The image is seared into my brain: my crying aunt leaning over to kiss my grandfather on the forehead goodbye, a mask covering her face and his. The smell of disinfectant, the sobbing that echoed in the silence, and the blurriness shadowed by tears arise with the image. In the silence and quarantine of my room, I found myself drowning in the chaos of my thoughts: the time my grandfather took me out to eat dongasuh even though he had very little money, how we used to spend our evenings watching Jeopardy together, the warmth of his smile, the smell of his hug, the feeling of invincibility that filled me when he told me to pursue my dreams. These memories colored my mind in the early hours of the mornings after my grandfather passed as grief manifested in insomnia. How can I describe what my grandfather meant to me? He was my most fervent supporter and the main lead in a collection of my fondest childhood memories. I felt robbed. All the "I love you"s I never had a chance to say again. The questions I had about our family history and what immigrating to the U.S. was like, never answered. But, more than any of that, his unconditional love and warmth I could never bask in again. COVID-19 quite literally stole all these intangible, precious possibilities. It was the devastating loss of my grandfather that prompted me to face my mortality and the deaths of millions worldwide due to this pandemic. This devastating event uniquely connected me to millions across the world and gave me empathy for this form of suffering on a deeper level. As I lost my number one supporter, I began reflecting on who I am, the writing dreams I've aspired for, and my impact on the world. I realized in the isolation of my room that I remained static, waiting for the end of the pandemic to resume my life. I was constantly living my life in the "when this ends," and "I'll begin ___ in the future when things aren't so bad." It was facing the tragedy of my grandfather's death that I understood the precious, short beauty of life. My grandfather gave me one last gift by prompting a journey of learning about myself. I used the resources at my disposal: the internet, my friends, and my family to embark on a path to undergo a range of experiences, learning a little more about myself and the world each time. I found the Hadley Braille Institute online through research, and I began taking free online classes in the hopes that I could teach my grandma who is legally blind, and eventually my mother who has a high-risk case of glaucoma. In learning braille, I discovered a great appreciation for the privilege of sight. I am now filled with gratitude every time I'm able to see the stillness of the bonsai tree I'm growing or the laugh wrinkles on my mother's face. Moreover, I also chose to spend more time living with my widowed grandmother, seizing the moment to ask questions about my family and Korea that I was never able to ask my grandfather. I learned that my family was from Andong, the recipes of signature Korean foods that have been passed down for generations, and even something as innate to my identity as the meaning of my Korean name. Lastly, I found myself pursuing writing more passionately than ever, remembering my grandfather's last words to me at the hospital: "live and study hard." It is through my awakening to the brevity of life that enabled me to learn how much I wanted to be a writer and inspired me to apply for the fellowship that's enabling me to publish my chapbook. I learned a new way to approach life, empathy for others worldwide, the depth of my dreams, and found the initiative to write more. Most importantly, using the lessons I learned, I transformed my state of being, from static to active, to take advantage of being alive.