Six months ago, I came home just to feel what Nande had been feeling all those years. Not a trip planned months ahead. Not coming home loaded with souvenirs or a packed schedule. Just coming home. Sitting. Walking through the same rooms. And finally feeling — really feeling — the weight of what she must have carried, in silence, for so long.
She had been surrounded by her children and grandchildren, but had no one to talk to. No one to exchange thoughts with. No one to just chat about small, trivial things — about the neighbor who just bought a motorcycle, about chili prices going up again, about last night's dream that was strange and meant nothing.
She passed a year and a half ago. But it was only when I came home six months ago that I truly began to understand her.
I noticed the quiet slowly. The house was still busy, but everyone was caught up in their own world — as they always had been. Some scrolling through their phones, some tending to their kids, some worn out from work and needing quiet. And Nande had been there, right in the middle of all of it, like she was sitting behind glass. Present but unreachable.
It wasn't that the others didn't love her. Don't misread this. The love was there, it just took different shapes. But in the thick of daily busyness, disconnecting when you're finally home is one of the most human forms of rest there is. When you've spent all day interacting with people — smiling, being patient, talking constantly — choosing to talk more at home simply isn't an option you have left. That energy has its limits.
The problem was, Nande wasn't part of "many people" to them. Nande was home. And home is what we most often forget to tend to.
When I went for Umrah a while back, there had been so many things I wanted to share. The atmosphere of Masjidil Haram just before fajr that sent chills down your spine. People from every corner of the world, shoulder to shoulder in tawaf, and somehow you feel small but not alone. The way street vendors in Mecca would holler but still manage to be warm about it.
But no one was interested in asking. Not because they were unkind. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they already had their own things weighing on them. Maybe stories about a spiritual journey are hard to receive when you haven't been there yourself.
Only Nande had wanted to hear it. Only Nande leaned forward when I started talking, her eyes focused, occasionally chiming in — "Then what? What happened next?"
And on the night I came home six months ago — only two passengers in the travel car I boarded, the roads quiet, city lights growing sparse — I wanted to share something. But the only person I wanted to tell was her. Only Nande who I knew would have been genuinely interested, even for something that small. An unremarkable ride. Two passengers. An empty road. But in her hands, a story like that could turn into a warm, real conversation.
I had always been just as eager listening to her stories too — even when she circled back to the same things again and again. About Dad. About the old days. About things I'd long memorized by heart but still listened to, because I knew: it was never really about the story. What mattered was that someone was willing to sit and hear you out.
No wonder Islam compares time to a sword. The West calls it money. It's that precious — and that dangerous. Use it wrong, and it cuts you back.
We spend time on so many things. Work. Entertainment. Rest. But how much time did we actually set aside just to sit with someone, with no agenda other than the being-together itself?
What I always imagined coming home meant was simple: sitting side by side, talking about random things, not about work or money or plans that need to be executed. Just talking. Just being present. Turns out that had always been the rarest thing. And now it's gone.
Standing in that house six months ago, I finally understood. What Nande had felt wasn't just ordinary longing or loneliness. It was more specific than that. She often felt alone while being surrounded by people — and that's the hardest kind to name, let alone survive. Being lonely in the one place that's supposed to be the least lonely.
And now I understand, more deeply than I ever wanted to, why losing Dad had taken away half of her spirit. It wasn't just about losing a life partner — though that's heavy enough on its own. Dad wasn't just a partner. He was her first listener. Always ready, even for stories she'd told a hundred times. Someone who didn't need to be asked to sit and be present.
That loss wasn't just the loss of a person. It was the loss of a space to be heard. And not long after, she was gone too. And the house became quieter in a different way entirely.
Walking through that quiet six months ago, I had to sit with something uncomfortable. No one was coming to fill the emptiness I felt. Not because they didn't care — but because that was never anyone else's responsibility to begin with.
The void that Nande left, the particular ache of wanting to be heard the way only she could hear me — that's mine to carry. I can't hand it to someone else. I can't wait for the people around me to fix it without even knowing it's there. Only I can learn to hold it. Only I can decide what to do with the space she left behind.
And the people around me — the ones who were busy, who were tired, who didn't ask the right questions or listen long enough — they were never obligated to be what I needed. Expecting that from them wasn't fair. To them, or to me.
What I can do, and what feels honest, is leave a little room for disappointment. Not to dwell in it, not to let it fester — but to acknowledge it. To accept, gently, that not everything has to turn out the way I hoped. That people won't always show up the way I imagined. And that this isn't a betrayal. That's just being human — all of us, imperfect and limited, doing the best we can with what we have.
Holding that disappointment lightly is its own kind of grace.
I'm not writing this to blame anyone. I'm writing this because coming home six months ago taught me something I didn't expect: that grief isn't only about the person you lost. It's about learning to live in the quiet they left behind — and discovering, slowly and uncomfortably, that you are the only one who can learn to make peace with it. No one else is responsible for that. No one else can do it for you.
