The People I Carry Forward

For the people who showed me what it means to stay.

There are people I love — and miss — who shaped me in ways that are hard to explain neatly.

Some of them are no longer here.

Some are still alive but far away, living different lives, in different places, at different paces.

Some drifted quietly, without drama or a clear ending — just time doing what time does.

Ever since becoming a parent, I’ve realised something that breaks my heart a little more than I expected.

My child will never really get to know some of these people.

Not in the way I did.

Not in the way that mattered.

There are stories I can tell.

Photos I can show.

Small habits I can point out and say, “This reminds me of them.”

But there are things that don’t transfer.

The way someone laughed.

The way they held space.

The way they made ordinary moments feel safe, warm, or steady.

Those things live in the body.

And when time runs out, they don’t always get passed on.

I was raised in a family that held traditions close.

Not in a rigid or ceremonial way — but in a deeply people-first way.

Celebrations mattered because people mattered.

And one rule was quietly non-negotiable: no one should ever spend Christmas alone.

If we knew someone had no plans, they were invited.

No explanations required.

No obligation to reciprocate.

There was always space at the table.

As I grew older, I realised this was never really about Christmas.

It was about belonging.

About continuity.

About keeping people close even as life pulled them in different directions.

Over the years, we’ve lost people.

Some in ways that are final.

Others in ways that are quieter, less defined — shaped by distance, time, or circumstances that never quite resolved themselves.

There were moments — especially after becoming a parent — when I wondered if it might be easier to stop altogether.

To cancel celebrations.

To simplify.

To protect myself from the quiet ache that comes with noticing who is missing.

But each time, something in me couldn’t let go.

Because continuing didn’t feel like denial.

It felt like remembrance.

I’ve come to understand that celebrating is how I remember.

Not by freezing people in time.

Not by speaking about them only with sadness.

But by doing what we’ve always done.

Gathering.

Opening the door.

Keeping space.

In continuing, I feel like I’m keeping their presence alive — not just in memory, but in practice.

Becoming a parent has given this a new weight.

There are people I wish my child could know.

People who would have loved him deeply.

People who would have shaped him in quiet, steady ways.

But at the pace life moves — with its losses, migrations, and inevitable separations — I know some connections won’t be possible.

And that grief is strange.

It isn’t loud.

It doesn’t demand attention.

It simply settles — a soft ache — in the knowledge that some inheritances can’t be handed down directly.

So instead, I hold them for him.

I hold the stories.

The values.

The way they treated people.

The way they showed up.

I carry them forward in how I keep relationships, how I welcome others, how I stay open even when it would be easier to retreat.

In that sense, continuing these traditions isn’t about nostalgia.

It’s about legacy.

I also think about people I’m no longer close to —

not because they mattered less, but because life didn’t allow us to keep walking alongside each other.

And still, I think of them fondly.

Not because everything ended well.

But because, at some point, our paths crossed in a way that mattered.

I don’t need to be part of their present to appreciate their place in my past.

I hope they are living life as they planned.

I hope they are doing well.

I hope they are held by people who see them clearly.

As the year comes to a close, I find myself holding all of this quietly.

The people who shaped me.

The people I wish my child could know.

The ones who are gone.

The ones who drifted.

The ones who remain.

Continuing — gathering, celebrating, keeping the door open — is my way of honouring all of it.

It’s how I remember.

It’s how I stay connected.

It’s how I keep space for what still matters.

And maybe one day, when my child is older, he’ll understand why the table was always set — even when it was hard.