A Mother's Journey of Love and Letting Go
Where love meets loss—a story of travel, trust, and transformation
This is the second piece in a series about end-of-life preparations (you can find the first one here). But really, it's about something deeper: the journey my son Adrian and I have been on since the moment I was diagnosed.
From that moment, everything shifted—not just medically, but in how we understood time, love, and each other. What began as a crisis became a crossing—something that cracked us open and ushered us into a space we never expected to inhabit. We’ve been walking that path together ever since.
This is a story shaped in the shadow of mortality—where beauty reveals itself in unexpected places, light flickers through darkness, and strength rises from the tenderest wounds. We’ve shared extraordinary moments—some carefully chosen, others wildly unplanned: diving into silence, leaping from planes, sitting in ceremony, and returning again and again to the sharp edge of medicine. Each moment has offered its own kind of healing.
What’s unfolding between us isn’t just the bond between a mother and son. It’s quieter than that, and deeper. A kind of love that doesn’t cling, but steadies—asking nothing, offering everything. It invites us to soften in the face of fear, stay with the hard parts when turning away would be easier.
More than anything, we’re learning this: that preparing for death is another way of learning how to live—not the life we planned, but the one that’s here now. Fragile. Improvised. Unapologetically real. A life shaped by moments of stark clarity, unexpected tenderness, and a fierce, wide-open love that does not look away. It doesn’t promise answers—only presence. And presence, we’re learning, is enough.
Thresholds of Memory: Life's Milestones
Over the course of a life, we pass through a thousand quiet endings—tender thresholds we rarely recognize until we’re beyond them. The final bedtime story whispered beneath the hush of a nightlight. The last time we lift a child to our hip, unaware it’s the last. A tearful parting at the preschool gate. The silent swell in our chest as they cross a stage, a little further from us than before.
These moments pass quickly, almost imperceptibly, but they leave their mark. They trace the quiet boundaries between holding close and learning to release. Each carries a hush of joy laced with ache—a soft ache that reminds us how time never asks for permission, only moves, like water, steadily away from the shore.
With time, we learn to recognize these thresholds not as losses, but as invitations—to feel more, to notice more, to love without holding so tightly. They ask us to keep opening, even when it hurts. And in doing so, they teach us that the most lasting truths often arrive not with fanfare, but in the quiet: a glance held a second longer, a breath shared in silence, the tender courage to stay with what is.
I had only just begun to make peace with the small goodbyes—to see them as part of the rhythm of life—when the ground gave way beneath me. Not a soft fading, but a rupture. Sudden, irrevocable. The kind of threshold that doesn't ask for understanding, only transformation. A crossing without a guide, where the only way forward is to become someone you’ve never been before.
Echoes of a Fateful Call
Three years ago, I made a call that cracked the world open for both of us.
Adrian was on a bookstore date in California, spending part of his gap year in environmental conservation with AmeriCorps—restoring trails, protecting wildlands—sleeping beneath open skies, when I called to tell him that a scan found malignant tumors in my liver.
There was silence. Then his voice—shaken, searching—trying to make sense of something too big, too sudden. His disorientation mirrored my own. I had spoken the words no parent ever wants to say, and in that moment, something between us shifted. We crossed a threshold we couldn’t uncross
That call—heavy with uncertainty—marked the beginning of a path we didn’t yet have words for. At first, it felt like a freefall, the ground of everything we knew giving way beneath us. But slowly, not by bypassing the ache but moving through it, something steady began to take shape. The pain didn’t just test our bond—it transformed it. What emerged between us was a love more tender, more grounded, more enduring than I had ever known.
Full circle at the bookstore
Then, last month, in a quiet twist of fate, Adrian stepped back into that same bookstore—three years to the day since the call that changed everything. He was on his way to Death Valley with friends when he reached out. He wanted to pause, to honor the thread of time, and to reflect on the road we’ve traveled since.
What followed was a conversation threaded with awe and gratitude. We spoke about what we’d endured, how it had shaped us, and all the quiet, unexpected ways beauty had found its way in. We reflected not only on the evolution of our relationship, but on the kind of love that doesn’t just carry—it transforms.
It was a gentle reminder of life’s uneven rhythm—how sorrow and grace so often arrive hand in hand, each softening the other. As we looked back, what became clear was this: the real legacy we’re building isn’t made of milestones or achievements, but of presence. A deeper understanding of one another. A steady choosing of love over fear. And a trust, hard-won, that whatever comes next, we’ll meet it together—breath by breath, step by step.
We found ourselves returning to the parable of the Chinese farmer—the one Alan Watts often told: “You never know what will be the consequence of misfortune… or good fortune.” That wisdom has stayed with us, threaded through the light and the shadow, reminding us that beauty often lies in the unknown—and that meeting it calls not for certainty, but for humility.
