Chinmayee Manjunath

Every December, I am immersed in the memory of my father, more than I usually am. The moment he died, I did not think I would be able to make it seven minutes without him. And yet, the human spirit is resilient, even if we do not wish to be. Days turn into nights into weeks and months and years. Laughter follows tears. In the years since he has passed, I have come to learn more lessons than I ever had. Friendships have been built and broken. People have shown extraordinary kindnesses to me, and my family. My definition of family has been revisited and expanded.

Two years, we went to Goa, my husband and I. It was the first December in seven years that I’ve allowed myself to cleave away from the mourning. Loss is my constant companion but I had convinced myself that I had to actively mourn every year, as the dreaded date came around. I would think of things to do to remember him, or how to spend that day in particular. It was exhausting and, especially last year, it felt inauthentic. Because I miss him every day and I always will. That will never change. I realised I don’t have to eat a certain meal or do a certain thing or be a certain place to remember him by. I remember him every day, in so many ways.

The thing that no-one tells you about grief and loss is that they become a part of you. You can either learn to get comfortable with them or you can continue to treat them as unwelcome guests. I know today – and this is not an easy thing to understand or articulate – that had my father not passed away at the point in my life that he did, I would never have had the career I have now. Or, at least, I would not be as fearless about it as I am now. Losing him made me stand up for myself – he was always my biggest, loudest champion and I had to find that strident support inside of myself. I had to do for myself what he did for me all my life.

At some point on the beach that time in Goa, I was floating around in warm salty water. It was a bright but not sunny day. My friend and her little baby were playing nearby. My husband was reading his book. I could close my eyes and time travel back a decade or two and find myself in iterations of that moment – on the beach somewhere in the world, surrounded by loved ones and babies, with good food and cold drinks on hand. And it reminded me that somehow, in the last seven years, everything I loved about my father has only amplified in my life through people and experiences – love, friendship, hard work, laughter, generosity, and so on.

What we love about the people we lose never dies. If we’re patient enough with ourselves and with life, we can find ways to celebrate them every day.

The title of this post is a line from a movie that I love and that my father loved, too – As Good As It Gets.