Sometimes it’s hard to believe that the people who lived centuries ago were just that—people. People like us, with their own thoughts and dreams, their own hobbies, their own worries.
We read about them in history books and see their names etched on plaques, but it’s difficult to imagine them as anything more than characters in a story.
And truthfully, sometimes even our grandparents can feel like they belong to another species altogether. To us, they’re simply old people. It’s easy to forget that they were once young, just like our parents, just like us — rushing to school, getting scolded for undone homework, falling in love, getting lost in their own private daydreams.
Working in a hospital—a place where life and death meet every day—I’m constantly reminded of this truth. Part of my job involves handling death certificates, and with each one, I hold the patient’s ID in my hand. There, I see their name, their birthday, their parents’ names. Sometimes I catch a photo from 20 or 30 years ago, a version of them unrecognizable beside the present. And in that moment, it hits me: these grandparents were once young, too.
They were once us.
It’s the same feeling I get when I see kids walking home from school, their backpacks slung over their shoulders. Sometimes it feels like I’m being transported back in time, because these scenes have repeated themselves for generations. The same roads, the same laughter, the same tired shuffle home. Except the children from 100 years ago have all grown old—or are gone now. And one day, these children will too.
One day, someone will hold our IDs and see the dates, the faded photograph, and wonder who we were. Until then, we get to be here—to laugh, to love, to exist as the people we are right now. And maybe that’s enough.
Generations fold into one another, and in the end, you realize: you are them, and they are you.
with love and light,
Emily
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