The Bravest Thing

It’s been a couple of weeks since I last wrote. I’ve been busy—sending off a friend from school, welcoming Louis for a short visit, and maybe the biggest reason of all: my grandma passed away.

I’ve been thinking a lot since.

I found out last Wednesday, just as I was about to leave the house for class. Thirty minutes earlier, I had called my mom, who was with my grandma in the hospital. She was crying. She said my grandma had just recovered from a scare and was sleeping now. “Call her,” my mom said. “Say ‘lao lao.’ Louder.”

I called out louder. Again and again. But my grandma didn’t wake up. I told my mom maybe we should let her rest.

Then my dad took the phone and stepped out of the room to talk to me. I asked, “Do I need to come home now?”
He said, “No. We don’t want you to change your flight.” Then he hung up. A doctor was going in.

I finished getting ready, opened the family group chat—and saw a photo. A black-and-white portrait of my grandma, set in the middle of a traditional post-mortem altar, candles lit around her.

I froze. I stared at the photo, unable to believe it. Why? Why is this photo here already?

I called my mom again. She was sobbing. They were on their way to the funeral home.

The rest of the day is a blur. I cried hard before going to class. That night, I drank more than I should have—even with work calls to attend. I wanted to remember my grandma forever, but that day I was afraid to think about her at all. Every memory felt like a knife.

Summer vacations at her house with my cousins. The seafood noodle soup I hated as a kid but crave now. The drawing lessons we shared. The birthdays she celebrated for me. The tears she shed each time I visited home in recent years.

She always said, “I know it must be so hard for you out there alone, my poor Lin. But you’re so brave.”

And I would cry too. It is hard—being in a foreign country alone for a decade, let alone starting a business alone, too.

She was the first person to support my decision to leave my university in Beijing and apply to study in the U.S. She convinced my grandpa and my parents. She stood up for me. I didn’t realize then how life-changing that decision would be. It felt like just another day—but it was a day I stood at a crossroads, and she stood beside me.

That’s the hard truth of being an immigrant: you may not be there for your family’s most important moments—even death. I didn’t want to face that truth before, but it’s becoming more real with time. I’ve been trying to figure out my life… but in doing so, I’ve missed theirs.

——

After Louis left yesterday, I felt low. Really low.

I started thinking about life and death again—a question I often revisit.

A couple of years ago, one of Louis’s friends asked me, “What’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done?”
I hate being the one to give “philosophical” answers to casual questions. But I said what came to me:

“The bravest thing I’ve done is to keep living.”

A few weeks ago, I told a classmate I was passionate about life. But deep down, that was a lie. Or at least, it is right now.

On sunny days, I do love life—the flowers, the fresh air, the laughter.
On grey days, it’s chocolate and Korean dramas that keep me going.
On dark days—like now—it’s just pitch black.

The dark side of me doesn’t find life interesting.
The dark side of me has often thought, “What if I just stopped caring about living?”
And yet—I keep going.
And that, I think, is the most courageous thing many of us do.

For a lot of us, living isn’t passive. We have to actively choose it, every day. We have to go out and find reasons.

I don’t understand why ancient emperors once searched for immortality. I don’t understand why anyone envies the rich for being able to “buy more time.” I don’t even care about time sometimes.

When someone young dies, people say, “What a shame—they were so young.” But… what’s the shame, exactly?

Guy de Maupassant once wrote a short story called A Stroll (Promenade). An old man, having spent his life in the same dull job, content with his small world, takes a night walk and suddenly realizes the emptiness of his entire existence.

I think about that story a lot. I see myself in it.

I came across this Chinese comment the other day:

“诚然，能看清生活的本质，并继续热爱它，是罗曼·罗兰般的英雄主义。能坚持活下去，本身就是人类的赞美诗。”
“To clearly see the nature of life and still continue to love it—that is Roman Rolland-style heroism. To simply keep living is a hymn to humanity.”

Another comment said:

“你有没有觉得自己就像个精神分裂者，一边要压抑悲观情绪，一边要让自己看起来活泼大方。”
“Do you ever feel like a schizophrenic? Suppressing your darkest emotions while trying to appear cheerful and lovable to everyone else?”

Yes. I do.

I feel like that most days. Like I’m splitting into different selves.
Hiding. Performing. Choosing which pieces to show.
And on the days I’m too tired to hide—people disappear.

Today, I remembered No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai. I didn’t like it the first time I read it. I thought it was too twisted, too dark. But now I think—it might be brilliant.

——

Someone once asked me, “Why do you love Louis?”

There are so many reasons, and I’ve told him many. But there’s one I haven’t said before: He has light in his eyes.
He loves life. Deeply. Naturally. Purely.

I’m not the one passionate about life. He is.
And I love him for that.

Still—since I’ve chosen to stay alive—let me live boldly. Let me live brilliantly.

既然选择了活着，就活得痛快一点，精彩一点吧。