Embracing the Journey: Adventures and Resilience
In the shadow of my diagnosis, a quiet resolve took root: if our time might be short, it would be deep. That intention became our compass, transforming borrowed time into sacred adventure.
We sought out landscapes that stirred awe and summoned presence—places that bound us more closely to the world and to each other. The illness wasn’t a limit, but a call: to pull Adrian from the noise of adolescence into the wide, blue edges of the world.
Together, we stepped from earth to sky to sea—each element a teacher, offering its own lessons in wonder, surrender, and the fierce tenderness of being alive.
From the Depths of the Ocean to the Skies: Adrenaline Adventures
The ocean has never been just water to me. It’s a threshold—a place where mystery and beauty meet, and presence is not optional.
Though I’ve long been at home beneath the surface as a scuba diver, I hesitated to bring Adrian there. The risks felt too sharp, and I kept telling myself: there’s time. But time, I was learning, is never promised. The window to share this part of my life was narrowing. Waiting no longer made sense.
So we went in. Into the depths, into the unknown—into adventures that mirrored life itself: full of fear, awe, and the quiet astonishment of being alive. Strange and luminous creatures moved through the water like dreams. Their hidden lives reminded us how much of this world exists beyond sight—and how sacred it is to witness even a sliver of it.
The dives left us with more than awe. In that quiet blue world, something between us softened. We weren’t just witnessing wonder—we were part of it. As Thich Nhat Hanh wrote, “We are here to awaken from our illusion of separateness.” For a moment, we did.
Of all our adventures, one night dive off the Kona coast of Hawaiʻi’s Big Island—known as pelagic magic—shimmers brightest in memory. Three miles offshore, hovering above an ocean floor that plunged more than 3,000 feet, we descended into the inky abyss—two specks drifting in a vast, unknowable dark.
What awaited us felt almost cosmic: a slow, luminous parade of iridescent sea life, delicate and otherworldly. Transparent eel larvae floated by like living ghosts, their bodies spectral and their heads like glass. Larval shrimp and crabs hitched rides on drifting jellyfish, while tiny fish tucked themselves inside the undulating bells of their gelatinous hosts. Squid and octopus hatchlings shimmered with bioluminescence, their movements a quiet ballet written in starlight.
The ocean felt like it had opened its secret heart to us. In that glowing silence, we were both impossibly small and more connected than ever. The dive mirrored our larger journey—a plunge into the unknown, lit not by certainty but by wonder. And in that wonder, something between us deepened—anchored, stretched, and held more.
One moment from that night carved itself into our memory.
A small, jellyfish-like creature drifted toward Adrian, pulsing with soft, translucent light. It was no larger than a coin, barely there. And then—it brushed against a cable and vanished. Dissolved. Too fragile to withstand even the gentlest contact.
I watched Adrian’s face twist in shock, his hands rising to his head. The sudden absence of something so delicate, so alive, stunned us both. In that flicker of loss, wonder and sorrow collided.
It was a quiet heartbreak. A reminder of how easily life slips through our fingers. In that brief disintegration, the ocean offered one of its deepest teachings: that beauty and fragility are never far apart. That sometimes, they’re the same thing.
Lessons in Trust: The Shipwreck Dive
It was on the Honduran island of Utila that Adrian announced we were going to pursue shipwreck certification. We’d met a local dive instructor—equal parts historian and adventure seeker—who spoke of wrecks with reverence, as though each rusted hull still held a pulse. His passion pulled us in.
Before long, we were preparing to descend into the bones of lost vessels, where time lay suspended and silence told stories words never could.
On one of our final dives, Adrian’s line snagged on the wreck’s jagged frame. The silt exploded around us, visibility dropped to almost nothing, and our air was running low. Panic rose fast—my heart pounding against my ribs, every instinct urging me to swim toward him.
But I didn’t.
I slowed my breath.
I stayed still.
And I trusted him.
Moments later, I watched as he calmly freed himself. The fear that had gripped me softened into something richer—pride, awe, and the bittersweet ache of letting go.
That dive became more than an adventure. It became a teaching: a lesson in trust, in surrender, in the quiet bravery it takes to release your child into the current of his own becoming.
When we broke the surface, it felt like more than the end of a dive. It marked the end of a chapter—one that had held us close in the depths. What came next would pull us in the opposite direction: into the sky.
Leaping into the Sky: Embracing the Unknown
From ocean floor to open sky, the journey continued. Adrian—always drawn to awe, altitude, and the edge of what’s possible—had set his sights on skydiving. As soon as our scuba surface intervals allowed, we made our way to the windswept drop zone at the northern tip of the Big Island.
