Karaoke was a staple at my family gatherings growing up, each individual having their turn at the mic. Though not Punjabi himself, my dad sang the lyrics of a Punjabi song with heartfelt passion. His eyes sparkled when singing, even as I covered my ears at his futile attempts to reach the right notes. As he sang into the mic, the title lyrics stood out to me: “thoda thoda hasna jarur chahide” meaning “you must laugh a little bit.” A simple lyric from an old song that resonated with me long after. At each party, even if newer songs were sung, my dad ensured that that song would be played on the bulky karaoke machine. Even when the Indian uncles jokingly complained about its repetitiveness. Even when I would tease his vocals, expressing that he should leave the singing to the professionals. His energy became lively and transformed the room, his passionate facial expressions inducing laughter from even the most straight-faced uncles. The simple saying in the lyrics was one I didn’t think about much as I grew older. I devoted myself to studying, or countless extracurriculars. As high school approached, I could feel the pressure of college applications creeping up on me, calling me to do more. I stressed about my grades, or high test scores. The number on the page defined me; I couldn’t enjoy myself without it haunting me in the back of my mind. My parents eventually noticed the stress I was placing on myself. My dad would check up on me with small gestures, like bringing me apples. He would buy my Chipotle in the midst of a study session, or encourage me to go on walks. These small moments of care grounded me and balanced out the pressure I was placing upon myself to succeed. In my junior year of high school I received a call that permanently altered my life and perspective: my dad had collapsed from a cardiac arrest and passed away within minutes. This news plunged me into denial and shock. My dad had never had any prior health conditions and had always been active and healthy. As grief consumed me, I began losing my motivation for school, or extracurriculars or even the walks that once brought me satisfaction. What was the point of chasing goals when life itself could vanish so suddenly? However, revisiting memories as the weeks passed, I kept returning towards one lyric— “you must laugh a little bit.” It was my dad’s mantra, his gift to me that I anchored myself onto. Repeating this lyric to myself was a way I could honor him and carry forward the liveliness he embodied and spread to others. While my dad was passionate about his medical career, he was also passionate about fostering relationships and spreading joy. His lessons reshaped my longstanding perspective on success: It wasn’t only measured in numbers but also in the way you bring light to yourself and others’ lives each day. Now, whether I’m tackling a challenging problem in school, volunteering at a Hindi school, or spending time with my friends, I remind myself to laugh a little bit throughout. As I look ahead to college and beyond, I hope to pursue my career with passion, and bring that same warmth to the communities and relationships I build. By choosing to find light, even in difficult moments, I feel like I’m carrying my dad’s legacy forward. His voice will continue to echo in my mind in every moment of success —not in perfect notes but in the imperfect joy of his singing.