Impermanence

Reflections on Loss and Gratitude

The death of my mother has brought me face-to-face with the reality of impermanence. This flux of thought and feeling is not a deviation from life but its essence. Impermanence is not a flaw to be corrected but the foundation of existence. It is the silent rhythm of life, reminding us that everything is in motion, nothing static.

Parents seem like our first relationship with permanence. As children, we view them as steady, unchanging anchors in a shifting world. Yet as we grow, we see their impermanence in their aging, their struggles, their transformations. My mother’s passing crystallized this truth: the mother I mourn is not just the woman she was at the end but all the versions of her I knew—and those I will never know.

Her final words to me were “Thank you.” I am still sitting with their weight and implication. Thank you for what? For the years we shared, the love we exchanged, the simple presence we gave each other? Those words feel at once deeply personal and impossibly expansive. They are not an answer but an invitation to reflect, to find meaning in their simplicity.

The relationship with a parent does not end when they die—it changes. What was once a dialogue becomes a monologue, reshaping your internal world. In grief, you continue speaking to their memory, their echo. This is the absurdity of loss: they are gone, yet remain in your thoughts, your habits, your dreams. The relationship evolves even as they no longer change.

Grief amplifies life’s absurdity. How can someone so integral simply no longer exist? Memories surge with clarity—a turn of phrase, a moment, an image so vivid it feels alive, yet tethered to someone who is no longer here. Grief, in its strangeness, testifies to the resilience of love. The bonds we form are not undone by death; they persist, transformed.

In grief, impermanence is both torment and liberation. You feel the weight of what will never return, but also the lightness of knowing this is the nature of all things. What was, was. What is, is. What will be remains unwritten.

Her “Thank you” captures the paradox of impermanence. Gratitude is not about permanence; it is about presence. It is the recognition of what is, in the moment. Those two words reflect the transient beauty of life, an acknowledgment of what was without clinging or demanding more. They remind me to embrace impermanence not as a loss but as a gift.

Impermanence is most visible in relationships—not just in their endings but in their constant reinvention. A relationship with a parent shifts as both people grow. The expectations of childhood give way to new understandings as adults. In death, these expectations dissolve entirely, leaving acceptance. What remains is not the wish for what could have been, but the clarity of what was.

The paradox of impermanence is its generative power. A loss, though it feels like an ending, creates space for new beginnings. My mother’s absence reshapes my relationships with others, altering family dynamics and reframing connections I thought I understood. In this flux lies both challenge and opportunity: the chance to embrace change rather than resist it.

The present moment—this “now”—exists outside of time. It is not bound by the past or the future; it simply is. Grief collapses linearity, pulling you into memories of the past and anxieties about the future. But at its core, grief forces you to confront the present: the undeniable reality of what is gone and what remains.

Impermanence teaches that the “now” is all we truly have. The future, as we imagine it, is a phantom—a construct adorned with hope or dread. In truth, it is an abyss of uncertainty. To seek refuge in it is to flee from life; to face it is to affirm life in its unpredictability. In the absence of guarantees, one finds the raw material to shape one’s will.

Grief, like life, demands letting go—not to forget, but to allow space for the new. To cling to what was denies the truth of impermanence. Freedom comes from accepting the flux of what is.

Her “Thank you” reminds me that life is about presence—showing up, loving fully, and accepting what comes. It is a lesson that reshapes my understanding of loss and connection, a reminder that gratitude lies in embracing what is, even as it changes.

To embrace impermanence is to embrace life: to see beauty in its fragility, depth in its fleeting moments, and meaning in its ever-changing forms. My mother’s death is not an end but a transformation—a shift in my narrative and my understanding of the world. Her absence is a presence of its own, a reminder to live not in fear of change but in acceptance of it.

Her “Thank you” is both a farewell and an invitation: to live with gratitude for what is, while it is, and to love fully, without reservation.