The ocean behind us, the sky ahead—wide, wild, and waiting. A different kind of vastness, but the invitation felt familiar: to let go, again. Only this time, we wouldn’t descend—we would fall.
My diagnosis had recalibrated my sense of risk. When you’re living with the ultimate uncertainty, what, truly, is left to fear? And still—skydiving asked something different. Not just courage, but surrender. Complete and unquestioning.
The legal waivers didn’t flinch: there is no perfect pilot, no perfect plane, no perfect parachute. The gravity of that truth lingered in the air—softened only by the cheerful ease of the young receptionists who, with startling nonchalance, were also the ones packing our chutes.
High above the noise of daily life, Adrian and I stood at the edge of a different kind of threshold—a trust fall in every sense. Then, barefoot, sky meeting skin, we leapt. A raw, wild offering to the unknown.
We crammed into a plane that felt held together by duct tape and faith, rising into gusting winds. Below, the island shrank—the land a child’s diorama, the ocean wide and gleaming. When the door swung open and Adrian vanished into the blue, my fear of the void dissolved—overtaken by something stronger: the protective instinct to follow him, wherever he was going.
The fall was sharp at first, a rush of air and adrenaline. But then the parachute bloomed, and time seemed to pause—suspended in a hush between worlds.
Drifting beneath the canopy, I drank in the island’s wild tapestry: the fractured cliffs, the curling coastline, the sea stretching endlessly beyond.
Watching Adrian land beneath me, safe and steady, sparked a wave of joy so pure it caught in my throat. When my own feet met the ground, it felt like more than landing—it felt like a vow: this wouldn’t be our last time in the sky.
Skydiving was never really about the thrill. It became a reflection of everything illness had been teaching us—how to trust the fall, how to be brave with no guarantees, how to greet each fleeting moment with a heart wide open. In that freefall, we glimpsed something sacred: the quiet, exhilarating grace of surrendering to the unknown.
Geneva return
Our next dance with gravity didn't keep us waiting. On a summer return to Geneva, a city that cradled both of our births —we stepped into the mosaic of our shared past.
We rekindled old friendships, wandered familiar streets, and passed the lakeside apartment that once held the rhythm of our daily lives. We climbed to the heights of Rochers-de-Naye above Montreux—Adrian drawn to the Jazz Festival’s pulse below, while I found solace in stillness. We floated down the Rhône on inner tubes, laughter echoing across time, and visited the Clinique de Grangettes, where Adrian took his first breath. (Mine, fittingly, was at a now-defunct clinic, closed for malpractice.)
We ended where so many beginnings were once marked—with a quiet pause in the church where I was married, and where Adrian was baptized. A space once filled with promise, now resonant with a deeper, quieter kind of grace.
Soon, the slopes of the Salève, just beyond Geneva’s edge, called to us—inviting yet another flight into the unknown. Our paragliding leap—curiously unburdened by waivers or warnings—seemed to exist outside the reach of bureaucracy, perhaps suspended in that strange freedom that comes with crossing a border mid-air.
To run toward a cliff and be lifted, at the last possible moment, by an open canopy was a gesture of radical trust. It stood in vivid contrast to the plunges illness had demanded of me—those unchosen descents into pain, side effects, and uncertainty. One leap was thrilling and deliberate, the other bewildering and imposed. But both asked the same thing: to let go, to be held by something larger than my fear.
As Adrian disappeared into the sky ahead of me, I drew a long, steady breath—an anchoring before the unknown. A quiet act of trust.
But the moment my feet left the earth, a sudden gust caught me, lifting me far above the Salève and into a stillness I hadn’t expected. Time thinned. The others—Adrian included—became small, drifting specks below, while I hovered in a hush that felt almost sacred.
Suspended in that sky, I was flooded with awe. These improbable moments—the lift, the silence, the sweeping view—felt like secret blessings I might never have touched if not for my illness. And from that quiet above the world, I could feel it: the strange, aching grace of it all.
Below, Adrian waited patiently—thirty more minutes—for my eventual, decidedly ungraceful return to earth. I landed in a full face-plant, gathering a bouquet of bruises—small, tender badges from our dance with the unknown.
Even a rough landing, I’m learning, can hold its own kind of grace.
The thrill of flight mirrored a deeper courage we were growing into: the courage to meet the unknown, together. His lift, my fall—each in our own way—became part of a shared rhythm. A thread of trust and love, stitched between sky and ground.
Courage Beyond Bounds
From the sky’s wide embrace to the ocean’s shadowed depths, Adrian and I kept meeting the edges of who we believed ourselves to be. Each experience stretched us—asking us to greet fear with presence, to test how much we could hold, both on our own and in step with each other.
