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 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 the Sacramento band 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.

As most college flames do, ours eventually ran its course. But what surprised me was that the relationship itself wasn't the lasting gift—it was everything it quietly set in motion.

As a therapist, I've come to appreciate that we often overestimate the importance of how long someone is in our lives and underestimate the impact they can have. Sometimes a brief crossing of paths quietly changes the trajectory of our own lives. Other relationships last for years without fundamentally changing us. It's often only in hindsight that we recognize who quietly helped shape us.

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. It remains one of those moments that quietly stays with you—a reminder of both the fragility of life and the enduring impact of human connection.

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. Looking back, I can see how those conversations and experiences gently expanded my perspective.

Healing, I've learned both personally and professionally, doesn't always arrive through dramatic life events. More often, it grows through ordinary conversations, shared meals, quiet examples, and moments that seem insignificant at the time. Only later do we realize they quietly changed us.

One of my last conversations with Chi took place as we drove past a cemetery near his beautiful Land Park home 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.

Whether or not someone shares that belief, I've found that people heal best when they have a story that helps them make sense of loss. Therapy isn't about providing answers to life's biggest questions. It's about helping people discover the beliefs, memories, and values that allow them to carry grief without being consumed by it.

Chi's family endured unimaginable heartbreak, losing multiple sons far too young. Witnessing their resilience, compassion, and love despite such profound loss left an impression that has never faded.

Today, my 12-year-old son plays bass guitar. I've shared with him the story of a 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.

A familiar song, a particular scent, a restaurant, or even a passing comment can unlock experiences people haven't thought about in years. Our brains naturally weave together emotion, memory, and sensory experiences. Music, especially, becomes an emotional time capsule.

A single song can transport us back not only to a moment, but to a version of ourselves we had nearly forgotten—who we were, what we longed for, what frightened us, and what gave us hope. Those memories aren't simply nostalgia. They remind us of our resilience, our capacity to grow, and the many people who helped shape us along the way.

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.

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. The people we meet, the music we discover, the conversations we almost forget, and even the relationships that don't last all become part of the larger story of who we are. 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.

So dear friend, if you were anything like me—the awkward, out-of-place college student standing quietly in the back—you were still there, fully alive, and part of something unforgettable.

Rock on,

Mandy

Chi Ling Dai Cheng

July 15, 1970 – April 13, 2013

Rolling Stone Magazine