In this article, Tina Hedin shares a small snippet of her and her husband’s journey in adjusting to a new normal after suddenly losing their 25 year old daughter.

The two have reached a stage of their grief in which memories aren’t mere recollections but rather vivid, living things that dance in the periphery of their daily lives, tugging at their senses and reeling them back into states of anguish.

Their worlds, once vibrant with their daughter’s energy, now oscillates between the crushing reality of her absence and the whispers of her memory.

This is a story about two people, forever changed, learning to navigate their grief—sometimes alone, sometimes together—and a testament to how the simplest acts of kindness between partners can become the scaffolding for enduring the unendurable.

More than anything, this story is a reflection on the threads of human connection that remain, against all odds, unbroken.

My assumptions about death. And my thoughts on photos.

I never feared death.

More precisely, I don’t fear the state of being dead.

Reality, I decided early on, is defined by what I can perceive. So while the process of death may be painful, I presume that this pain can only be temporary. And once I am dead—once I am no longer able to perceive anything—I will feel nothing. Because I will have dissolved into nothingness. Because there really will be no me anymore.

And however difficult the process of dying may be, the crushing weight of a person’s death will felt most by the people who are forced go on without them.

So I don’t fear dying, no.

I fear losing the people who I love dearly.

I fear feeling the pain that comes with losing someone close to me and never getting the chance to prepare for their departure and say goodbye.

I fear experiencing this again.

So I try to keep in touch. I try to make phone calls. I try to respond to messages. And I take photos. Lots of them.

My daughter and I looked at a book together, posed for a picture, and then she left. Forever.

-- Hedin

I fill my camera roll with warm photos of my friends and family, new food, old places. Some photos are blurry. Some have a harsh flash. Many involve my loved ones, frozen, perpetually sporting goofy smiles or raising their eyebrows, mid-conversation.

These are the photos I will turn to when I need to remember the warmth and laughter we shared. They will serve as my link to a past that will feel close enough to touch yet as distant as a dream.

I will cherish these forever.

“Sometimes the only thing is knowing how much my parents would suffer.”

This is something Dan told me once, nonchalantly, while I was debugging a data visualization.

I turned to look at him. “But what about your friends?”

He shrugged, not bothering to look up from his notebook. “They’ll be fine.”

This will haunt me.