For Adrian, it was the night dive into the vast, unknowable sea that marked his boldest crossing. For me, it was the freefall through open sky. Different thresholds, same trembling. In those moments of shared vulnerability, a quiet truth revealed itself: even in life’s most uncertain spaces, there is room for wonder, connection, and becoming.
Side by side, we learned that courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s what rises when we move through it, together.
The adventures now woven into our memory aren’t just stories. They’re signposts of something deeper—a legacy I hope to leave him. Not only of what we did, but of how we lived: with fierce love, wide-eyed curiosity, and the strength to meet life fully, no matter how wild or uncertain the path.
Learning to travel a different way
Illness has braided itself into our travels, slowing our steps, deepening our presence, and quietly reversing our roles.
Where I once led, I now lean into vulnerability. Adrian steps forward with a quiet steadiness—offering care, strength, and patience that feels older than his years.
We knew that one day he might care for me. We just didn’t expect it would come so soon.
Still, here we are—learning what love asks of us, moment by moment.
Our bond has been tested across borders: strep in Honduras, COVID in Morocco, infections in China and Peru, a wave of nausea mid-dive in Belize’s Blue Hole.
One Family Weekend at Claremont McKenna, I lay in bed—but Adrian never faltered.
Through it all, we’ve built something durable and quiet:
a rhythm of mutual care, of trust, of walking each other home.
When needed, he shifts seamlessly from son to caregiver,
often anticipating what I need before I can name it. Together, we move with quiet precision—managing meds, finding clinics, adapting as we go.
It’s not the journey we imagined, but it’s one we’re learning by heart.
In the more remote places we traveled—where access to healthcare was uncertain—we were often confronted with the fragility of life. These moments opened the door to raw, honest conversations about mortality.
With that awareness came a sobering truth: any one of our adventures could be our last together. So before each journey, we made a quiet pact—to move forward with open eyes and open hearts, knowing that if the worst were to happen, we would hold no regrets for choosing to live fully.
Those reflections didn’t cast a shadow—they steadied us. Naming what mattered, especially before we traveled, helped us weigh risk differently and brought a deeper richness to every journey.
This mindset has infused even the smallest joys with meaning, amplifying the light in moments of health and vitality, all the more precious within the shared tenderness of our vulnerability.
Curiously, on the rare occasions when we both fell ill—once in China, and again at an Omega retreat in upstate New York—our symptoms never struck at the same time. Instead, we took turns: one of us unwell, the other stepping in to care. The roles of patient and caregiver flowed between us like a quiet rhythm, unspoken but deeply understood.
Through it all, we’ve come to see illness not just as an obstacle, but as a teacher—one that’s quietly shaped how we love, how we endure, and how we stay close in the face of the unknown.
India: A Reflective Odyssey through Kerala and Tamil Nadu
Adrian’s growing fascination with Indian music and culture became the compass for our next journey. (He reminded me that I’d taken him to India as a toddler, but insisted that didn’t count.)
Though I’d visited India many times over the years, the South remained uncharted for me—so we set off together, winding our way through the lush landscapes of Kerala and Tamil Nadu. We came not just to travel, but to immerse ourselves in the region’s layered beauty—its rhythms, colors, and deep spiritual roots.
We began our journey in the quiet stillness of a yoga ashram near the Neyyar Reservoir, surrounded by vibrant wildlife and the steady rhythm of ancient practice. It was a joy to watch Adrian begin to forge his own connection to yoga—his path unfolding alongside mine, parallel yet wholly his own.
From there, we made our way to Auroville, the experimental township dedicated to peace, sustainability, and spiritual growth. Immersed in its singular ethos, we ended our stay with meditation inside the Matrimandir—a golden sanctuary of stillness that seemed to pulse with something timeless and vast.
We made our way through Chennai, Pondicherry, Thiruvananthapuram, and Tiruvannamalai—home to the sacred Arunachala Hill and the Ramana Maharshi Ashram. At Kanyakumari, the southernmost tip of India, we stood barefoot at the Triveni Sangam, where three seas meet, and visited the revered Kanyakumari Temple.
Throughout the trip, Adrian immersed himself in traditional Indian music, attending performances that greeted both sunrise and sunset. (I took those quiet hours to rest—grateful for the balance we’d found between curiosity and care.)
We welcomed New Year’s Eve by the sea, surrounded by the vibrant Auroville community—celebrating with conscious dance, a shared circle, and bursts of fireworks overhead. It was a night of reflection, a chance to look back with gratitude on all the year had brought. Some of those reflections found their way into the New Year’s update I later shared with friends.
