THE WEIGHT OF A GOODBYE

During middle school, I always found myself squeezed into the crowded lunch table at the center of the quad, barely perched on the edge of my seat. Our square table, designed for eight, often accommodated twelve or more students, cramming us all together in discomfort.

One boy, who took on the role of the "funny one," wielded his humor like a weapon. His jokes always came at someone else's expense, and we all dreaded becoming his target. Everyone, including me, laughed along when he made fun of others, but when it was my turn, I sat there with a forced smile as he caricatured my Asian heritage, his eyes slanted by his fingers and voice exaggeratedly mocking. It was demeaning, yet I felt powerless to protest, convincing myself that it was all in good fun.

When I started my freshman year, I encountered new beginnings. I tried out for one of the top volleyball teams in the nation, not expecting much; to my surprise, I made the cut. Colin, a leader on the team, warmly welcomed me and opened doors to a new world of inclusion. He guided me through the ins and outs of the team and made me feel like I truly belonged. We developed a routine during tournaments: we would stroll through the different venues, watching other top teams in the country; we would explore vibrant cities like Orlando, Chicago, and Los Angeles; and we would lightheartedly exchange numbers and hang out with girls we found at the tournaments. Those moments, though simple, were where our bond grew stronger, and where I began to truly understand myself. He was the first person to help me embrace my Asian identity, as we would eat foods and drinks that my friends from school would never appreciate, especially since I am growing up in a predominantly white community. Living in Marin County, I naturally found myself becoming like every other kid, even though I knew I was different. He was my first true friend outside of school, and our connection felt unique and precious.

There are communities and hotspots filled with Asian Americans and their distinct culture compared to white Americans. Something I have always found intriguing yet distant. I had always thought my home lacked diversity—the kind I encounter, even today when I travel to San Jose for volleyball practices. The two-hour drive is exhausting, but being surrounded by a more diverse community makes it worth it. Colin, who lives closer to San Jose, introduced me to this new world and helped me feel comfortable with my identity. He showed me that there was a place where I didn’t have to fit into a mold, where I could simply be myself without hesitation. Over time, I began to see Colin and my teammates as more than just friends—they felt like a second family, sometimes even closer than my own.

What I didn’t realize then was that friendships, no matter how strong, are often our first real experience with loss. We all know death is inevitable and dread the day we will have to say a final goodbye to our loved ones; however, before we experience any familial loss, we often go through the pain of fracturing meaningful friendships. Whether it’s growing away from the other person or an abrupt, forceful tear in the relationship, friendships are bound to change and end at some point in our lives. My first experience with grief wasn’t at a funeral or from a tragic event. At first glance, it seemed trivial: my best friend leaving my club volleyball team.

At the time, I thought of grief in one way—solely tied to death. But with the benefit of hindsight, I began to understand that loss comes in many forms. I had been to a funeral before; my great—grandfather passed away. My family traveled to Taiwan for the beautiful funeral. The venue was humble: a peaceful hill where my great—grandfather could be buried to rest for the final time. Everyone was weeping and sobbing and sniffling; I was confused. My brother and I sat respectfully near the back of the funeral home, scared to approach the casket where a lifeless body lay. While my grandmother and great uncles and aunts sobbed, we sat unaffected by the death of a distant relative. I sat there awkwardly, thinking I should be heartbroken and grieving just like everyone else. I wanted to feel grief, to mourn like my family did, but I simply couldn’t. At the time, I thought something was wrong with me. I assumed grief had to look a certain way—dramatic, all-consuming, and reserved for the deepest losses. I felt detached compared to the rest of my grieving family.

My older brother and I were no older than the combined age of 15 when I met my great—grandfather about a year before he passed away. I asked him questions about his experiences in World War II and the Chinese Civil War, including his escape from Mao Zedong and the Chinese Communist Party as a general on the losing side. His life was inspiring and fulfilled, yet I felt no sadness for him. I often wondered why that was. Perhaps it was because, unlike Colin, I never shared a close familial bond with him.

But years later, when I realized I would never step onto the court as Colin's teammate again, I finally understood grief in a way I hadn’t before. It wasn’t just about death; it was about change, about losing something that had once been a constant in my life. It wasn’t the last time I was going to see him, but it felt like the end of something special. For years, we had trained, competed, and grown as teammates, sharing the highs of victory and the frustrations of defeat. Volleyball wasn’t just a sport to us; it was the foundation of our friendship. When he told us he wouldn’t be returning for the summer season, I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard. But when we played our final tournament together, I found myself overwhelmed with emotions I didn’t quite understand.

The weekend of our last tournament together, I stayed at his hotel. He had an extra bed and immediately offered it to me when my family’s original booking fell through. I had texted my group chat about my misfortune, and it was Colin who texted back immediately, saying, “I think you can stay at mine, we have an extra bed.” Of course, I took the offer and thanked him many times. What could be better than spending the weekend with my best friend while playing the sport that we both loved? That weekend felt like any other—joking around, warming up together, competing side by side. But underneath it all, I knew it was the last time.

As we stood in the huddle before our last game, my heart felt heavy, and my eyes began to well with tears. At first, I thought it was because of my poor performance earlier in the tournament—I had missed crucial plays, made unforced errors, and struggled to shake off the frustration. But as I wiped my face and took deep breaths, I realized it wasn’t just disappointment in my game. It was something deeper. It was the realization that this was the last time I’d play alongside Colin as a teammate. The weight of that moment settled in my chest, making it hard to focus, yet I pushed through, trying to savor every second on the court with him.

Right before the game started, my coach pulled me aside and told me he was putting me back in my old position—just for this match. "Let’s get the gang back together," he said with a grin. It was a small gesture, but it hit me hard. As I stepped onto the court, seeing Colin beside me in our usual spots, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. It felt like a tribute to all the time we had spent playing together, a final moment to relive what had made our friendship so special.

Tears streamed down my flushed face, reddened from the embarrassment of crying over something so silly—so trivial. I tried to hold them back, yet they continued to fall. As embarrassing as it was, not a single teammate came over to tease me in our usual banter. I could sense they were also feeling somber, which provided me with comfort in a twisted sense. Knowing I wasn’t the only one experiencing these unpleasant emotions helped me understand what emotions were washing over me. Seeing my teammates and Colin’s eyes glisten under the convention center light validated what I was feeling. I wasn’t alone.

Looking back, it seems silly that I cried over something as small as a teammate leaving. But grief doesn’t always make sense. It isn’t always about losing someone forever. Sometimes, it’s woven into the quieter moments—like the last serve, the final huddle, or the end of a season. It’s the ache of knowing that a chapter is closing, that things will never quite be the same. And while I still see Colin outside of volleyball, our dynamic has shifted. I now understand that grief isn’t always about death—it’s about change. And change, as I learned, can hurt just as deeply.