Dystopia

Living in the Uncertainty How hard is it to understand that you can be here one day and gone the next? I think about this more than I ever imagined I would. Life sometimes feels like being on a ride that we willingly climb onto, laughing, planning, making promises, believing we know what the next turn will look like. We settle into the rhythm of our lives, convinced there will be another day, another birthday, another conversation, another hug. And then, suddenly, the ride can change. There is no warning. No sign telling us when the ride will slow down or when it might crash. We simply don't know how long we have. Since losing Sana, I think I experience the world differently. What once seemed like ordinary routines can sometimes feel strangely fragile. A goodbye doesn't always feel like just a goodbye. A hug can carry a weight it never carried before. A simple "I'll see you tomorrow" can feel like something we should never take for granted. Sometimes I feel as though I am living in a dystopia—not because the world has suddenly become unrecognizable, but because my understanding of it has changed. I have seen how quickly an ordinary life can become a before and after. Perhaps that is one of the hardest lessons grief teaches us: **we are not promised the length of the journey.** We are only given the ride. And maybe the answer isn't to live in fear of the crash. Maybe it is to become more present while we are still on the ride—to love more openly, hold people a little longer, say the things we keep postponing, and notice the ordinary moments that we once assumed would always be there. Sana's life was far too short. But she lived with a generosity of spirit that reminds me that the measure of a life isn't always its length. Sometimes it is the love we leave behind. And perhaps that is what I am still learning: how to live in a world where I know the ride can end without warning—and still find the courage to get back on it.