by bimsky15
Some nights, sleep escapes me.
My mind races—some thoughts random, some heavy, others lingering questions that refuse to settle. Anxiety creeps in quietly, and before I know it, I’m wide awake in the middle of the night, searching for something to anchor me.
Few weeks ago, I walked past a park and accidentally sat inside a memory.
Old souls. A chessboard. Intense silence.
Thirty minutes slipped into two hours without me noticing.
I didn’t plan to stop.
I didn’t plan to stay.
But a chessboard in the park pulled me into a different pace of life—
a place where time slows, where silence carries weight,
where wisdom doesn’t announce itself; it simply waits.
The pieces moved with intention.
So did the hands that held them.
I didn’t know the strategies.
I just knew the feeling.
It felt like my grandparents sitting nearby, teaching without speaking—
reminding me that some lessons arrive only when you’re still enough to notice.
It felt like home.
One of the old men laughed and told me to come back ready to play next time.
I smiled and said I wanted to say “Checkmate” someday.
So I went home and built a chessboard—piece by piece—
late at night, when the world was quiet and my thoughts were loud.
I didn’t know the strategies, just the basics.
But I knew the feeling.
It reminded me of my grandparents.
Of patience.
Of wisdom that doesn’t rush.
That’s when I turned to my LEGO chess set.
It started as a way to cope. Instead of letting my thoughts spiral, I decided to build. Brick by brick, I found a rhythm. The tactile joy of snapping pieces together gave me a sense of control—a sense of peace. And as I built, I began to learn.
I’ve always loved learning new things in my free time. Lately, I’ve been diving into chess—not just the rules, but the strategies, the psychology, the quiet elegance of the game. I imagine myself sitting at that park again, playing with the elders, sharing a moment, a smile, a game. It’s not about winning. It’s about showing up. It’s about making someone feel seen.
Working in clinical settings, I’ve met many elderly people who long for that feeling—to be sincerely cared for. I think about my grandparents often. They passed away with their memories intact, still doing the things they loved. I miss them deeply. And when I see older adults struggling with dementia or Alzheimer’s, it breaks my heart. Memory is precious. It is identity.
Games like chess, reading, writing, even gardening are more than hobbies.
They are lifelines.
They help preserve cognitive function, spark joy, and create connection.
When I sit with someone, greet them, or play a game, I don’t expect anything in return. Their smile is enough.
I believe sincere kindness sends a signal to the nervous system:
You’re safe here.
That’s the energy I want to bring into the world. I’m not a genius—I’m just curious. I want to understand people, not just what they say, but how they feel. I want to be aware of my impact, to own my actions, and to apologize when I’ve hurt someone unintentionally.
Bonding, to me, is sacred. It isn’t casual. It’s a deliberate attempt to understand another human being.
And in those quiet, late-night hours—when the world is asleep and my thoughts are loud—I build. I learn. I reflect. I remember.
Because time may be my greatest enemy,
but love, curiosity, and care are my strongest allies.
This isn’t just LEGO.
It’s a promise—to learn, to slow down,
to honor the elders who still run the game quietly.
The long game starts now.
Checkmate — soon.
GiYN: Go Inspire Yourself Now.
— bimsky15
In . loving memory of my grandparents,
Dr. William Eugene McMahon and Dr. Dorothy Phipps McMahon—
who taught me patience, presence, and the beauty of a life well‑lived.
Thank you for the lessons, the laughter, and the love that still shapes me.
This reflection is for you.
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