From the temples and ashrams of the East, we turned toward the mountains of the Andes—drawn by another kind of ancient wisdom, rooted in the land and sky of Peru.
Peru: Journey into the Heart of Ancient Wisdom
Our next chapter unfolded in Peru, where the breathtaking landscapes of Cusco and the Sacred Valley hold the echoes of Inca and pre-Inca civilizations. We stayed in two distinct intentional communities near the Q'enqo archaeological site, which offered not only a powerful vantage point for exploration, but a deeper immersion into the spiritual and cultural legacy of the Andes.
As we wandered through time-worn ruins, the Incas’ profound connection to the earth, stars, and natural world was palpable. Adrian had found us passes that opened nearly every major site, and we ambitiously covered most of them on foot—returning on horseback from just one. (Machu Picchu, of course, required its own separate pass.)
Each site revealed its distinct role—whether societal, agricultural, or spiritual—and together, they told a story of deep harmony between humans and the cosmos. One evening at an observatory offered a glimpse into the Incas’ sophisticated understanding of astronomy, which shaped not only their agricultural calendars, but their rituals, architecture, and navigation.
Beneath the vast sky, gazing up at the planets, we felt a familiar humility—moved by how clearly the Incas understood themselves as part of something far greater.
Held by the Jungle: A Sacred Encounter with the Master Plants
Six months later, we returned to Peru—this time on a very different kind of journey. Deep in the jungle, where the plants breathe with ancient wisdom, we surrendered to a tradition older than memory: a traditional master plant dieta , or sama in Shipibo. These dietas are the path shamans themselves walk—ritual periods of isolation, fasting, and communion that forge and strengthen their relationships with the plant spirits.
Ours was a dieta with Noya Rao, the revered "Tree of Light"—a sacred teacher regarded as both guide and gateway. Under the care of Shipibo healers—wisdom keepers and bridge-walkers between worlds—we entered a two-week immersion into the quiet, often disorienting depths of spirit and self.
In the world of ascetic practices, the master plant dieta made my previous silent meditation retreats feel like mere warm-ups. As we stepped into the space, the clamor of modern life—its devices, distractions, and comforts—began to recede.
One by one, we surrendered all electronics, music, unnecessary conversation, personal care items (even bug spray), and familiar foods. Adrian took on the challenge of a five-day fast—a level of rigor I couldn’t attempt given my cancer, though I followed a strict protocol. We were pared down to the essentials, both physically and spiritually.
Our dwellings were simple tambos—open-air jungle huts cradled by the breath of the jungle. Stripped of modern distractions, what remained was raw presence—and the shadows we’d long outrun, the deep-rooted patterns shaping us in silence. The dieta, relentless in its wisdom, peeled back layer after layer until only the essential remained. It asked us to see clearly, to stay with discomfort, and to surrender to transformation.
In that stripped-down stillness, guided by Noya Rao and the curanderas and curanderos, we brushed against the infinite. With no noise or comfort to cling to, the veil between self and spirit grew thin. What opened was not just awareness, but communion. In such stillness, the presence of the divine becomes unmistakable.
I had brought Adrian to the jungle with a quiet urgency. At that time in his life, he was anchored in what could be seen and measured—drawn to science and wary about anything that couldn’t be proven. But time was not on our side, and I wanted to offer him something that often takes years through meditation or spiritual practice—a falling away of the illusion of separation. I wanted him to encounter the kind of liberation and love that doesn’t come from answers, but from surrender to the mystery. I wanted him to have a direct experience of interconnectedness, awe, and unconditional love.
In my experience, master plants like Noya Rao and ayahuasca can open that door. They offer an embodied encounter with non-dual awareness—dissolving the perceived boundaries between self and the infinite, and revealing that all things arise and pass within a larger field of being. It was part of preparing him for my death—not to bypass the grief, but to soften the edges between form and emptiness, presence and absence. To help him know that when I was gone, I wouldn’t be lost. Like one candle lighting another—no flame disappears; it only changes form.
My desire to bring him to the jungle was shaped entirely by what I hoped it might offer him. His, by contrast, was rooted in the quiet conviction that this journey was for my healing—a different kind of devotion. We had each gone in for the other. But instead, we found ourselves caught in deep, personal currents of transformation, each receiving exactly what we needed—though not in the ways we had imagined. The medicine met us both, tenderly and unrelentingly, and set us on paths we are still walking, together and apart. The content of those lessons is still too intimate, too alive, to share. But what I can say is that they reshaped us—individually and in relation to each other—in ways that continue to unfold.
We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. - Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
Revisiting China: A Journey Through Memory and Change
This final chapter is its own kind of homecoming. The idea of returning to China had lingered between us since we left in 2013—a quiet intention, waiting for the right moment to take shape.
