The Wave Returns to the Ocean
Dear twenty-something,
Today, Grandpa died.
It had been a few days coming—after a medical emergency that seemed to come out of nowhere—but today, things quietly reached their end. This is the first time I’ve lost someone in my family who I spent real time with, who played a part in shaping my world. The feeling is hard to describe. It’s heavy, but also far-reaching, like grief is trying to echo through every corner of me. So here I am, letting the words spill out, hoping they’ll help make sense of it.
More than anything, I’m thinking about my dad. He’s alone in a hotel tonight, probably replaying memories and conversations, feeling everything and nothing at once. That thought hurts. I don’t want the people I love to be in pain—especially not the kind I can’t do anything about. I don’t know how close he and Grandpa really were, but I know there was love. That kind of love that sits quietly in the background, always there. I hope my dad doesn’t feel guilty for the years and miles between us and them. He made the right decision when he moved us—he gave us an incredible life. I’m sure he knows that logically, but grief rarely follows logic. When he responded to our message at 1 AM his time, I knew he wasn’t as “fine” as he claimed. I wish he knew it was okay to not be okay. To let the wave of emotion crash through. I just hope he moves through this with grace for himself—with as little guilt and as much softness as possible.
As for me, I feel devastated in a quiet, internal way. A piece of the puzzle that made me exist, no longer does. It’s surreal to think about how much of him is still alive in me, even now—his DNA running through my body, this strange, beautiful connection that time and death can’t erase. I have never felt much of a tie to my ancestors, but now more than ever, I feel the link between us all, across time and across generations.
I won’t pretend we were close. We rarely spoke. But I only have fond memories. I know he loved us. I know he would have been proud of the person I’ve become, and of the life I’m building. I think he would’ve liked my boyfriend and would have loved to hear about our future plans. We were just weeks away from seeing him again. That part is the hardest. The “almost.” The “what-ifs.” I’ve felt a lot of guilt today—guilt for not staying more connected, for not reaching out sooner. But I know relationships are a two-way street. I can hold space for that truth and still feel deep love and appreciation. I just hope I don’t carry the guilt longer than I need to.
Death has a way of waking you up. It reminds you how delicate life is, how quickly it passes, and how important it is to say the things that matter while you still can. I hope this moment becomes a turning point for reconnection, especially with that side of the family. I don’t want the distance to stretch forever.
Today I caught myself looking up at the sky more than once, searching for something I can’t quite name. I’ve never been religious—not even spiritual—but lately, I’ve been drawn to the peace of Buddhism. Every time I hear a Buddhist idea or story, something in me stirs. I want to learn more.
For now, I’ll end with a quote from The Good Place that’s been sitting with me:
Picture a wave in the ocean.
You can see it, measure it—its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through.
And it’s there. And you know what it is. It’s a wave.
And then it crashes on the shore, and it’s gone.
But the water is still there.
The wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while.
That’s one conception of death, from Buddhism:
The wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it’s meant to be.
I’ll miss you, Grandpa.
With love,
23