Finding Peace in Difficult Times: A Letter to a Friend

Subject: Finding Peace in Loss
Date: March 10, 2025
From: Jonas Stöckli
To: Oliver Oesch

Jonas and Oliver had been close friends for years, but time and distance had created a silence between them. Life had taken them on different paths, and their once frequent conversations had faded into occasional thoughts of one another. However, upon hearing that Oliver’s father was nearing the end of his life, Jonas knew he had to reach out. Their friendship had always been one of depth and understanding, and Jonas decided to write this letter—not to console, but to remind Oliver that love, healing, and connection can transcend even the heaviest of goodbyes.

Oliver Oesch, a reserved and introspective man, had always carried a complex relationship with his father—one marked by both admiration and unspoken struggles. Growing up in Switzerland, he had been raised with strong values but often felt the weight of expectations that didn’t align with his own aspirations. Now, standing at the threshold of loss, Oliver found himself caught between past wounds and the fleeting time he still had left with his father. Jonas, having walked a similar path, sought to offer him a different way forward—not one of regret, but of presence and reconciliation.

Dear Oliver,

Life and death—it’s just a circle. Nothing escapes it—except, perhaps, Turritopsis dohrnii, the so-called immortal jellyfish. But even it, for all its endurance, does not live as we do. It does not love, it does not hurt, and it does not mend what is broken. That ache you feel now, the longing, the fear—it is because you are alive, and because you love. And love, Oliver, is what remains beyond all endings.

Your father is still here. The past is written, but these moments, these final days, are yours to shape. Stay by his side. Be with him—not just as a son weighed down by old wounds, but as a man who chooses to love, even when love is difficult. Whatever words remain unspoken, say them. Whatever fears still linger, let them go. Walls have stood between you, built over years of silence and expectation. But walls are not permanent. They can be torn down. And in their place, you can build something new—a bridge, a path, a moment of understanding, however brief.

He may not have always known how to love you the way you needed. But he tried, in his way. Think of the times he walked beside you through the winter streets, the wind reddening your cheeks. The quiet moments by the lake, fishing in companionable silence. The stories he told, not always with words, but in the way he stayed near. Love does not always arrive in the form we expect, but it is there nonetheless, waiting to be recognized.

He is still here. And so are you. This is your chance—not to change the past, but to embrace the present. To hold his hand, to listen, to simply be. Not because it will undo what has been, but because it will allow you both to step forward without the weight of unfinished goodbyes.

Memento mori—remember that you have to die, as we all do, yet in that truth lies the beauty of truly living. But in that uncertainty, we have choice. We can choose to love while we still have time. We can choose to heal. And when the moment comes to let go, we can do so knowing that we have given all that we could, that love was not left unsaid.

I once sought my own way to reconcile with my father’s memory, to honor him in a way that was true to myself. I wrote a book—not a path he would have chosen for me, not something he ever expected. But in doing so, I built something from the love that remained. Love does not need to be understood to be real.

So choose love, Oliver. Not for the past, but for now. Not for who your father was, but for who you both are in this moment. Let this be a time of healing, not regret. Let love fill the spaces where walls once stood.

I am here. Always.

With love and strength,

Jonas