For Nande — who sat behind glass in a room full of people, and still always found room to listen. I'm sorry it took me this long to understand.
She had been surrounded by her children and grandchildren, but had no one to talk to. No one to exchange thoughts with. No one to just chat about small, trivial things — about the neighbor who just bought a motorcycle, about chili prices going up again, about last night's dream that was strange and meant nothing.
She passed a year and a half ago. But it was only when I came home six months ago that I truly began to understand her.
I noticed the quiet slowly. The house was still busy, but everyone was caught up in their own world — as they always had been. Some scrolling through their phones, some tending to their kids, some worn out from work and needing quiet. And Nande had been there, right in the middle of all of it, like she was sitting behind glass. Present but unreachable.
It wasn't that the others didn't love her. Don't misread this. The love was there, it just took different shapes. But in the thick of daily busyness, disconnecting when you're finally home is one of the most human forms of rest there is. When you've spent all day interacting with people — smiling, being patient, talking constantly — choosing to talk more at home simply isn't an option you have left. That energy has its limits.
The problem was, Nande wasn't part of "many people" to them. Nande was home. And home is what we most often forget to tend to.
When I went for Umrah a while back, there had been so many things I wanted to share. The atmosphere of Masjidil Haram just before fajr that sent chills down your spine. People from every corner of the world, shoulder to shoulder in tawaf, and somehow you feel small but not alone. The way street vendors in Mecca would holler but still manage to be warm about it.
But no one was interested in asking. Not because they were unkind. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they already had their own things weighing on them. Maybe stories about a spiritual journey are hard to receive when you haven't been there yourself.
Only Nande had wanted to hear it. Only Nande leaned forward when I started talking, her eyes focused, occasionally chiming in — "Then what? What happened next?"
And on the night I came home six months ago — only two passengers in the travel car I boarded, the roads quiet, city lights growing sparse — I wanted to share something. But the only person I wanted to tell was her. Only Nande who I knew would have been genuinely interested, even for something that small. An unremarkable ride. Two passengers. An empty road. But in her hands, a story like that could turn into a warm, real conversation.
I had always been just as eager listening to her stories too — even when she circled back to the same things again and again. About Dad. About the old days. About things I'd long memorized by heart but still listened to, because I knew: it was never really about the story. What mattered was that someone was willing to sit and hear you out.
No wonder Islam compares time to a sword. The West calls it money. It's that precious — and that dangerous. Use it wrong, and it cuts you back.
We spend time on so many things. Work. Entertainment. Rest. But how much time did we actually set aside just to sit with someone, with no agenda other than the being-together itself?
What I always imagined coming home meant was simple: sitting side by side, talking about random things, not about work or money or plans that need to be executed. Just talking. Just being present. Turns out that had always been the rarest thing. And now it's gone.
Standing in that house six months ago, I finally understood. What Nande had felt wasn't just ordinary longing or loneliness. It was more specific than that. She often felt alone while being surrounded by people — and that's the hardest kind to name, let alone survive. Being lonely in the one place that's supposed to be the least lonely.
And now I understand, more deeply than I ever wanted to, why losing Dad had taken away half of her spirit. It wasn't just about losing a life partner — though that's heavy enough on its own. Dad wasn't just a partner. He was her first listener. Always ready, even for stories she'd told a hundred times. Someone who didn't need to be asked to sit and be present.
That loss wasn't just the loss of a person. It was the loss of a space to be heard. And not long after, she was gone too. And the house became quieter in a different way entirely.
Walking through that quiet six months ago, I had to sit with something uncomfortable. No one was coming to fill the emptiness I felt. Not because they didn't care — but because that was never anyone else's responsibility to begin with.
The void that Nande left, the particular ache of wanting to be heard the way only she could hear me — that's mine to carry. I can't hand it to someone else. I can't wait for the people around me to fix it without even knowing it's there. Only I can learn to hold it. Only I can decide what to do with the space she left behind.
And the people around me — the ones who were busy, who were tired, who didn't ask the right questions or listen long enough — they were never obligated to be what I needed. Expecting that from them wasn't fair. To them, or to me.
What I can do, and what feels honest, is leave a little room for disappointment. Not to dwell in it, not to let it fester — but to acknowledge it. To accept, gently, that not everything has to turn out the way I hoped. That people won't always show up the way I imagined. And that this isn't a betrayal. That's just being human — all of us, imperfect and limited, doing the best we can with what we have.
Holding that disappointment lightly is its own kind of grace.
I'm not writing this to blame anyone. I'm writing this because coming home six months ago taught me something I didn't expect: that grief isn't only about the person you lost. It's about learning to live in the quiet they left behind — and discovering, slowly and uncomfortably, that you are the only one who can learn to make peace with it. No one else is responsible for that. No one else can do it for you.
For Nande — who sat behind glass in a room full of people, and still always found room to listen. I'm sorry it took me this long to understand.
Write a comment
Post a Comment