The What If Clause

May 8, 2026

Writer: Nascha Martinez

Editor: Talia Kohn

I spend a lot of time wondering about the “what if” clause.

As my Grandma came closer to her end, she realized the thought of passing in a sterile hospital room would have been far worse than the calming embrace presented by the frayed blankets in my living room.   

My Grandma passed a poet. She always believed in the power of the individual. Listening to one person was the most meaningful butterfly effect of all. 

Who do we have to impact if not those around us? 

I think I haunt myself at times with the what-ifs.  There was so much I did not know about my Grandma. What if she had not been an English teacher? What if she actually hated my long-winded stories and excited recapping of the high school gossip? What if she hated goodbyes? What if she was scared of the dark? What if she, too, had no idea what she was doing with her life at times? 

But on the other hand, there were some things I knew for certain about my Grandma.  

She loved the color blue, teaching about the importance of writing, and reciting verbatim works of students from decades in the past.  She was kind, thoughtful, and gracious in the old-fashioned way that is guided by the parameters of attempting valiantly never to be a burden.  Under the illusion that we had enough time, I thought that if I waited long enough to ask my questions, then maybe the answers would mean something significant.  My life seemed to be rolling by at a speed tantamount to a rollercoaster, while Grandma’s life plodded slower alongside her walker, and she existed in a crawl of operas and cookies, and moments of lucidity that pave my memories of her now forever painted in the lens of just memories.

It was not until I got to college that I finally let go of the “what if clause”. 

In college, my rollercoaster became a race, and the little time I had in high school climaxed into almost no time with the mesh of clubs, new events, new friends, and new faces that painted themselves into something impressionistic. The more I attempted to look at the puzzle that was my life, the less it seemed that I could make sense of it all together.

And then it was 10 AM, and I was in a Chick-Fil-A, the most mundane Saturday morning. I was sitting with my head on my friend’s lap, my eyes up at the ceiling, pondering. We were discussing how strange the college experience is - how you meet people at such a random, in-between moment in their lives. I was curious what my friend thought, and so I asked and just simply listened.  I slowed down, and I stopped racing against a time pressure to “be,” a pressure that just does not exist in the “now.” 

And I realized there that the “what if clause” only tortures you if you do not stay in the moment to find out the momentary answer. Maybe you don’t always know the why, but you can be there for the what and the who.  

There’s a lot I don’t know about my Grandma, but what if her only goal for me was to be present - to listen, to notice, and to be here for it all?