Looking Back on Loss and What Death Taught Me

I did not plan to write this piece when my aunt first passed away in 2023. At the time it felt too raw, too immediate. But now in 2025, looking back, I realize how much that loss shaped the way I think about life, death, and the time we are given. I share this now not just for myself, but for anyone who has wrestled with grief and searched for meaning in the silence it leaves behind.

It was 2 a.m. when my aunt Sally passed away. I thought I would be okay. After all, family complications had created distance between us, and I convinced myself that distance meant less pain. But grief has a way of sneaking in. That night, sleep would not come. Instead, I remembered her laugh, her blonde hair in the mountain sun, and a childhood day spent floating together in a canoe in Sisters, Oregon, fishing for trout.

Those were the worry-free days.

As a child, much like most children, I feared death. The idea of closing my eyes and never opening them again left me frozen. But over time, as I matured into a full-grown adult, my perspective changed. I no longer see death as something to fear, but as a continuation, a chapter in a larger story. Perhaps there is a heaven. Perhaps there is not. I do not know, and I do not need to know. I believe wholeheartedly that some mysteries are better left unsolved.

Growing up in a Vietnamese household that followed Mahayana Buddhist traditions, we honored our ancestors on the anniversaries of their deaths. As a boy I did not understand why. Why should sorrow and grief be celebrated. With hindsight I now see it clearly. Those moments were never about death. They were about remembering, honoring, and carrying the light of those who came before us.

The world we live in tries to keep death hidden. Out of sight, out of mind, as if ignoring it makes it less real. But death is the one constant. It is as natural as birth. It is the end of one journey, and maybe the beginning of another.

Death should not hold us in fear. Instead it should call us to live with urgency, love without hesitation, and pursue our dreams without regret.

Since that night I have faced other losses. And… if I let their absence drown me, I would dishonor them. They cannot live anymore, but I can.
And that is reason enough to keep going.

When I reflect now, I see how Aunt Sally’s life shaped my own.
She introduced me to my grandmother, the brightest light in my world.
The experiences, wisdom, and laughter she gave me are priceless.
For that I will always be grateful.

Her memory is still alive in me. I can see us in that canoe on the mountain lake, the water shimmering under the sky, trout on the line, the vastness of the American Northwest stretching out around us. That image is where I keep her.

It is bittersweet, because my grandmother could not be told that her daughter had passed. Alzheimer’s had already taken her from us. But death is always a lonely truth. It is a journey we each must walk alone.

Even so, I carry Sally with me. Her life reminds me to live stronger, live longer, and keep chasing the dreams I hold for myself and for those I have lost.

Looking back from today, I can say this: death taught me how to live.