By summerstudent Mariella Herrera >
I remember that when I was little, it was a tradition to spend Christmas at my grandparents’ house. The Christmas tree was decorated with thousands of ornaments and hundreds of colored lights… or at least that’s what it seemed like when I was six. Presents were overflowing under the tree, and I was sure at least three of them were for me.
As dinner time approached, my grandparents’ house filled with family, the aroma of the juicy turkey my grandmother had spent all day cooking, the tamales we all made (like any good Mexican family), and the buñuelos that were always served at dessert time.
Finally, seven o’clock in the evening struck, and the celebration began with the prayer that my grandfather led. We all followed, holding hands. When it was over, we ran to the kitchen to serve ourselves the incredible meal we’d been savoring since we walked through the door.
Shouts and laughter echoed everywhere: my parents were laughing out loud with my uncles and grandparents, while my cousins and I ran around the house or played hide-and-seek. At some point during the night, the singer in all of us would emerge, and it was time for karaoke.
When midnight struck, the most anticipated moment finally arrived: opening the presents. They were shared among each family member, and I received exactly what I had wished for.
Far from home
Just a few weeks ago, my world changed. I lost my grandfather, one of the most important people in my life. And at the same time, I boarded a plane and traveled 9,052 kilometers to continue pursuing my dreams in Germany. I left with a broken heart, guilt and pain as my traveling companions, and a feeling I still can’t fully describe: being far away just when I most needed to be close.
Leaving was a difficult decision. How do you leave when your family needs you, when the pain is shared? My grandmother lost her lifelong partner, my mother lost her father… and I felt broken. But I also knew that this path I was following was something he longed for me.
Still, nothing prepared me for grieving from a distance. I experienced the funeral over a video call. I cried my tears alone, in an unfamiliar room, thousands of miles from home. I missed every hug, every word of comfort.
But grief, like time, has its ways. Two weeks after arriving in Germany, I’m starting to find small moments of calm. I’ve found solace in the people I’ve met here, at HZB and in the summer program. And although the pain hasn’t gone away, I’m starting to notice small glimmers: flowers smell more intense, colors appear in a different light, sunsets are more moving. The world seems to want to embrace me, and in each of these things, I feel him.
Today I understand that every step I take is a way of honoring his memory. Reading a book because I know he loved doing it. Working with dedication because I know he was proud of me. And although I know Christmas will never be the same—because his chair will be empty—I also know that he will live on in what I do, in what I am, in what I dream.
On the author: Marielle Herrera is working in the SCALA-Lab in EMIL at HZB during the International Summer Students Programme 2025.