My grandpa used to say life is like a ride, not the kind you control, the kind you hold on to.
He said some parts move slow, so slow you wonder if anything is happening at all.
And then, without warning, the speed picks up and you’re gripping the bar, hoping you don’t lose your balance.
Don’t spend the whole ride worrying about when it ends, he’d say. You’ll miss where you are. He lived that way.
He didn’t demand fairness from the ride, he trusted that every dip and turn was part of getting somewhere.
He knew you don’t get to choose the track. You only choose how you sit in the seat.
Years later, I understand that the ride isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s meant to be felt.
The joy. The fear. The quiet stretches. The moments that pass too fast.
And one day, when the ride slows down, you don’t measure it by how thrilling it was, you measure it by whether you were present for it.
My grandpa was. And that’s how I know he rode it well.
