To My Younger Self

This old photo from my hometown of Tianjin, China, shows my grandpa and me standing in front of our old apartment complex—hand in hand. It was taken in the late winter of 2010, when I was almost three years old. Whiteness, silence, and gentleness envelop the world around us, and in that instant, I felt secure with him next to me. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this would become one of my most treasured childhood memories—the first time I ever experienced snow, or at least the first time I remember doing so.

My grandpa was the man who raised me. My dad was in my life, of course, but he was frequently away for his job, working hard to provide for the family. Gramps would take me to the park, play hide and seek with me, and make sure I finished my food when my exasperated mother had long given up.

“You gotta finish your rice, or you’ll make the rice farmers cry!”

He’d yell that while chasing me around the kitchen with my unfinished bowl. 

“They pick each grain by hand with such care! Don’t let their hard work go to waste.”

The guilt trip would always work. 

He knew a thing or two about hard work and hardship. He grew up during the famines that accompanied the Cultural Revolution in China. For him and his siblings, those grains of rice made the difference between going to bed hungry. He clawed his way up, tooth and nail, to make sure my mom and uncle had a better life. My mom in turn did the same for me.

I didn’t understand those things back then. My grandpa’s background. How poor he was growing up. How happy he was to see the life I was able to live thanks to his and my parents’ efforts. 

When I see this photo, I see the messages he always tried to impart to me. I see the lessons hidden in the rich tales he would weave about his family’s past, customs, and life—one so drastically different from mine. I remember the joy and warmth he brought into the house every year on Lunar New Year, his favourite holiday. Mine too, thanks to him. I still see the traditional hanging lanterns he’d put up.

Grandpa died last year. The smiling man in that photo is gone, and with him my chance to ask all the questions I never thought to ask before. How did he meet Grandma? What were mom and uncle like as kids? What was it like to survive poverty?

 And deeper, more personal questions.

Did he have any regrets?

If I could go back in time, I’d tell myself to ask. To spend more time with Grandpa while I could. To not take his presence in my life for granted. I’d tell myself that there’d be plenty of time to hang with friends or do other mundane high school stuff. 

But I can’t ask. It’s one of the strangest part of being human. You take these kinds of things for granted. The last time I spoke to Grandpa he had wished me a happy Lunar New Year. Now I’ll never get to celebrate one with him again. A common human emotion is the tendency to take other people for granted until they're no longer around. When time runs out, we are left with that lingering sensation of "what if?" despite our frequent assumptions that more time will be available—more time to ask questions, hear stories, and share a meal.

Even though it's deeply personal, loss affects more than just the person experiencing it. Everyone in my family, who shared in my grandpa's life and the traditions he established, feels the loss when he passes away. Our Lunar New Year celebrations will forever be marred by his absence. But this is also how loss affects communities: the shared experiences, rituals, and stories that we pass down from one generation to the next. Those bonds may get a bit frayed when someone passes away, but they teach us to treasure what we have.

When I hang my lantern up this year, I’ll be thinking of him. I’ll remember the times we had and everything that remained unsaid. I’ll cherish the connections I still have, and never take them for granted again. The loss of someone we love is in many respects a universal thread that ties us all together. It helps us to see how the legacies of those we have lost still shape our celebrations, memories, and connections in both family and community.