Grief never truly ends. It changes shape, softens over time, but it stays—because love stays.
Ten years ago, when my father left this world, my life shifted. Everything felt different—but I still had Nande. She wasn’t just the last parent I had; she was home. She was where I returned to, the place where I felt safe, even when life felt uncertain and unsteady. Losing Bapak broke my heart, but Nande’s presence kept me standing. With her around, I was never truly alone.
Now, everything has changed. Nande is gone too. And for the first time, I find myself truly alone—no parents to return to. No soft voice greeting me at the door, no warm hand to hold when the world starts to blur. Since then, a single question keeps circling in my mind: how do I keep going without them? I’ve searched high and low for the answer, but the more I look, the more it slips away.
Each time the tears fall, I find myself wondering—what exactly am I mourning? Am I grieving for Nande, who is now at peace? Or am I really crying for myself—for the part of me that feels lost without her? This grief has become a mirror, showing me my deepest fears: fear of being alone, of losing my way, of living without a guiding light.
People often say, “When God takes something away, He gives us something better.” But I used to wonder—can anything ever be better than a mother? What could possibly take the place of her presence, her embrace, the way she spoke my name with love?
For a long time, I found no answer. Until one day, I stumbled upon old photos—snapshots of her smile in so many moments. And I remembered: behind that smile, she was often in pain. Yet she chose to be strong. That, I realized, was her final gift—her strength, a quiet kind of love, given to us, her children and grandchildren. And once more, I asked myself: what am I truly grieving?
When the ache of missing her feels too heavy, I pray. Sometimes begging for strength, sometimes simply wishing to see her in a dream. But there are days when even prayer feels hard—because deep down, I long for something impossible. I want her back, even if only for a moment. And I fear that maybe I’m asking too much from God. That my longing might sound like I’m questioning fate. But really, I just want to feel close to her, just once more.
Little by little, the answer has started to grow inside me. Not because someone else came to take her place, but because I began to change. I’m learning to stand, even when I feel like falling. I’m learning to walk, even when the path feels empty. I carry pieces of their love and the values they left behind. And becoming someone kind and strong—that’s how I keep their legacy alive.
These days, when I think of Nande and the tears return, I no longer try to hold them back. Sometimes, I still feel small in the face of loss. I still tremble. But I’ve learned that it’s okay—to cry, to miss, to not have all the answers. I cry because I’ve lost something precious. Because I’m still learning how to live without her. But in those quiet moments of sorrow, I’ve started to understand: maybe grief is where I grow. Not because I’m already strong, but because I’m trying—step by step—to honor what she left behind, even when I feel unsure.
And in those imperfect steps, I’ve come to see that grief is not the end. It’s part of the journey. A long, winding journey that I must walk. I can’t say I’ve become the child they’d be proud of—at least not yet. But I want to keep trying. Because their love, though I can no longer touch it, is still with me. It gently reminds me that I still have reasons to keep going—even with a heavy heart, and tear-stained eyes.
Maybe grief is just love with nowhere to go—but maybe, just maybe, it’s also the quiet place where strength is born.
Comments
Post a Comment