I realized that staying in the moment happens most in a hospital waiting room.
When my father passed away, time seemed to start flowing in a completely different way. I was right there with him.
For a long while, I kept urging him to breathe, but he gave no response. The ambulance arrived and tried to bring him back with CPR.
When we arrived at the hospital, it was like that scene from the movies: “We couldn’t save your father.”
The doctor’s voice still echoes in my head.
While we were in the waiting room, trying to gather ourselves, they handed my father’s ring to my mother.
That moment hit me even harder with the reality of his death.
After that, everything was blurry, as if I was detached from reality.
I was doing what needed to be done, listening to condolences, saying thank you… but it was as if another version of me was watching from afar.
Denial: Pretending Life Goes On
In those days, I unknowingly slipped into denial.
I didn’t want to fully accept the truth—maybe I didn’t have the strength to.
My mind felt like it had switched to autopilot to protect me.
The days were just about “getting things done.”
And suddenly, I found myself in a world I knew nothing about:
Keeping my father’s rowing club alive, the one he had dedicated years of his life to.
Normally, I could go days without leaving the house and feel fine. But now, if I missed even a single day at the club, my mind would be there. I’d check in with the staff, asking how the day went.
If the club had been just a small community, maybe we would have considered stopping.
But it touched the lives of more than a thousand people.
Even my father wouldn’t have wanted us to leave it halfway.
So my purpose in staying on my feet became “Keeping the Club Alive.”
With Can by my side every time I couldn’t manage, I was able to do it.
We moved forward thanks to those who stood by us on the sidelines, and the friends who joined our run and guided us.
Confrontation: Seeing What I Had Lost
But this new race was taking other things from me.
Everything about design and art—my writing—was put on hold.
Between technical decisions, administrative matters, and logical problem-solving, my creative side went silent.
When I realized this, I faced a painful truth:
Along with losing my father, I was also losing parts of myself.
At that moment, a thought crossed my mind:
“There will be balance eventually.”
Maybe one day I’ll reunite with my art and my writing. For now, this is all I can do.
First Signs of Acceptance
As we started solving the club’s daily challenges together as a team, something inside me began to shift.
I could now say, “This might just work.”
I could stand a little stronger, bring a little more balance back into my life.
I didn’t dismiss my mother’s grief—she had all the space she needed.
I let her stay silent as much as she wanted, and I stayed by her side.
We also drew on her experience; this wasn’t just my journey, but all of ours.
The Necessity of Staying on My Feet
And then, there’s my MS reality.
Keeping up with my doctor visits, not skipping treatment…
These already remind me every single day that I have to stay standing.
One setback would be MS waking up again—something I will never allow to happen.
Not just for myself; for my mother, for the club, for MS… I feel the need to stay standing every day.
Acceptance: Living with the Pain
Acceptance doesn’t mean the pain is gone.
It means learning to live with it.
My father is no longer here, but his work, his values, his legacy live on in this club and in these people.
While my family and I keep his legacy alive, I am also rebuilding myself.
I know I’m still at the beginning of acceptance.
But the thought comes to me more often now:
“I think this is going to work… Balance will come eventually.”
At the start of grief, denial protects you.
In the end, acceptance makes you stronger.
Sometimes the only motivation is the truth that “I have to keep going.”
And sometimes, just staying on your feet for one more day is the greatest victory of all.