While I had returned often for work, Adrian’s only visit since then was a solitary layover—a brief flicker of reconnection during his wider travels. Still, the pull endured. For years, the ashes of Carl—our beloved Beijing street dog—rested on Adrian’s bookshelf, a silent keeper of memory and a promise we made long ago: to one day bring him home, when the time was right.
Exploring Shanghai: A Glimpse into Adrian's World
The opportunity finally arrived when Adrian chose to study abroad in Shanghai last summer—one of just 350 U.S. students in China at the time.
Ironically, I had secured a 10-year tourist visa for him a few years earlier, before tensions between the U.S. and China spiraled. So it was more than a little frustrating to learn that he now needed a student visa—rendering the old one useless.
Visiting Shanghai as Adrian’s study term came to a close offered a glimpse into the vibrant world he had built for himself—a world far removed from the days when I guided his steps through this country.
Now, I was the one following his lead. I met his friends, shared meals at his favorite restaurants, and absorbed the rhythm of his new life in China. Our time together was threaded with music—his great love—from orchestral pieces inspired by Studio Ghibli films to haunting pipa performances by Wu Man, and even traditional ensembles featuring instruments over 3,000 years old.
From Shanghai, we traveled to Yunnan province, exploring the diverse landscapes and layered histories of four beautiful cities. Often surrounded by throngs of domestic tourists—many dressed in faux Tibetan garb, phones raised to capture every moment—we were frequently the only foreigners in sight.
Craving quiet, we slipped beyond the well-trodden paths and into the hills. One unforgettable trek led us to Tiger Leaping Gorge, where the roar of waterfalls echoed through stone and sky. There, tucked into the cliffs, we found a small temple dedicated to Kuan Yin—a presence deeply important to me. In that still, sacred place, our journey paused, and a sense of quiet connection settled over us.
Beijing: A Return to Familiar Ground
The heart of our journey was to Beijing—a return through the gateway of a life we once knew, now shrouded in transformation. With a list of beloved places compiled by Adrian from our years living there (2008–2013), we set out to retrace our footsteps.
But the city, like many we’d revisited, had changed. The relentless pace of modernization had smoothed over much of what we remembered—the winding alleyways, the vibrant street life, the neighborhoods filled with texture and soul. Many of the places that once held our most tender memories had been replaced by sleek glass towers that reflected the sky, but failed to capture the soul of old Beijing.
Propaganda—centered on Xi Jinping’s ideology—and the quiet omnipresence of surveillance seemed to infuse every corner of daily life, extending well beyond Beijing. Adrian moved through this reshaped landscape with ease, deftly managing logistics through a WeChat account he'd set up on a burner phone—sparing me the familiar frustration of app reinstallations and verifications.
It was another reminder of how much had shifted. Once, I had planned every detail of our travels through China. Now, Adrian led the way. The reversal felt sudden, but like the thresholds of memory we’d encountered before, it had been forming for years—an invisible hand of time rearranging the roles between us.
Reconnecting with the Past: Nostalgia and Reunions
In Beijing, we stepped into a quiet current of nostalgia—visiting our old apartment, Adrian’s former school, and the original Beijing office of the International Crisis Group, tucked inside the sprawling China World Hotel complex. I once treated the hotel lobby as my unofficial workspace, coordinating VIP visits amid its polished marble and soft ambient light.
Remarkably, little had changed. The same custom scent still hung in the air, an olfactory time capsule. For a moment, it felt as if the intervening years had slipped away. We were not just revisiting places—we were reinhabiting them, carried by the weight and warmth of memory.
We reunited joyfully with old friends, though many had long since scattered to distant corners of the world. Among my Chinese friends, some were nearing retirement, while others now occupied academic or professional roles where close ties with American nationals could quietly complicate their futures. One family close to us had embraced the quiet resistance of the 躺平 (tang ping) movement—choosing to “lie flat: rather than strive. Others were quietly charting their exit from the country, their plans paused by the obligation to care for aging parents.
Reflecting on Change: Navigating China's Current Atmosphere
Returning to the Sanlitun Diplomatic Compound—our former home—we briefly forgot we had contacts who could have helped us gain access. After explaining our history as past residents, we were eventually allowed in, though accompanied by a uniformed police officer.
Walking through once-familiar pathways under official supervision felt surreal—a quiet, dissonant reflection of China’s current atmosphere. The compound was the same in outline, but carried a different weight. Still, Adrian, with characteristic calm, managed to persuade the officer to take our photo in the exact spot we had posed more than a decade ago.
We had long imagined a quiet, intentional moment to return Carl’s ashes to the place he once called home. Instead, in a rushed exchange of glances, we scattered them quickly in the grass before leaving—less a ceremony than a gesture, but no less full of love.
