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There is a word people use too casually—loss.

They say it like it’s something that happens once, something you “get over,” something time eventually smooths out. But after 47 years of living, I can tell you plainly—loss doesn’t behave like that.

Loss doesn’t leave.

It evolves.

I’ve buried people who weren’t just family by blood, but by bond.

In 1998, I lost my cousin—more like my brother.
In 2000, I lost my mother.
In 2004, my grandfather.
In 2021, my grandmother.
And now just last Thursday, March 19, 2026, Ms. Anna Aban Chan.

Each one of them didn’t just exist in my life—they shaped how I see the world, how I move, how I think, how I love. They left fingerprints on my spirit that no amount of time can erase.

So when people ask me about loss, I don’t talk about absence.

I talk about presence.

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What Loss Really Means

Loss is not about someone being gone.

It’s about realizing what they represented while they were here.

Their standards.
Their discipline.
Their way of loving.
Their expectations of you.

That doesn’t die.

If anything, it becomes louder.

Because now you carry it alone.

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The Reality People Don’t Want to Face

What I’ve come to see over time is something uncomfortable.

Some of the very people who come from these individuals—who carry their names, their blood, their legacy—don’t carry their principles.

And that’s the real loss.

Not death.

Disconnection.

People will say they’re busy.

Too busy to call.
Too busy to check in.
Too busy to ask, “How are you?”

But somehow, they are never too busy for social media. Never too busy to scroll, to post, to react.

That tells you everything.

Because checking on someone isn’t about time—it’s about priority.

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“I Love Them In My Own Way”

I’ve heard this too many times.

“I love them in my own way.”

That sounds good. It feels safe. It avoids accountability.

But let me be clear—love is not what you say. It’s what you consistently do.

Love shows up.
Love checks in.
Love pays attention.
Love acts.

Anything else is just a comfortable excuse.

And over time, those excuses become habits. And those habits become behavior. And that behavior becomes the opposite of the very people you claim to love.

That’s not love.

That’s avoidance.

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What Time Teaches You

Time doesn’t heal loss.

Time reveals truth.

It shows you who people really are.
It shows you what mattered—and what didn’t.
It shows you whether someone’s presence was real or just convenient.

And it teaches you something deeper:

It’s not loss that defines you.

It’s what you do with what they left behind.

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What They Left Me

Each person I’ve lost left me something greater than memories.

They left me standards.

They left me a way to move in this world with intention.

They left me an understanding that relationships are not passive—they require effort, awareness, and presence.

And most importantly, they left me clarity:

People don’t remember what you had.
They remember how you showed up.

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Final Thought

As time goes on, I’ve come to understand something that most people miss:

It is not loss that matters.

It is what they represented.
It is who they were.
It is what they stood for.

And the real question becomes—

Are you living in a way that honors that?

Or are you slowly becoming the opposite of everything they poured into you?

Because in the end, loss isn’t about them being gone.

It’s about what remains in you.

And whether you choose to carry it forward… or let it fade.

Until Next Time…

I Am,

Ewing R. Samuels III

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