Tides of Grief

From as early as I can remember, my grandfather and I shared a bond that felt like magic. He was my safe haven, my steady hand, and the greatest source of joy in my youth. Every Wednesday afternoon, he’d be there to pick me up from primary school, ready to whisk me away to dance class. On the weekends I slept over, he and my grandmother would fill the hours with laughter and love, taking me to the park, indulging me with ice cream sundaes at Friendly’s, or simply letting me be a kid under their watchful, gentle care. My fondest memories were made by his side.

During my teenage years, he became my biggest swim fan. He would sit through my day-long swim meets, enduring hours in the bleachers next to my mom, just to cheer for the few minutes I was in the water. When I was fifteen, I participated in Swim Across America, a swimathon that began in the open ocean. I’ll never forget how he waited for me on the shore, his face beaming with pride as I emerged from the water. His love was a constant current that carried me through every moment.

His presence was like sunlight—warm, unwavering, and pure. He had the demeanor of a big teddy bear, with an endless capacity for kindness. Some of my most cherished memories are of us walking silently around his pond, the stillness between us feeling as significant as any words. Our relationship was unique, sacred, unparalleled. He made me feel like the most important girl in the world.

A few months after my 18th birthday, everything changed. He fell ill, and within a week, doctors discovered cancer had spread throughout his body. At 80 years old, frail and weak, treatment was not an option. We brought him home so he could spend his final days surrounded by the people who loved him most. Those last weeks with him were heartbreaking yet extraordinary. My family came together, united in love, to care for him as he transitioned from this world to the next.

When he passed, I was left hollow—numb in ways I couldn’t understand. I threw myself into unhealthy coping mechanisms, trying desperately to feel something, anything. A few months later, I left for college, where I sought escape in late nights and socializing. At the time, I thought I was just having a good time, but in hindsight, it was grief wearing a different mask. I had lost the kindest, most inspiring man in my life, and I didn’t know how to navigate the world with the void he left behind.

At the mere age of 18, I had no framework for grief. Society had taught me that losing a grandparent should be expected, natural, and somehow less deserving of deep mourning. But my grief was profound, a raw pain that I did not know how to identify, so I ignored it. For the next four years, I buried it beneath layers of fleeting fun and toxic relationships, convincing myself I was fine while my heart quietly ached.

It wasn’t until I moved across the country, nearly three thousand miles from home, that the weight of it all finally surfaced. In my small studio apartment overlooking the Marina in San Francisco, I shattered completely. Every piece of me that I’d held together for so long fell apart. It took all those miles and years to create the space I needed to grieve—to finally sit with myself and the pain I had been avoiding.

I am endlessly grateful that my move to San Francisco was for art school. Carrie Fisher once said, “Take your broken heart, make it into art”. That’s exactly what I did. I photographed, I painted, I played in the darkroom, and I explored Northern California with my camera as my companion. Art became the vehicle through which I began to heal, to move the grief through me. It allowed me to let go of the anger I felt toward the world and the resentment of losing someone so vital to my being. Through creation, I began to feel again.

In my second year in San Francisco, I impulsively signed up for a triathlon. With nearly two decades of swimming experience, I assumed I could wing the swim portion without training. My mom flew in from the East Coast to support me, bringing along my old wetsuit—the same one I had worn when my grandfather cheered me on at Swim Across America. As I plunged into the chilly bay, panic set in. I felt bodies clawing at my feet, dragging me under. Fear surged through me—I’m going to drown, I thought. Flipping onto my back to catch my breath, I suddenly saw a flock of birds soaring above me. In that moment, I felt him. His presence washed over me like a tide, calming me, grounding me. It was the first time since his passing that I felt him so clearly, and it gave me the strength to finish the race. From that day forward, I began to notice him in birds, each one a quiet reminder that he was still with me.

Time passed, and his memory stayed with me like a warm undercurrent. I moved back to New York City, grew in my career, built a new life, and fell in love. The love I found reminded me of him, with the belief this was also unconditional, steady, and authentic. But when that relationship ended, the grief of losing my grandfather returned, as sharp and painful as it had been years before. The loss of my partner unearthed the sorrow I had tucked away, reminding me of the feelings that accompanied with loosing my grandfather—my beloved Pop-Pop.

That’s when I discovered yoga and a deeper connection with meditation. These practices, this way of living, became my lifeline, much like art had been years before. Through yoga, I found a way to mend my heart, to process the layers of grief that ebbed and flowed within me.

Grief is inevitable, a thread woven through every life. It comes in waves, sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce enough to pull you under. Losing someone so vital to your world shifts your axis, leaving you forever changed. But I know, deep in my soul, that Pop-Pop would want me to keep moving forward. He would want me to fight against the current, to find the practices and passions that keep me afloat and allow me to heal.

This strange, unpredictable journey of loss grants us lessons we never expect. It teaches us empathy, strengthens our capacity for connection, and shows us how to rise after being broken. Even after almost 14 years have passed, I don’t know if or when it will resurface, but I am certain of this: the ones we lose never truly leave us. They linger in the birds, in the sunlight streaming through the window, in the quiet moments when we feel their presence. And they want us to keep going—to keep swimming, to keep creating, to keep living.