Reconnecting with old friends stirred something deep. One dear friend—a human rights defender I first met in 2001 during a visit to Beijing with Mary Robinson—had since endured detention, intimidation, and police violence. For the safety of his family, he eventually stepped back from activism.
Still, like all Chinese citizens, he remains enmeshed in the vast architecture of digital surveillance. In this environment, even seemingly harmless words—those that merely sound like sensitive terms—can result in expulsion from chat groups or total exclusion from WeChat, a platform so embedded in daily life that losing access is akin to disappearing. Communication, payments, social connection—it all flows through that one portal. Without it, navigating modern China becomes nearly impossible.
This same friend encouraged us to visit a highly respected Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) doctor—an old acquaintance whose life was irrevocably altered by his involvement in the Tiananmen Square protests. Imprisoned for his activism, he paid a steep price, yet never abandoned his healing practice.
His presence—marked by quiet resilience, humility, and a depth of wisdom—left a lasting impression on both of us. When we entered his office, we found him studying German, a language he had spent years learning with quiet determination.
After listening carefully to my story, he gently recommended that we consult a TCM specialist focused on liver conditions, offering the names of two of China’s most respected experts.
What moved us most was his immediate concern for our friend. As soon as he saw him, he asked, with quiet urgency, “Why are you still here?”
The question hung in the air, weighted with unspoken understanding. Our friend answered carefully, speaking of his aging parents and the pull of responsibility, even as he quietly shared his hopes of eventually moving abroad. In that brief exchange, the quiet costs of staying—and the complexity of leaving—came sharply into focus.
Diagnosis Disclosure: Navigating Cultural Silence around illness and death
The task of sharing my illness with several dear Chinese friends after a long absence due to COVID was daunting. I had hoped to tell them in person—to soften the impact and spare them unnecessary worry. But this was my longest time away, and bringing such difficult news into long-awaited reunions inevitably cast a shadow over moments meant for joy.
Adrian understands well my discomfort with the cultural silence that often surrounds illness and mortality. I’ve tried to show him that there is strength in vulnerability—that there’s a kind of dignity in facing reality head-on, even in our most exposed moments. Sharing my diagnosis now was also a way to ease the burden he might otherwise carry later, sparing him the weight of explaining my absence after I’m gone.
For those unfamiliar with the film The Farewell by Lulu Wang, I highly recommend it. It beautifully captures the delicate cultural dance around truth, illness, and death. The original Chinese title, 别告诉她—Don’t Tell Her—offers an even clearer window into the film’s core tension: the choice to shield a loved one from painful knowledge, and the emotional complexity that choice carries.
In the end, the moments when I shared my illness during our visit brought a flood of tears and an outpouring of love—for both me and Adrian. Heartache mingled with deep connection, turning our reunions into something far more intimate than I had imagined.
Having Adrian by my side as we told our beloved ayi about my illness revealed the quiet depth of our shared journey. It wasn’t just about finding the strength to share difficult news, even at the cost of dimming the brief time we had together. It was also about watching Adrian step in, effortlessly, when I faltered—when the weight of emotion made the Chinese words slip from my grasp.
That moment spoke volumes. Not just about love, but about our shared commitment to meeting life’s hardest truths with honesty and grace—even when language falls short.
Orbiting Ambitions: Science Diplomacy
Passing on a legacy rooted in compassion and service is deeply important to me. So watching Adrian’s growing passion for science diplomacy and outer space policy has brought a kind of joy I find hard to put into words.
His fascination with the cosmos has shaped our travels—drawing us to observatories, museums, and exhibitions that celebrate the vast mysteries of the universe at nearly every stop. What began as his curiosity has become a shared thread between us. I’ve gone from quietly observing to stepping in beside him, learning as he explains the intricate beauty of physics and astronomy with a mix of childlike wonder and startling clarity.
China’s ambitions for a permanent lunar base—and its broader effort to weave space exploration into the fabric of everyday life—were unmistakable throughout our trip. At nearly every turn, we encountered exhibitions, public displays, and a steady stream of propaganda celebrating the nation’s celestial aspirations. The timing was uncanny: Adrian had just completed a research project on the subject, making the experience feel both surreal and serendipitous.
We spent hours at an exhibition in Beijing’s 798 art district—less an art show than a bold display of China’s space ambitions. On our way out, we decided to visit the North Korean Art Studio affiliated with the UN-sanctioned company Mansudae.
Despite my repeated recommendations to the Security Council for its closure during my time on the UN Panel of Experts, it was still operating——a reminder of how sanctions on the DPRK often proved more symbolic than effective.
