Today is my grandma’s death anniversary.
It’s been six years, and I only know how many years exactly because earlier today, I scrolled through my dad’s Facebook, searching for that all-black profile picture he had put up back then. And there it was: August 26, 2018.
Six years.
I had to pause for a moment, even check the calendar to remind myself it’s already 2024. Six years—it feels like a blink of an eye, yet at the same time, it’s a long stretch of days to go without seeing my grandma’s face.
Back when I lost her, it felt like I was drowning—like I couldn’t breathe, stuck in a place where time moved forward, but I couldn’t. I felt so much that it eventually numbed me.
Not that I ever doubted I would move forward, but part of me didn’t want to. Moving forward felt like letting go, and if I let go, it would mean that my grandma was really gone.
A lot has changed since then. I’ve met new people, embraced new experiences, challenged my beliefs, and pushed myself to grow. I’ve worked hard to become the person I’ve always wanted to be—the person I believe my grandma would be proud of. Knowing how kind she was, she would probably say she’s already proud of me if she were here. But I’m sure I’m still far from being that person.
I once said this blog would be a representation of my life—a collection of creative thoughts, writing, and work. But, in truth, it has become a space where I grieve, and for that, I apologize.
