Metal and Meaning

College is often described as a time of self-discovery, unexpected experiences, and relationships that leave lasting impressions. Looking back, I've realized that some of the people who shape us most aren't necessarily the ones who stay the longest.

I met my college boyfriend in a philosophy class, of all places. One day, he walked up to me, handed me a book about Buddhism, and tucked inside was his phone number along with a note asking me to go to the movies.

I remember thinking, "Smooth... and also very on-brand for someone who thought enlightenment might double as a pickup line."

His family—a beautiful blend of Chinese and Caucasian heritage—welcomed me with warmth, generosity, and humor. Through them, I was introduced to traditions, foods, conversations, and music that were completely new to me. I spent much of that time quietly hoping I wasn't making a fool of myself (spoiler alert: I probably was).

One of the first family members I met was his older brother, Chi Cheng—known as Dai within the family—the bassist for Deftones.

At the time, I had absolutely no idea who he was.

My musical upbringing consisted almost entirely of Oakland and Bay Area rap: Too $hort, E-40, Mac Dre, and Tupac. The thought of attending Warped Tour, standing safely in the back while a mosh pit erupted in front of me, was definitely outside my comfort zone.

I still laugh when I think about my first rock concert. There I was, climbing aboard the tour bus and wandering backstage, completely unaware that Deftones were the headliners.

Looking back, it perfectly captures just how wonderfully out of my element I was.

Like so many college romances, ours eventually ran its course. But looking back, I realize the greatest gift wasn't the relationship itself. It was everything that came into my life because of it.

As a therapist, I've come to appreciate that we often overestimate the importance of how long someone remains in our lives and underestimate the impact they can have. Sometimes a brief crossing of paths changes our trajectory in ways we don't recognize until years later.

Years after college, I learned that Chi had been critically injured in a tragic car accident. I was fortunate to visit him and his family in the hospital before he passed away.

What struck me most about Chi wasn't his success as a musician.

It was his humility.

He had a calm, grounded presence that reflected the Buddhist philosophy he quietly embodied. Around that same period in my own life, I was beginning a meditation practice and exploring Eastern philosophy for the first time. His family, their conversations, and their way of moving through the world gently expanded my perspective.

One of my last conversations with Chi took place as we drove past a cemetery near his beautiful Land Park home in Sacramento, after he had taken us to his favorite neighborhood dim sum restaurant.

I asked him what he believed happens to us when we die.

Without hesitation, he said,

"We just go back to being a part of everything around us."

I've carried those words with me ever since.

Years later, I still return to that conversation. Not because it answered every question about death, but because it offered me a way to hold grief with a little more peace.

In my work as a therapist, I've come to understand that healing doesn't always mean finding answers to life's biggest questions. Sometimes it means discovering the beliefs, memories, and values that help us carry loss without being consumed by it.

Chi's family would endure unimaginable heartbreak, including the loss of multiple sons far too young. Yet what has stayed with me isn't only their grief, but the compassion, humility, and love they continued to embody despite it.

Their resilience was another lesson I wouldn't fully appreciate until years later.

Today, my 13-year-old son plays bass guitar.

I've shared with him the story of the rock star bassist whose quiet kindness unknowingly broadened his mother's worldview.

When I hear Deftones now, I don't just hear the music. I remember Chi, his brothers, their generosity, and a season of my own life when I was discovering who I was becoming.

Music has a remarkable way of transporting us through time. A familiar song can bring us back not only to a particular moment, but to a version of ourselves we had nearly forgotten—who we were, whom we loved, what frightened us, and what gave us hope.

And sometimes, it reminds us of the people who helped us become who we are today.

Looking back now, I realize this story was never really about rock music or backstage passes.

It was about unexpected teachers.

It was about a first love and a family who welcomed an awkward college student into their home and unknowingly broadened her world.

It was about a quiet conversation on a drive through Sacramento that continues to comfort me decades later.

And it was about recognizing that even relationships that don't last can leave something beautiful behind.

As therapists, we often invite people to explore the stories they carry about themselves and their lives. Sometimes healing begins not by rewriting our past, but by recognizing the quiet gifts hidden within it.

Like an album, our lives unfold in tracks—each season with its own soundtrack, each song holding memories of who we were, whom we loved, what we lost, and how we grew.

And sometimes, the people who played only a few tracks leave the most unforgettable music.

Rock on,

Mandy

Chi Ling Dai Cheng

July 15, 1970 – April 13, 2013

Rolling Stone Magazine