The Beauty of Impermanence

I used to resist change with everything I had. Ever since I was a child, I loved my routines — the comfort of knowing what to expect, the feeling of control. But as I get older, I am slowly learning to see the beauty in impermanence. Finally, I am learning to welcome changes with open arms. I am giving up the exhausting need to control all aspects of everything. And what a breath of fresh air — because the truth is, everything is impermanent.

Feeling attached to anything, especially the sense of control, is futile. There is literally nothing in the world that is consistent, except for change itself. We will grow older, our bodies will change, and one day, our breath will leave us for the last time. This is inevitable. Relationships will shift too — whether romantic, familial, or friendships. Some will last longer than others, but none will last forever in the form we once knew.

"It is not impermanence that makes us suffer. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not."
— Thich Nhat Hanh

I was only able to start embracing change when life felt like it was all falling apart. Everything around me was changing — massively and all at once. I had no choice but to surrender, to let go, and to trust whatever came next. I had always known, logically, that you can't control everything, but I hadn’t fully embraced this truth in my heart. I fought against it, exhausting myself with resistance.

When I began meditating and reading the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh, something shifted. For the first time, I felt this truth not just in my mind, but in my body, in my breath, in my heart.

Meditation and the Present Moment

In my meditation practice, I usually focus on the present moment: feeling my breath, noticing the sensations in my body, and watching thoughts as they arise — without holding on to them. I try to let them move along, like clouds across the sky.

This practice helped me see a deeper truth: the past no longer exists. Any regrets, sadness, or anger about what happened before are simply echoes; they are not alive anymore. And the same is true for the future — it is unknown, it has not yet come into being. Worrying about what might happen is a drain on our energy. It might happen, or it might not. And even if it does, it is unlikely to unfold exactly as we want it to.

All we ever truly have is the present moment. That is the only thing that deserves our full attention. Even then, we have no real control over what happens outside of ourselves — only how we respond. Life will unfold with or without our plans or expectations. All we can really do is let go, breathe, and enjoy the ride.

"Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness. If, in our heart, we still cling to anything — anger, anxiety, or possessions — we cannot be free."
— Thich Nhat Hanh

How amazing that we get a new start, any minute of any day, we can choose a new path, make a new decision, change the course of our lives. How incredible that, with this knowledge, we can better appreciate and love every moment, every breath for its uniqueness instead of taking anything for granted.

A Memory of My Dad

In September 2021, my father passed away after suffering an aneurysm. Although he’d been in poor health for years, his death was still unexpected. It broke my heart in a way I hadn’t experienced before. And yet, in that deep grief, I found clarity.

I still miss him every single day. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I laugh, imagining what he would say in a given moment. Sometimes I sit with the ways he disappointed me. But through it all, I remember his big heart, his spontaneous spirit, and the way he loved life to the fullest (sometimes too much, as those of you who knew him can attest to). He was probably the move authentic person I've ever met.

His passing reminded me how quickly life can change. It reminded me not to take anything—or anyone—for granted. It reminded me to hug the people I love, to say the words that matter, and to stop spending time on things that don’t bring joy, meaning, or love.

And the thing about impermanence is that it doesn’t erase love—it transforms it. Though my father is no longer here in physical form, he is still with me. In my loud laugh that’s “too much” for some but just right for me. In my deep love for the ocean and sun. In the way I love my children with my whole heart.

His presence has changed, but it hasn’t disappeared.

One of my last memories of my dad is from a visit to California just weeks before he passed away. How perfectly timed it was — we spent four full weeks with him before his aneurysm, and one final week while he was in the hospital. My children got to meet and know their grandpa, and more importantly, my dad had time to play, cuddle, laugh, and just be with his grandchildren.

One day, we decided to visit Knott’s Berry Farm, a local theme park. I packed up my three kids — aged 5, 3, and 10 months — and we set out with my dad, who by then needed a walker and moved slowly. On the way there, we stopped to pick up donuts (an apple fritter the size of my head to share, his favorite).

The day was chaotic — full of meltdowns, tears, laughter, and the baby crying half the time. My dad mainly walked alongside us from ride to ride, watching the bigger kids or sitting with me while we waited. I was so caught up in managing everything that I didn’t realize he hadn’t gone on any rides himself.

Later, when I said I was ready to leave, my dad asked if there was time for him to ride something with the kids. Of course, I said yes. We found a little train ride that could fit all of us. Watching him beam with happiness while riding with his grandchildren is a memory I will cherish forever.

On the drive home, I apologized, thinking he must have been disappointed, I knew a part of me was — managing tantrums, a crying baby and long waits. But his response was pure Greg:
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “I got to spend time with you. That’s all that matters. It was a great day.”

My heart broke a little hearing that. He was right. It’s not about the rides or the perfect day. It’s about being together. His love was so simple and so pure.

Love, Change, and the Gifts of Impermanence

"Thanks to impermanence, everything is possible. Life itself is possible."
— Thich Nhat Hanh

After my father’s passing, I found myself reflecting often on the nature of change and memory. Though his physical presence is no longer here, his love is woven into my life. Impermanence doesn’t mean loss; it means transformation. Love doesn’t disappear — it simply changes form.

As I sit here and breathe, I am reminded that each moment is a precious gift, never to be lived exactly the same way again. I have also realized there is one other constant in my life, alongside change. And that constant is love. Love is who I am at my core. It’s who my father was. It’s what I try to pass on to my children, my friends, my students. Love is always here—even when I don’t see it or feel it right away.

Everything else can and will change. And what a relief that is.

I will live more fully, more freely, and more lightly with this wisdom in my heart.

Today, I invite you to take a deep breath and simply notice what is here. Feel the breath enter your body, feel it leave. Notice the love that lingers beneath it all.

Change will come — it always does — but so will new beginnings, unexpected joy, and the quiet, enduring presence of love.
May we live with open hearts, grateful for each breath, each memory, each precious moment of this beautiful, impermanent life.