A year ago this week—and nine years after the death of my father—I lost one of my closest friends. In a way, these two losses became points on a timeline that stretched over a decade, shaping how I see both life and grief. Over the last ten years, I’ve had a lot of time to think about the grieving process. I had often asked myself what it is that randomly sparks deep emotions—a smile, a laugh, or even tears.

What I’ve come to realize is that these small, often unexpected moments are part of what I call the “pattern” of a person—little fragments of their humor, kindness, quirks, and even their flaws that can surface without warning. It’s a pattern woven through the everyday experiences we share, a gentle, continuous reminder that the people we’ve lost never disappear entirely. Sometimes, it’s a vivid memory of how they lit up a room with a joke; other times, it’s a sudden recollection of some biting yet instructive fatherly remark or a disagreement we never resolved. The good and the bad alike remind us that they were real, fully human—and in some strange way, this mix of sweet and bitter memories keeps them close, woven into the fabric of our own lives.

But what causes these patterns to randomly reemerge? The memories and recollections seem to be sparked by these small but powerful cues—like the rumble of my dad’s truck laboring up the hill, the quiet sway of a ski lift as it carries me upward, the buzz of a busy restaurant, or the opening chords of a familiar song. Each little fragment has a way of unlocking the wider pattern of the person, shifting me from a single moment in the present to a flood of memories that carry me back in time. It’s almost as if these triggers fling open a door, revealing not just an isolated memory but the entire landscape of who he was—how he laughed, the way he smiled, his way of looking at the world—reminding me that he is still here in the tapestry of my everyday experiences.

My experience, ten years into this, is that these patterns inevitably reemerge, just like waves. Early on, it feels like you’re facing tsunamis—massive emotional swells that overwhelm you. Over time, the waves become more manageable, like a decent surf day where you can keep your balance and ride them out. Eventually, they soften into ripples—still there, still carrying memories, but gentler and easier to navigate.

I think it’s possible to tame the waves—or at least learn how to navigate them. It’s true that even the smallest triggers can fling open the door to the wider pattern of the person and a whole flood of memories. At the same time, those same triggers can spark new patterns to emerge. In nature, new growth often overtakes the old, and in much the same way, our newer, healthier patterns have a way of gradually outcompeting the ones that cause us pain. There’s a natural—and often unconscious—shifting that happens as we move forward, with these fresh patterns quietly taking root and helping us reconcile the past while moving into the future.

The good news is, we can have it both ways. A single fragment—like hearing the hum of a ski lift overhead—can spark an entirely new experience or serve as a doorway back into a recent pattern we cherish. Maybe it’s the day you taught your son how to ski for the first time, forging a brand-new memory on that same lift. At the same time, you can deliberately reattach to an even older pattern: share a story about a past trip, recall how your old friend laughed when you slid into the woods, or how he somehow survived on Marlboros and pure snark. By layering these moments, you weave together the new and the old, letting the past echo into the present even as fresh experiences form. Each fragment becomes a living link—a reminder that memories aren’t stuck in time but can be revisited, reattached, and remixed whenever we decide to open that door.

I guess this is the long way of saying it does get easier over time, because we naturally connect fragments—like the hum of a ski lift overhead, the rumble of his truck coming up the driveway, or even the buffalo smell of chicken wings—to new patterns that make us smile. And yet, that doorway back is always there when we need it.

I first encountered the idea of a ‘pattern of a person’ in the Afterword to Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, where he reflects on missing the pattern of his late son. It’s a perspective that has deeply shaped the way I understand and navigate my own losses.