As a child, I heard Abba often recited these lines:

“Life’s a tale, told by an idiot, full of fun and fury – signifying nothing”

Life is a strange, fleeting thing, isn’t it? I’m not trying to wax poetic or get all philosophical here, but lately, I’ve been hit hard by the realization that life — all of it —boils down to the process of letting go. It’s not about holding on tighter or chasing some grand purpose. It’s about learning to release: our grudges, our illusions, our need to control the uncontrollable. And man, is that a tough pill to swallow. I’ve been wrestling with this truth more than ever these days, as life keeps throwing curveballs that remind me just how unpredictable it all is. Lately, I’ve seen too many young lives cut short —cardiac arrests snatching away people who were just here, living, laughing, planning. Friends, cousins, acquaintances, some a few years younger, some a few years older. People who felt invincible, like I often do. It’s jarring, like a slap you didn’t see coming. You start to question everything.

If life can end so suddenly for them, what makes me think I’m exempt? What makes me think the people I love most are untouchable? For most of my life, I’ve taken my parents for granted. I don’t say that lightly — it’s a confession that stings. They’ve been my rock, my safety net, my everything. Emotionally, financially, they’ve always been there to catch me when I stumble, to offer their wisdom (even when I rolled my eyes at their lectures). I’ve leaned on them without a second thought, thinking, So what? I’m their kid. Who else are they going to do this for? It’s an entitled mindset, I know, but it’s also human. They’re my parents, larger-than-life figures who’ve always seemed like they’d be there forever. But they’re not immortal. That’s the gut-punch I’m grappling with now.

My Abba is very sick. Day by day, I watch him grow weaker, feebler. His body is betraying him, and his mind — God, his mind is slipping into the fog of dementia. I look at him, and he’s still my hero, the man who could fix anything, who always had an answer, who made me feel safe no matter what. Yet, I see the truth creeping in: he’s fading. I tell myself he’s not going anywhere, that he’ll pull through because he’s “ABBA”. But that’s a delusion, isn’t it? A comforting lie I whisper to myself because the alternative is too heavy to bear. My Amma, she’s not far behind him in years. She’s forgetful now, her memory playing tricks on her. She complains about aches and pains, and I see the lines etched deeper into her face. But to me, she’s still the most beautiful woman in the world. I know every kid feels that way about their mom, but it’s more than that. It’s the way she smiles, the way she still tries to fuss over me, even when she’s the one who needs care. I look at her, and my heart aches because I know—one day, she’ll be a memory. I can’t wrap my head around that. I don’t think I ever will.

It’s not just my parents. It’s everything. We take so much for granted, don’t we? Our health, our youth, our beauty, our fortune. We walk around like we’re promised tomorrow, like the people we love will always be there, like our bodies will always do what we ask. But life doesn’t work that way. It’s fragile, unpredictable, and so damn finite. I’ve spent too much time holding onto things that don’t matter—petty grudges, stupid arguments, bitterness that feels justified in the moment but just festers like a wound. What’s the point? Why do we waste our energy on aloofness, on words we don’t mean, on fights that steal our peace? I’ve said bitter things to people I love, words I wish I could take back the second they left my mouth. I’ve held onto anger that wasn’t worth the heartache. I see it now: it’s not worth it. None of it is. Life’s too short for that nonsense.

Forgive yourself, forgive others. Let it go. It sounds so simple, but it’s one of the hardest things to do. We cling to our pain because it’s familiar, because letting go feels like losing something. But what we’re really losing is time — time we could spend loving, laughing, living. While I’m getting older, I’m starting to see that life’s real joy comes from finding creative ways to “waste” it. I don’t mean wasting it in a reckless, throw-it-all-away sense. I mean wasting it beautifully savoring the moments that make your heart full, even if they seem small or silly.

Watching a sunset with someone you love. Laughing over a dumb joke with your siblings. Listening to your mom tell the same story for the hundredth time, knowing one day you’ll give anything to hear it again. That’s the good stuff. That’s what matters. The rest – the grudges, the stress, the chasing after things that don’t last—it’s just noise. I keep thinking about my Abba, how I used to climb onto his tummy as a kid, making him a car, his hands as steering wheel and his nose as a horn. Playing with him like nothing else in the world was more fun. Listening to his lullabies and stories, clinging onto his chest like nothing could touch me because he was there. Now, I’m the one who needs to be strong for him, and I don’t know if I’m ready.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I want to tell him everything — how much I love him, how much he’s shaped me, how sorry I am for all the times I took him for granted. But the words get stuck. I don’t know how to say it without breaking down, without admitting that I’m terrified of losing him. My Amma, too. I want to hold her hand and tell her she’s still my world, wrinkles and all. I want to memorize her laugh, her quirks, the way she makes everything feel okay even when it’s not. I want to soak up every second I have with her, but I’m scared I’m not doing it right. I’m scared I’m wasting time even now, caught up in my own head instead of just being with her.

Possibly that’s the trick: being present. Letting go of the fear, the guilt, the what-ifs, and just being here, now. I’m trying to learn that. I’m trying to forgive myself for all the times I wasn’t fully present, for all the moments I let slip by because I was too busy, too distracted, too caught up in things that didn’t matter. I’m trying to forgive others, too — not because they deserve it, but because I deserve to be free of the weight. I think about those young lives lost, those sudden endings, and it’s a wake-up call. We don’t get to choose how long we have, or how long the people we love have. But we do get to choose how we spend the time we’re given. I want to spend mine better. I want to waste it on love, on joy, on the things that make my soul feel alive. I want to let go of the bitterness that’s not worth my energy.

I want to hold my parents a little tighter, even if it’s just in my heart when I can’t be with them. If I could go back, I’d tell my younger self to stop taking it all so seriously. The fights, the grudges, the need to be right — they’re not worth it. I’d tell myself to hug my Abba more, to listen to my Amma’s advice with an open heart, to laugh with them until my sides hurt. I’d tell myself to let go of the illusion that they’ll always be here, not to make myself sad, but to make myself cherish them more.

Life’s finite, and that’s what makes it beautiful. It’s a fleeting gift, a chance to love fiercely, to forgive freely, to waste time in the best possible ways. I’m learning that now, slowly, messily. I’m learning to let go — not of my parents, not of the people I love, but of the things that keep me from loving them fully. The grudges, the anger, the fear. I’m learning to hold onto what matters and let the rest fall away. So, here’s to wasting time beautifully. To laughing until it hurts. To forgiving myself and others. To loving my parents and siblings with every fiber of my being while they’re still here. Life’s too short for anything less.