Subtle things

 As the day begins, I look forward to starting my office work. I enjoy what I do. Every meeting, every task, every brainstorming session feels like progress. Meetings aren't just about solving problems or moving projects forward—they're also about people, small moments of connection. Before I know it, the workday is over. The evening unfolds in its own familiar pace. Some days I head out for a bike ride. Other days I cook myself a meal or unwind with a television show. Life carries on through these ordinary rituals, and for a while, they are enough to keep me present. And then the silence arrives. Memories of my mom sitting quietly in bed, lying there, saying very little, begin to flash before me. The endless have's, should have's, and could have's of grief come rushing in. Some days, out of nowhere, I feel an incredible sense of gratitude. I feel motivated to move forward with courage, live with purpose.  At other times, everything feels meaningless. I think back ...

One person who is always on your side. One who witnesses your life unfold. One for whom you always came first. One who worries about you without being asked. One you want to call first, whether things go right or wrong. What happens when that person is gone? You lose the quiet certainty that someone is always there. It's not just their absence you feel. It's the disappearance of the emotional safety net you didn't realize you were leaning on. The future begins to feel empty. It can feel as though your emotional safety net has disappeared. For me, that person was my mom.   Even when we lived thousands of miles apart, she was always reachable. A phone call away.  My only place to return to. Every picture of tomorrow once included her— a phone call, her standing by my side,  or simply our daily, ordinary conversations.  Now, when I imagine the years ahead, there is a blank space where she used to be. A quiet fear of facing the future alone. I don't quite know ye...

Last year, I lost my mother. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have a strong and loving support system. So many people showed up for me — checking in, listening patiently, sitting with my grief. But grief doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t politely confine itself to the early weeks or to daylight hours. Sometimes it hits in the middle of the night. Sometimes it circles back to the same thoughts, the same stories, the same ache. And in those moments, I’m reminded that even the most caring people have human limits — not because they don’t care, but because they have their own lives, responsibilities, and emotional bandwidth. No one person — or even a group of people — can indefinitely carry the full weight of someone else’s inner world. Coincidentally, over time, I realized that, without fully noticing it at the moment, I had been leaning on a few resources — books, routines, moments of reflection — that were quietly helping me build a broader support system. And that’s when a deep...