Humanity's Selfish Request

This post has been sitting in my drafts for a year now. I wrote it some time ago but didn’t have the heart to share it. It felt too raw, too heavy. Yet, the more I sit with these words, the more I realise they need to be shared—because life, in its own painful way, demands that we pause and reflect sometimes.

The last 12 months have probably been the hardest I’ve faced to date. Early in the year, my stepmother passed away. Then, just a few weeks ago, my grandfather left us as well. And as if that wasn’t enough, my grandfather’s closest friend passed away just a few days ago. It feels like death is constantly following me, and I can’t help but wonder if that makes me a little too heavy for some people. Forgive me if this post is deeper than usual—it’s just where I am right now.

One thing that has always struck me as strange is how, in the face of death, people—families, friends, even acquaintances—seem to put their differences aside, even if only for a few days. We can carry so much distance, so much hostility, so much unresolved tension in our relationships, yet when someone passes, we suddenly become united in grief, in reverence, in respect.

And don’t get me wrong, I understand why we do this. I respect the ritual, the space for mourning. But I can’t help but wish that, as a society, we didn’t need to wait for someone to die to understand how fleeting life really is. I wish we wouldn’t let our grievances take up so much space, because in the end, the things we once thought were so important—those petty misunderstandings, the old grudges—don’t matter nearly as much as we once made them out to be.

I wanted to dedicate this post to the widower of my grandfather’s dear friend.

In ethnic households, funerals and weddings tend to come with a lot of drama, as many of you probably know. It’s part of the culture, the theatrics, the emotions spilling out everywhere. So, I wasn’t exactly surprised by the heightened atmosphere at the funeral. But what did take me by surprise, what left me utterly in awe, was the strength of the woman standing by her husband’s side.

On the elderly man’s deathbed stood all of his immediate family members, each one shedding tears, knowing they were just hours away from losing their loved one. Yet, the person closest to him—his wife—showed no tears. She was the one who had fought her own heartbreak in silence, and now, as her husband lay dying, she held him in the calmest way possible. She wasn’t asking about what would happen to her once he was gone. No. She was comforting him, reassuring him that he was going to a better place. In her soft, steady voice, she gave him peace.

I felt so much admiration for her in that moment. I couldn’t help but think how many times I’ve seen women in that same position asking their dying husbands what would happen to them, what they would do without them. But not this woman. She was strong for him, not for herself.

At the time, I think many of us assumed that the widower would in the moment suffering the most. She was the one who had spent every moment of every day with him. We thought her pain would be unbearable, and it certainly was. But, as is often the case with death, the one we expect to break down holds it together in the most unexpected way.

After the funeral, as everyone returned to their lives, I realised something that hadn’t fully hit me before: she, the widow, was the one who would feel the absence most. Everyone else could go home and lose themselves in their day-to-day routines, but for her, life had just come to a standstill. He was her day-to-day. And yet, even in her grief, she remained the pillar for her children and grandchildren. She consoled them, reminding them that he was now at peace.

My heart ached for her. How do you live life when the person you spent the better part of 50 years with disappears? There were small signs of distress, but she didn’t allow herself to crumble. She stayed strong, not just for herself, but for all of them. And in that strength, I found a kind of courage I can only hope to have in my own life.

In this often selfish world, where we are so quick to focus on our own pain, I hope I can one day have a heart as big as hers. I hope I can face my own struggles with the same selflessness, the same grace, the same quiet dignity.

If anything, her example reminded me that love isn’t just about what we receive, but what we are willing to give—even in our darkest moments.

Nina Kay, x