessed.
In 2018, after a routine check with her doctor to discuss her growing anxiety, she was diagnosed with stage two thyroid cancer. I asked her what it felt like, existing inside a body with cancer. “It’s so cliché [to say], but I could feel a dark being inside of me. I have always been sensitive to my body; I wasn’t myself for the longest time.”
In January 2023, she received the news she was cancer free. The isolation required to heal overlapped with the isolation of Covid-19, and boredom guided her back to the easel. In her return to art, she painted a portrait of her brother’s dog to give him as a gift. Soon after, she began receiving commissions and was painting more regularly. But her style adapted as her focus in life shifted to healing from trauma and the main subject of her work soon became herself.
The second self-portrait CARO painted for the Art Battle holds a clue pointing to her progress. A rich red background of flames highlights a face framed by straight purple hair with wide, tired eyes and long lashes hanging heavy on the lids. This battle has exhausted the artist, and yet, the mouth is turned in a smirk. Caroline tells me she had a feeling she was going to win and her confidence is evident in the painting. The audience watched her battle herself and rewarded her in her efforts; she was voted champion and I wasn’t surprised.
To kill your ego, she says one must “become overly self-aware; like yourself a little bit.” In the act of liking yourself, the ego can inflate. The caveat is to like yourself while also recognizing there are things you don’t like. Accepting what she doesn’t like about herself is the battle CARO fights now. “I was aware I had flaws, but I spent so long trying to survive other things that I was just kind of ignorant of the negative parts of me.”
In February 2025, she released photographic portraits featuring a clothing collection made for a series called I FORGOT (HOW) TO HAVE FUN where she explores polarity and the duality of existence; extremes expressed in sharp black and white exposure. One portrait represents the grief she feels around who she might have been; a relatable theme for anyone honest enough to admit. Self-reflection, when acted upon, can transform you into a person unrecognizable to those who knew you when. This shift in external perception can cause an upset to your self-image; others may not believe you have changed and the denial of a changed you can impact future growth. The temptation to remain the same for others is great.
CARO continues to heal the need to please by loosening up her art process. “A lot of my paintings are old paintings, covered. I like the texture it adds.”
The texture of scars from what once was is evidence of the process of acceptance.
CARO at work
As Caroline returns to battle in the new year, her combative technique, to fight with artistic expression in front of an audience, inspires me in my own practice. Her work illustrates a profound truth: art is inherently personal and universal, intertwining her internal experiences with collective themes of identity, trauma, healing, and joy. In every self-portrait, we see CARO’s resilience and are invited to explore our own emotional landscape alongside hers. Killing the ego doesn’t actually require death but acceptance. When we see what is, what is is free to change.
Betty Davis, The Independent Artist & Crow
As a transplant from Washington, it’s been difficult to create meaningful connections in Pennsylvania. I’ve moved 29 times across six states and cannot relate to the many generations who’ve stayed in Pittsburgh, never to leave or left only to return. I have a restless spirit and, when tended to, it grants me unlimited access to creative flow. I am a transitory artist, however, I am not immune to homesickness; familiarity tethers me to the present. Without an anchor, it’s easy to feel lost. I seek the wonder and captivity of solitude, the healing mediums of the arts, and the kind of attention only the dead can provide; I commune with grief, a constant companion and muse.
When I learned Betty Davis is buried in Homestead Cemetery, within walking distance from where I live, I was struck by the news of her death; I didn’t realize she passed away in 2022. I discovered her music and Nasty Gal persona in early 2021, when I stumbled upon the documentary They Say I’m Different (2017).
Betty was the first black woman to write, perform, and manage herself. She was described as an enigma; her clothes expressed who she was—an extreme funkstress of jazz fusion—and like most musicians of her caliber, she influenced many. She was “Madonna before Madonna” and “Prince before Prince”, but I had never heard of Betty and wondered why. The rawness of her vocals and in-your-face expression on stage, how she owned her body and moved freely, entranced me. Uninhibited by drugs and alcohol, or by being a black woman, Betty was liberated. Her performances shocked audiences; at the time, there were no other women doing what she was doing. Betty described her music as raw, saying that “anything raw has to be pure.”
Raw is the purest form of innocence.
