There’s a saying that people leave, but memories stay. Over the past few years, I’ve learned just how true that is. Living in Tromsø, Norway, while pursuing my PhD, I often feel like everything that matters most is slipping away, just out of reach.

Last year, while I was on a research stay in Wyoming, my maternal grandmother passed away after a long illness. I wasn’t there to say goodbye, to hold her hand one last time, and that loss weighed on me in a way I hadn’t expected. I remember checking my phone for updates, the world moving around me as usual while my heart carried the heaviness of grief.

This year, my grandfather passed away. He had always been a pillar of strength in my life, teaching me the importance of knowledge, hard work, and resilience. Losing him was like losing a part of myself, and once again, I was too far away to be there in his final moments. The regret of missing those goodbyes stays with me, but their legacy does too. They shaped who I am, and in many ways, their influence guides me forward.

Amid these losses, I experienced another heartbreak I didn’t anticipate. We had been planning for a future, waiting for the day when everything would align once she moved to Europe for her studies. I believed the distance was just a temporary hurdle, but life had other plans. Things didn’t turn out the way I had hoped, and we eventually parted ways.

It’s difficult to describe how much it affected me. After years of keeping my emotions guarded, I had opened up again, and for a while, it felt like everything was right. Now, I’m left with memories—of waiting for her messages, of imagining the life we could have had together. Those memories linger quietly, tucked away in the corners of my mind. But despite it all, I’m genuinely happy for her. I’ve watched her grow into a more confident and resilient person, and seeing her thrive in Europe brings me a quiet sense of joy, even though our paths have diverged.

People leave, and no matter how much you try to protect yourself from getting too close, you still do. You let them in, build a world around them, and when they’re gone, that world collapses. But the memories remain, sometimes beautiful, sometimes bittersweet. Even now, when I walk through the quiet streets of Tromsø or watch the Northern Lights dance across the sky, those memories resurface—of my grandparents who shaped so much of who I am, and of a relationship I thought would last.

But through all of this, I’ve realized that the people who leave don’t truly disappear. They live on in the lessons they taught us, in the love we shared, and in the person we continue to become. It’s not easy to keep moving forward when the past tugs at you, but I’m learning that those memories don’t hold me back—they push me forward. They remind me that I’ve loved deeply, and I’ve lived fully.

So, I’m holding onto that. Yes, people leave, but they leave behind something invaluable: the strength to carry on, the wisdom to grow, and the courage to love again.

"We do not remember days, we remember moments" — Cesare Pavese