For 奶奶

 My grandmother passed away on January 2nd, 2026, at 10:30 AM local time in China. She passed away peacefully in the hospital in Yantai with my dad, her son, and my mother by her side. 

I’m not sure if I can ever accurately conceptualize the way grief feels, how it is an inevitable experience for every sentient human, and how it will never get any easier. It can hit you immediately, the way your stomach drops as soon as the roller coaster sails over the crest of the hill, the way a huge wave can crash over you as you stand in the ocean, the cold saltiness a jolt to your system, almost like an electroshock to your torso that has been spent basking in the hot summer sun. It can creep in like a shadow, a sunset offering you the perfect distraction from the cool night that lurks in, and almost too late, you notice the goosebumps all along the length of your arms. I do not know how to reckon with grief, how to dampen it, how to accommodate its staggering presence in my life. Whether it is grief from heartbreak, from the loss of a friendship, or from death, it is impossible to ignore. It mutates the same way a common cold does; no matter how many times you endure it, it will always have the ability come back to haunt you. 

I received the news on January 2nd,  8:30 AM EST in Boston, a text from my mom in the family groupchat. It was so weird, then, descending into the T station knowing my parents were on the other side of the world, most likely already out of the hospital. How weird it was, knowing that my grandmother passed away on January 2nd in China while it was still January 1st in Boston. At first, I was glad that she had made it to the new year, at least. Then, a distorted hope, this fleeting thought that she had passed away on the 2nd at ten in the morning, but it was not ten AM here yet, not in Boston, so I still had two hours left with her. Two hours. That’s all I wanted. For two hours, part of me clung onto this falsity that she had not passed, not yet, not for me. 

And then the clock struck 10:30 AM. 

Amongst this grief, there is also guilt that consumes me. Guilt because I have only seen my grandmother less than ten times in my whole life. If these are the words that I think of when I think of her, words that don’t do her any justice, words that describe someone I have only encountered seven or eight times, I wonder how much I would have to say if I had been with her, known her, my whole life. Guilt because my best friend asked me what my grandmother’s name was, and I couldn’t even reply because I had only known her as 奶奶 (grandmother in Chinese) my whole life. Guilt because I never knew how to speak with her when we did visit, guilt because my apathy when it came to learning Chinese cost me the conversations I could have had with her. 

Guilt because she spent the latter half of her life across the world from her only son, from her daughter-in-law, from her granddaughters, guilt because my existence is partly why we were not able to have a relationship that I have always grown up envying in others. Guilt because my parents sacrificed their young adulthood to move to a new country, a country that did not speak their language, a country that harbored prejudices against their people, a country that has not yet reconciled with their biases against us. Guilt because my parents risked all of what they knew, left their whole lives behind, said goodbye to their parents and siblings, knowing that it would most likely be years between every visit, and it would mean milestones missed and memories unshared. 

There is so much guilt interwoven in this grief. When we heard the news, the unexpected fall, the brain bleed, the coma, the denial of surgery that would most likely cause more trauma than good, the frantic booking of a $1,000 one-way ticket to China, the unconfirmed cancellations of the anniversary trip my parents had to miss out on, amid all the chaos, amid the processing of what was to come, there was guilt. You can’t change the outcome, but you can always wonder what would have happened if things had been different. What would have happened if my dad were nearby to his mother at this time? Would there be a slip in the bathroom at night? Would there even be a nursing home? Would there still be familial drama, uncles who were fighting over property that did not belong to them? I can wonder all I want, but it makes no difference. If pretenses were different, there would not be me. And because I am here, things are all that they are. 

When you think of a grandmother, many words come to mind. Amongst them: warm, caring, nurturing, kind. 奶奶 was all of the above, and even more so than that. She was a patient soul, unfailingly compassionate to those around her, whether you were family or not. She was a brilliant woman, a tenacious individual, insistent with her strength, both physically and emotionally. I remember she would walk every morning from her apartment to the local university, where her husband used to teach, for breakfast, traversing this same route every day until she physically could not make the walk anymore. Her determination was fierce, steadfast in everything she did, from caring for her late husband, my grandfather, to the life she later lived in the nursing home. 

Above all else, she was gentle. She was slow to anger, and in a family of hot-headed tempers, she was always a calm and forgiving presence. I have always wondered where my sister’s composed and patient temperament came from. The rest of us, my parents and I, are quick to emotion, quick to agitation and exasperation. When I saw 奶奶, it immediately became clear that my sister took after her. It was difficult not to adore 奶奶, even as an outsider. Her initial refusal to live in a nursing home quickly morphed into something beautiful. It became another life for her, a life filled with new friends, new laughter, and new memories. When visiting her last year, our conversations would be interrupted so often because people were constantly stopping by her room to say hi, wondering why she missed the afternoon mahjong game. 奶奶 was an incredibly easy person to love. How lucky were we? Whether we are a son, a brother, a granddaughter, or an old or new friend to her, how lucky I am to have known and loved a beautiful person like 奶奶. 

I wear my last name like a badge of honor. It has come from a woman of valor, of high morals and intelligence. She has passed down a legacy of excellence, gentleness, and understanding. So long as I live, there will be no one who will not know the mark she has left on my family and my life.