When I was a teenager, I saw a documentary about the civil war in Sierra Leone. Rebel forces were cutting off people’s hands to stop them from voting. The cruelty of taking away not just a body part, but power and abilities, was unimaginable horror for me.
Years later, I created a photo exhibition focused on the transportation world: long roads, silent loads, and the quiet endurance of those whose grip of the wheel keeps everything moving, whether anyone notices or not.
Since then, the road has been rocky. My child lost a hand in an accident. And I lost something too: the illusion of safety. Life was shaken.
I started reading and reflecting, building my own set of frameworks. I began writing simply to remember the tools and truths I had worked so hard to find. I shaped this book in a form where each page could stand on its own, remembering the days when I couldn’t handle more at a time.
As this book was almost ready, I thought, “I should tell about Africa, and the photo exhibition.” I visited the old website done back in the days and there was the translation, waiting for me: The Grip of Life – Truth Behind the Wheel.
It really hit me.
I was stunned. Back then, 2009, I thought it was just a good phrase. Strong and fitting. I had forgotten it. I had no idea I would still be holding onto it, years later, not as a title, but as a way of living.
And yet, when I found it again, already there, already mine, it felt like meeting an old version of myself who had left me a message. “You’ll need this word. Keep it close.”
So, it turned out I’ve been writing about Grip all along, and been near the same questions for about 30 years:
- What does it mean to hold on?
- How do we hold on, even when everything changes?
- Where do we find strength when our grip is altered?
- What keeps us steady, when nothing around us is?
- How can my child be so amazing – joyful, powerful, and full of
light – when one of my worst fears happened to him?
- How can I support him to stay radiant, relentless and resilient?
- How do we walk beside anyone, holding just tight enough, not gripping too hard, or letting go too soon?
- How do we do that to ourselves?
- Is letting go ever even a possibility?
- Can the seconds that shatter us be softened by everything we build, before and after the impact?
Years pass. The questions stay.
Johanna Välimäki
Logistics Engineer
Entrepreneur