Chapter of Love and Loss

We all know that death is inevitable, a natural part of life. But when it comes for our loved ones, it feels anything but natural. During the pandemic, death came closer and took my sister, and with her, a part of me that I was not ready to lose.

She wasn’t my sister by blood, but she was family in every way that mattered. She had cared for me and my family for as long as I can remember. I spent my entire childhood with her and her family; her love and presence shaped who I am today. Losing her felt like losing a part of myself.

The pandemic was a very difficult time for all of us, and with the passing of my sister, it became even more unbearable. I became numb and was in denial for a very long time, refusing to accept the gravity of the situation. For a very long time, I couldn’t allow myself to grieve. Everything inside and outside was in chaos, and I sealed away her memory because I was too afraid to face it.

Grief became a chapter that I was unwilling to read—a forgotten chapter lurking in the depths of my heart waiting to emerge. Even when you bottle up your feelings, it finds a way to linger in the corner of your heart, leaving subtle traces, gently reminding you of its presence.

During the dreading days of the pandemic, I was drawn to “folklore” by Taylor Swift. It wasn’t just another album by an artist for me — it reflected the feelings and emotions that I was feeling during those moments, which I couldn’t quite put into words.

Album Cover “folklore”

The song “epiphany” is filled with the imagery of frontline workers during the pandemic taking short breaks between shifts, witnessing something they will never be able to speak about.

Something med school did not cover Someone’s daughter, someone’s mother Holds your hand through plastic now “Doc, I think she’s crashing out” And some things you just can’t speak about

When I heard these lines, I thought of my sister’s passing — how nothing could have prepared me for this, not the stories I read on the Internet or the quiet moments of stillness at home.

Amid the emotional turmoil, I found myself searching for distractions, something to take my mind off the chaos within and around me. That’s when I started watching WandaVision.

At first, it was just an escape, a way to distract myself from the chaos outside. I tuned into the show every week as a means to escape my thoughts and emotions. But as the series progressed, it turned into something bigger and much more personal. Wanda’s grief, enshrouded by creating a sitcom-style town, trying to hold onto Vision, felt painfully familiar. I too had built walls around me and my loss, pretending my sister was still alive, creating an illusion that was fragile but comforting.

What is grief, if not love persevering?

A scene from WandaVision

And then came that scene where Vision asked Wanda, “What is grief, if not love persevering?” It unlocked the forgotten chapter of my grief. I realized that my grief wasn’t just pain and sadness and loss but also love, even when the person is no longer here. It wasn’t something to be forgotten but something to hold on to. My grief is all the unexpressed love I had for her, and I hope it stays with me so I can miss her and feel close to her, celebrate her life, and keep her memory alive with me.

Grief asks for nothing more—just it’s acknowledgment. For me, folklore and WandaVision helped me acknowledge my grief. They helped me understand that grief is not the end of a story but the continuation of love—a love that refuses to be forgotten.

Grief is something that we can never fully move on from. It has become a part of me, woven into the fabric of my life, shaping me into the person that I am today. I have stopped hiding it and have started embracing it.

After death, love transitions into grief, and love, even in its painful form, is worth holding on to. And in that love, the forgotten chapter of my sister’s story will always live on, not as an end but as a reminder of the love and life she brought into my life.

Her story, once tucked away in grief, now lives in the memories I carry, the things that she taught me, and the love she left behind. It is a chapter I no longer fear revisiting, for in its pages, I find not just loss and sadness but also the love and joy she brought. And so, her memory stays with me, not forgotten but cherished—a reminder that even in grief, love perseveres.