When I was in school, I was all about band and theater (I was a techie)—not at the same time, sadly. In band, I practiced every single day because I had to be first chair. Why? Because first chair got to play the cool music—actual rhythms and solos—not just sit there holding long, boring notes like a human metronome. 😄🎵

When I was in school, I had siblings who had walked the same path before me—each one of them playing brass instrument and every single one of them landing first chair. They knew what it took, and trust me, it was a lot. Seeing them accomplish those goals lit a fire in me because, let’s face it, when the people you live with are knocking it out of the park, you don’t want to be the odd one out.

But then came the shift. One by one, my siblings left home, chasing higher education and building better futures for themselves. Suddenly, it was just me. The house got quieter.

As each of my siblings left home to chase their dreams, the house grew quieter. At first, it was a relief in some ways—no more arguments over who got the last slice of pizza or whose turn it was to do the dishes. But soon, the silence settled in, and it became something else entirely. It wasn’t just quieter; it was lonelier.

I didn’t have anyone to just talk to anymore, no one to share those random thoughts or jokes that would pop into my head. The people I used to laugh with, confide in. Even the small, silly moments—like complaining about homework or playing pranks on each other—were gone.

The emptiness wasn’t just in the house; it was in the rhythm of daily life. Sure, I still had my parents, but it wasn’t the same.

It was the kind of loneliness you can’t quite put into words when you’re a kid, but you feel it all the same—a longing for the noise, the chaos and the connection that made the house feel alive.

That was, until our grandmother came to live with us. At first, the bond between a grandson and his grandmother wasn’t the strongest—it was more of a quiet coexistence. But over time, that began to change. Unfortunately, so did her health. Day by day, we watched as she seemed to slip further away.

It started with small things—her memory faltering, mood swings that led to dropped cups and plates, and conversations growing fewer and farther between. Then, as Parkinson’s took hold, her world seemed to shrink. Walking became impossible, feeding herself a distant memory and speaking eventually faded into soft murmurs.

The house may have been full again, but it wasn’t the same. Those moments, though difficult, taught me lessons I never expected—about patience, resilience and what it means to care for someone as they journey through the most vulnerable chapters of their life.

Those moments weren’t glamorous, but they shaped me in ways I didn’t realize at the time. They taught me how to navigate life’s ups and downs, cherish friendships and find meaning in the little things. Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at the kid I was—juggling band, school, family life and friendships—tripping over my own feet half the time but somehow managing to figure out a thing or two about myself along the way. 😄