The Bitter Sweet

I mentioned in a previous blog that music carries a lot of weight in my life. There are certain songs that instantly transport me back to a particular season—to people, places, conversations, and moments I thought I had forgotten.

One of those songs is Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve.

It was the recessional song at our wedding.

If you’re familiar with the lyrics, that might seem like an unusual choice. But it wasn’t the lyrics alone that drew me in. It was the tension between them and everything else happening in the song. The soaring strings. The steady rhythm. The beauty wrapped around the reality.

That contrast felt honest.

Ricardo and I had both lived enough life by then to know that happiness doesn’t erase hardship. We had each walked through difficult seasons personally and within our families. When we planned our wedding, we didn’t want to pretend those experiences hadn’t shaped us.

There was symbolism woven throughout that day—small details that most people never noticed. Quiet acknowledgments of where we had been, what we had endured, and how we viewed life together.

Ricardo is logical and steady. Even when everything around him seems to be unraveling, he remains calm and anchored.

I, on the other hand, tend toward blunt honesty. Sometimes more blunt than necessary. Over the years I’ve learned—and continue to learn—that truth is best delivered with kindness. Ricardo has always balanced me in that way. The yin to my yang.

Neither of us wanted to gloss over our pasts.

Ricardo had lost a niece and nephew several years earlier. I lost my grandmother during a pivotal point in our relationship and my grandfather the day after our engagement. They were absent from our wedding day, yet somehow still present. We carried them with us then, and we still do now.

And even as we celebrated, we knew difficult days were still ahead.

My brother-in-law was living with a condition that carried a limited prognosis. His boys were still young. We knew that while our journey together was beginning, another chapter in our family’s story would eventually come to an end.

That realization sat quietly in the background of our wedding day.

Not enough to diminish the joy.

Not enough to overshadow the celebration.

Just enough to remind us that both could exist at the same time.

That was my first real lesson in holding grief and gratitude together.

In understanding that joy doesn’t cancel sorrow.

And sorrow doesn’t diminish joy.

Sometimes life is the combination of the two…simply bittersweet.

Fast forward to recent days…

Our trip to Alaska felt bittersweet in many of the same ways.

Most of our nieces and nephews are now adults. My youngest nephew on my side of the family has graduated from high school.

We’re proud of him. Praying for him as he navigates what is next in life. 

Yet every milestone carries a quiet reminder that time keeps moving forward. I know my sister will experience something new as an empty nester. Both excitement for his future and what is ahead but also sad that her boys are now grown men. 

But there is another layer to this trip.

For most of my life, my parents felt invincible.

Not perfect.

Not superhuman.

Just constant.

Steady fixtures in every season of life.

Lately, though, I find myself noticing their humanity more than ever before.

Especially my mom.

Health challenges have followed her for years, yet she has always pushed through them with a determination that amazes me. But age has a way of reminding us that none of us are immune to time.

I don’t know how many more trips we’ll take together.

None of us do.

So I find myself slowing down.

Taking more photos.

Listening a little longer.

Paying attention to conversations that once might have seemed ordinary.

Writing things down.

Because the next trip isn’t guaranteed.

The next holiday isn’t guaranteed.

The next ordinary Tuesday isn’t guaranteed.

The reality that life is a vapor is not lost on Ricardo and me.

Maybe that’s why we hold milestones differently now.

We celebrate them fully.

We laugh harder.

We stay present longer.

We take the pictures.

We make the trip.

And we allow ourselves to feel the ache that sometimes accompanies the joy.

Because that’s the truth of it.

Life isn’t purely sweet.

And it isn’t purely bitter.

It’s both.

A symphony of gratitude and loss.

Of beginnings and endings.

Of holding tightly while learning to let go.

And if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s this:

The bittersweet moments are often the ones worth remembering most.