Amid the unmistakably North Korean staff and merchandise, Adrian couldn’t resist adding to his collection—selecting a few propaganda posters featuring the country’s ICBMs. He paid in cash, of course, to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention.
The entire experience served as a quiet echo of our time in that enigmatic country—a place Adrian last visited at age 11, when he recorded a sweet, thoughtful dispatch from Rason that remains one of my most cherished memories.
These glimpses barely scratch the surface of our travels. I’ve documented more of our adventures here and here. Ahead, if health allows we’re planning a coral conservation diving expedition to Tubbataha; a trip to see the total solar eclipse in Texas in April, and to Burning Man where we will turn the Playa dust into glass for jewelry. Each plan holds the promise of more shared adventures—rooted in wonder, purpose, and presence.
Conclusion: Embracing the Legacy of Love
As I reflect on these past three years—of motherhood lived alongside illness, of unexpected joys and profound challenges—I’m struck by the awe-inspiring journey that has unfolded.
Adrian and I have traveled not only across continents, but through the inner landscapes of grief, wonder, and transformation. What began in the shadow of a terminal diagnosis has become a path illuminated by love—revealing the richness of our bond and the depth of our shared understanding. In preparing Adrian for a future without my physical presence, I found that I was also preparing myself—for transition, with grace and peace.
The paradox of terminal illness is this: the best preparation for leaving is to fully embrace life. To remove every barrier to love. And while one might expect that to make parting harder, it does something else entirely—it brings peace. It brings gratitude. It reveals that a life lived in deep connection is its own kind of eternity, and that love, in the end, is the legacy that lasts.
Adrian’s evolution has been remarkable. The nihilism he leaned into after my diagnosis gradually gave way to something quieter and more expansive—a deepening appreciation for life’s mystery. Over time, he’s cultivated an embodied understanding of non-duality, while remaining firmly rooted in the world, fully present to both its beauty and its impermanence.
In the end, love endures—reaching beyond the limits of our physical presence and holding us together in ways that time and space cannot diminish.
The journey Adrian and I have walked, as unexpected and unwelcome as its catalyst was, has become an extraordinary gift. It’s taught me that our essence is not erased by illness or death, but made more luminous by the love we give and receive.
When I was first diagnosed, I believed it was my responsibility to prepare Adrian for my passing. But I’ve come to understand that such preparation is elusive—grief defies planning. What I could offer instead was the groundwork: helping him build a strong foundation of support, resilience, and wisdom. In doing so, I’ve watched him grow into someone more than ready to meet life’s complexities with clarity and courage. We’ve each found our footing, and I trust that he will carry forward, even through the ache of our eventual parting. All will be well.
Ours is not a story defined by illness, but by love—resilient, fierce, and transformative. Though the road ahead remains uncertain, I feel a quiet peace in knowing Adrian is equipped to walk it with empathy, strength, and a deep joy for living.
And as I look back—with a heart full of gratitude for the moments we’ve shared, the lessons we’ve learned, and the love that has carried us—I remain thankful for each day we’ve been given, and for the bright, wide future that still awaits him.
Prompts for further reflection
These questions are offered as invitations to explore the themes of legacy, love, resilience, and the enduring bonds that shape our human experience.
1. How might we begin to prepare—practically, emotionally, and spiritually—for our own departure?
2. In the context of illness, how do relationships shift and deepen? What does such adversity reveal about the nature of connection—for both the one leaving and those who remain?
3. Is there a relationship in your own life that has shaped your emotional or spiritual journey in a meaningful way?
4. The essay explores what it means to face fear and embrace uncertainty. How have your fears influenced the choices you've made? What helps you move through them?
5. Have you experienced a moment of personal or spiritual transformation that altered your view of life, death, or what matters most? How did it change you?
6. How does a sense of interconnection shape the way you live, love, and relate to others?
8. What has travel—whether across the globe or into unfamiliar inner terrain—taught you about life, death, and the essence of what truly matters?
Feel free to share in the comments, or carry these questions with you into your own quiet moments.
Dearest Stephanie, thank you for sharing the beautiful and simple wisdom born of your current experience and your life. Every day we live we should remember that we are only very fleetingly here and to leave as much love as we can behind everywhere and to do everything with love. The every day frustrations and worries make us forget this profoundly important edict. I’m guilty of yelling at my kids mostly out of fatigue and weariness when what I really want to be saying to them and showing to them is I love you. ❤️ Thank you Stephanie for sharing. Sending you love and prayers. In the end we are all in God’s hands and are fleeting star dust with just a moment here on Earth to love. We mustn’t waste that moment. Love, Sally xoxo
Gorgeous and important writing and wisdom. Thank you.