What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
Spend more time with the people you love, especially your grandparents and parents. You never know how much time you have left to make memories with them. Don’t take the people you love or the good days for granted. One day, you’ll find yourself searching for that familiar voice, that laugh, and the advice that came from years of experience, and it won’t be there anymore.
And lastly life is too short to leave important words unsaid.
There will be a death in your life that stuns you. You will lose someone, and in that loss, you will feel as though you have lost everything that once made sense. Your future will crack open, every piece of it reshaped because someone you envisioned as such a large part of it is suddenly no longer there. You will think you know what grief is until the grief is yours, until it is a grief so personal that it changes the trajectory of your entire life. And it is in your lowest moments that you start seeing people for who they really are, when you are vulnerable, when you are weak, when you have nothing left to give. A big part of me has chosen distance. I hate social gatherings. I have no interest in being surrounded by people just for the sake of being surrounded. I would rather be with the few people who are genuinely close to me, somewhere quiet, somewhere there is nobody else. I value friends who do not judge me when I am upset, people who make an effort, who show up, and who remind me through their actions that I matter, especially on the days when I question it myself. Grief has made me more selective, not bitter. I simply have less interest in superficial connections and more appreciation for the people who are real, consistent, and present.
How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?
Growing up has a way of quietly reshaping you. Not all at once, not with a single lesson, but through moments that leave a mark. Life doesn’t just age you—it matures you. It teaches you things you never asked to learn, but somehow needed to know.
One of the biggest shifts comes when you realize that adulthood isn’t about independence in the way we once imagined. It’s about responsibility—for your choices, your emotions, your healing. You start to understand that no one is coming to save you. That realization alone changes how you move through the world.
Losing a parent accelerates that understanding in a way nothing else can. Losing my father changed everything. When you lose someone who had your back unconditionally, someone who was a safety net simply by existing, the world suddenly feels sharper. Colder. You become acutely aware that it’s you, by yourself, standing against whatever life throws your way.
That kind of loss makes you vulnerable. It cracks you open. But it also gives you a strength you didn’t know you had. You learn how to deal with people on their level. You stop shrinking yourself. You stop explaining your boundaries. You learn when to be soft and when to stand firm—because survival has taught you discernment.
Time has also unmasked people. I’ve seen masks slip. I’ve seen intentions reveal themselves when things got uncomfortable or inconvenient. And because of that, my circle has become smaller—but infinitely more meaningful. I don’t need many people. I need real ones.
The people I keep close are the ones I trust. The ones who show up without needing to be asked. The ones who have my back, not just when it’s easy, but when it actually matters. These relationships are built on honesty, not performance.
I can’t be half-hearted friends anymore. I can’t pretend, dilute myself, or play a role just to keep the peace. I want to be around people who let me be fully, unapologetically myself—flaws, strength, softness, and all. Anything less feels like a betrayal of the life experiences that shaped me.
Significant life events don’t just change your perspective—they refine it. They strip away what’s unnecessary and leave you with what’s real. And while that process can be painful, it’s also freeing. Because in the end, you stop living for appearances and start living with intention.
And that, more than anything, is what growing up truly means.
Aba, you loved me deeply. So deeply that my expectations of life grew—not out of entitlement, but belief. Belief that I mattered. That I could take up space. That love could be steady.
Your love was never indulgent. Alongside warmth, there was guidance. You corrected me when I needed humility, grounded me when pride crept in, and showed me that care and discipline could coexist.
Through you, I learned what it meant to belong—not because I performed well or earned approval, but because I was yours. That belonging was quiet and certain. Something I carried without even thinking about it.
When you were alive, the world felt navigable. When you were gone, it didn’t. Life continued, indifferent to the emptiness left behind. It showed me how easily what is precious can be overlooked, misunderstood, or lost, and forced me to build resilience I never knew I had.
I am healing. I seem fine and put together—I take care of myself, I move through the world as though I have adjusted. But when no one is around, there are moments of emptiness, moments when I feel as though I might not matter at all. That feeling doesn’t mean I am failing to heal. It is the echo of having been loved in a way that made my existence unquestionable. Losing you did not just take a father from my life; it took the certainty of being someone’s first choice. And now, quietly and imperfectly, I am learning how to live in a world that does not pause for that kind of grief.
You may be gone, Aba, but the imprint of your love remains. I am leaving a digital footprint for my beloved father. In life, you were loved dearly, and in death, you are loved still.