Betty’s growling voice spoke to the rage in my belly–ancient and sacred, an eternal flame. I wonder, if I don’t speak about it, does it make it unreal? If I don’t speak about it, it doesn’t go away. This woman did what I aim to do in my work; reclaim my innocence by releasing trauma through self-expression in performance and artistry.
Betty’s arrival on the ‘70s music scene was short-lived; she was banned, boycotted, and soon, she disappeared. Her abrupt departure warranted her an “almost mythological reputation for being reclusive.” The decision to step away from the music industry when pressured to conform, mirrors my own struggle against a society that prizes marketability over vulnerability. Her bandmates say she was fed up. She suffered in her liberation; being “ahead of the times” is a heavy weight. Artists are often pushed to change the very thing that makes us stand out; to dilute our voices for commercial gain, reproduce our work for easy consumption, and operate outside of our morals for fame, fans and followers. Disingenuous markers of success.The artists who stand out to me are those who don’t give in—the ones who’ll die to their vision before selling their soul, maintaining independence while navigating the pain of freedom.
Whenever I leave the house, I step into the world as an artist. No one who asks me what I do is surprised when I say I am an artist. It’s when I’m asked “what kind of art” that shifts the conversation. The struggle is being listened to and understood. I can tell when I’m not; I am interrupted and receive unsolicited advice—told what I “should” be doing more of (marketing/social media) and what I “should” make and sell (to become successful). When I comment these things I “should” be doing directly oppose my personal values, my work is dismissed as a hobby. As if what I do have to offer is not enough.
Throughout the film, Betty makes symbolic references to Crow, which signifies the beginning of her self-awareness that she was different. Crow is the heartbeat, she says, and to me it signifies someone under the influence of creative flow. Since she was a girl, Betty felt there was “something inside of her that had to come out”—a similar restlessness to my own. It was the women who sang the blues that connected her more deeply to Crow. “Women who sang about how they felt inside … about things that weren’t right.” Her grandmother’s wise words rang out like an alarm. “You should always know who you are and do what you have to do.” (That’s a “should” I can stand behind; the integrity to rise above, no matter what.) Betty didn’t speak from oppression, she sang knowing who she was and what she deserved.
“In the end,” Betty concluded, “I found I could only be myself. Being different is everything; it is the way forward.”
She inspired me to embrace my journey of self-discovery with boldness, which is why I’m living in PA in the first place. In May 2023, I accepted an invitation to study performance with an artist in Georgia. I was ready to develop Crow for the stage. I moved to Atlanta, but circumstances changed and my study was disrupted; no sooner had I arrived, I was on the road again, heading for Pittsburgh. Even as I wrestled with homesickness, I knew I couldn't return to WA, not yet. Where Crow beckons me to go, I follow.
Betty returned to Homestead after her father’s death and laid her music career to rest 44 years ago. Revisiting They Say I’m Different, the locations are familiar to me now. Listening to her albums while I drive these streets, the borough pulses with the energy of her legacy.
Rest in peace, Betty Davis.
The body that housed the soul of The Queen of Funk calls me to her gravesite.
Her resting place ignites a desire to ritualize my time here, however long it may be. Echoing her spirit of defiance and unapologetic self-expression, I release expectations of being understood. To honor Betty’s life, on the ninth of December, I placed the dying heads of nine cut pink roses at the headstone; I was born on a ninth, and she died on a ninth. Three nine’s divisible by three; a calculation and request to the gods of numerology.
A kinship with Betty continues to develop across time and space. Her return to Pittsburgh signals me to consider a return of my own, to my birthplace in Anchorage, Alaska. I trust Crow, my compass that tells me when to stay and when to go. When I visit Betty, I sense I belong here; wherever I am is home. I can never be where “I am” is not.
“People tell me I paved the way,” Betty reflects in the documentary. “I’m happy about that. I’m happy my music is still alive. For a while I flew high and strong, but the struggle to breakthrough hurt me. Everyone wanted me to be someone I wasn't.”
Being true to oneself can mean standing against the current, and some of us have the bravery to do so. Like Betty Davis, may I also refuse to compromise my creative vision. She chose independence, something difficult for artists, especially women, to have, and I choose it too.