You must be so happy now (rip grandma)

December 30th. It is a day just as significant as any other, yet the air feels different. Because we are so close to the year’s end—which is merely a number, a finish line created by Egyptians, a numerical construct that has somehow morphed into a social mandate to look back on this year. We are expected to curate a highlight reel: the accomplishments, the proud moments, the resolutions we crushed.

But today, I wanted to write a note to everyone who might be navigating a silent void this holiday season. To those feeling a little diluted, a little less solid, fighting an exhaustion that makes it impossible to match the relentless, electric pace of the city.

On paper, my 2025 was a great year. I had a magical wedding in Bali. I bought my first house with my partner (in other words, yay, I have a debt). To the outside world, these are the markers of "moving forward."

"You must be so happy now."

Words I have heard often this year. There is no ill intention from anybody, but they spark a grappling feeling of resentment and embarrassment that my happiness should be defined by these two things that happened to my life.

And in a way, I was happy. I did have a great year. Kind of. But these milestones are just the residue of accumulated effort colliding with luck that happened to fall onto me this year.

At the same time, as I celebrated those moments, I had a life going on underneath where I felt pain, the jagged difficulties of growing up, the fragile complexities of adult friendships, and the heavy dynamics of death and life. Yet, all of this coincided with an ongoing, deep appreciation for the people around me and the love I receive. That complexity is where I felt the most alive. And that is what I want to give myself a pat on the back for today, December 30th.

It started a few days after my wedding. I was notified of a passing—someone I saw every day for the past few years. It was a sudden illness, completely out of the blue. I remember seeing her from afar just before my wedding break. I had always admired her; she was thriving in her 40s—strong, confident, artistic. I was tempted to walk up and talk to her, but the constellations just didn't align, and I didn't.

I wonder sometimes if I lacked a sense of urgency. Or maybe, if I had approached her, the interaction would have been mundane, or she might have been moody, and I would be left with a different mix of emotions at the funeral. But the facts remain: I didn’t. And that was the last time I saw her.

Then, two weeks after moving into our new house, I heard of another passing. A young wife, a mother of two. This wasn't illness. It was the act of an evil individual who had the audacity to take a life. I had spoken to her just days before—she was the same smiley ball of energy she always was. Now, I find myself thinking about her children growing up without a mom, and the fragility of it all.

And then came the long goodbye.

A month into living in our new home, both my grandfather and grandmother fell severely ill. My weekends became a rotation of hospital visits, watching them slowly let go of life physically. Interestingly, I feel like their souls had been waiting for this for a long time—perhaps ever since my father passed away when I was 14. It was as if their bodies were finally catching up to where their hearts had been for years.

My grandmother passed away in late November.

She was a charismatic, gentle soul—a beautiful paradox. She was extremely shy, yet she secretly loved being the center of the party. She loved all of us dearly, but she held a special place for my dad, and he loved her right back.

I grapple with the "what ifs." Should I have had my wedding in Tokyo, just for their sake? Would that picture of me in a wedding dress, seeing it with her own eyes, have helped her through those last days?

After my dad died, my grandparents seemed to refuse happiness. They decided not to move forward. But I did. I chose to move forward. That is why I had my wedding in Bali (selfishly)—because it was what I wanted. After the wedding, I went to show them the video. I explained why we played Eric Clapton—Dad’s favorite artist—for the first dance. I told them how we felt like Dad was there with us in the tropical air.

I thought seeing our smiles through that screen would be enough. But… I felt like it didn't quite reach them. Maybe I misread the signals. Or maybe the grief was just too thick to penetrate.

So, this post isn't about the wins.

This one is for all the kindness that goes unnoticed but unspoken. For the twisted correlation of emotions that mess up our relationships. For the miscommunications where our feelings get lost in translation because our brains can’t seem to process the words coming from our hearts.

It is for the idea that you want to be a certain type of person, but you failed again. It is for that kindness that goes unnoticed, and a small bit of you regrets even trying to be nice, followed immediately by a disgust towards yourself for even thinking that.

It is not the accomplishments that make us human. It is what happens behind the scenes. It is the silent battles we fight internally that no one else would ever be jealous of.

To close this journal, I wanted to share a few of my favorite characters who have portrayed this beautiful sense of fragility and complexity that life carries. They remind me that we are all just trying to navigate our own scenes.

Laurie (Timothée Chalamet) in Little Women: It is the devastating reality of confessing to the love of your life and getting rejected.

Frances (Greta Gerwig) in Frances Ha: It’s that best friend who moved on with their life, maybe with a partner but you will forever feel a connection with them and care for them and love them. Not because you’re possessive but because its pure love.

Benji (Kieran Culkin) and David (Jesse Eisenberg) in Real Pain: It is that friend who has hurt you many times, yet you love them. You selfishly care and want to heal them, even though they never asked for it.

Lastly, let me finish this off with a beautiful poem from the movie Paterson.

“Water falls. Water falls from bright air. It falls like hair, falling across a young girl's shoulders. Water falls making pools in the asphalt, dirty mirrors with clouds and buildings inside.It falls on the roof of my house.It falls on my mother and on my hair.Most people call it rain.”