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She Knew Time Was Precious, Not Urgent
Despite how much she had to do, my nana was rarely rushed. She moved with purpose, not panic. She understood the difference between what felt urgent and what was truly important.
She made time for conversations, for rest, for small joys. A cup of tea wasn’t just a drink; it was a pause. A chance to breathe.
She taught me that a full life isn’t one packed with activity—it’s one that leaves room for meaning.
She Knew Grief Was the Price of Love
My nana experienced loss—deep, life-altering loss. Yet she never closed herself off. She never pretended grief didn’t hurt, but she also never let it harden her.
She knew that loving fully meant risking pain. And she accepted that trade without resentment. “Better to have loved,” she once said quietly, “than to have lived afraid.”
She didn’t romanticize suffering, but she didn’t fear it either. She treated grief as something to be carried, not avoided.
She Knew Laughter Was Medicine
Even in hard times, my nana laughed. Not a performative laugh, but a genuine, sometimes mischievous one. She found humor in the absurdity of life, in human quirks, in herself.
She knew laughter didn’t erase pain—but it made it lighter. Bearable. Shared.
Her humor was never cruel. It was kind, inclusive, and often self-deprecating. She laughed with people, not at them.
She Knew You Could Start Again
One of the quietest but most powerful lessons my nana taught was that it’s never too late to change. She adapted throughout her life—new roles, new realities, new versions of herself.
She didn’t cling to the past out of fear. She honored it, learned from it, and then kept going. She understood that life is a series of chapters, not a single story locked in place.
She showed me that reinvention doesn’t require youth—just courage.
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