Feeling like you know someone personally through their music, tweets, or Instagram posts isn’t an uncommon thing. We live in a time where if you don’t share every waking moment of your life, then you’re considered one of the following:

A weirdo

A Mormon

One of those J. Cole fans who say, “you’ve got to be on a different level to understand him”

Even though I am painfully aware of all of this, I was still trying to wrap my head around why the passing of Mac Miller felt like such a personal loss.

As a 17-year-old in 2010, only a few things were important to me: making sure my snapbacks matched my outfit, making sure my mother didn’t find out I was having sex, and making sure my Tumblr page was up-to-date with the latest “kush & wizdom” quotes, and random Asian-American teens wearing Supreme and Air Jordans.

This is when I first discovered Mac Miller. I watched that “Nikes On My Feet” video maybe 15 times in a row because at 17, seeing another 17/18 year old do this blew my mind.

Unlike the people I idolised as a teenager such as Pharrell, Kanye West (note: he was still one of the good ones at this point), my admiration for Mac came from a place of “hey, this guy seems cool af, and I would very much like to be his friend, and drink juice with him, and stuff”. Mac was aware of this himself: “Yeah, I live a life pretty similar to yours/Used to go to school, hang with friends, and play sports.” It was his perceived accessibility and a somewhat childlike wonder that made him the darling white rapper that we all wanted to win.

Mac Miller was a huge part of my late teens (in both good and mischievous ways). In fact, my high school sweetheart and I became friends in part because I sent her music from his breakout mixtape K.I.D.S. The reason why I used to bunk so many days of college is that I thought I deserved a “Senior Skip Day” (I exclusively owe all my bad grades in philosophy to you, Mac). Mac Miller’s concert was the very first concert I went to. It was a defining moment in my life because after seeing him live, I decided that anytime I have an opportunity to see one of my favourite artists, I will see them, and worry about my bank account later.

I watched every episode of Mac Miller & The Most Dope Family — his MTV2 reality show — because Mac became one of those artists that I cared for outside of his music. Even though I had never met him, something about him was charming and made it feel like we were friends.

Even as his music began to venture away from the happy-go-lucky, “frat boy” rap, and deal with more sensitive topics like his sobriety, depression, and even suicide — things I could not relate to at the time — I listened clinging onto every word, because it felt like having those catch ups with that friend who moved away, or that friend that you don’t get to hang out with as much, but when you do, it feels like old times.

The way he came across in interviews, how open and honest he was about his struggles in his music, his transparency and overall awareness of his own mortality were endearing, but now also very eerie.

“To everyone who sell me drugs/don’t mix it with that bullshit, I’m hoping not to join the 27 club”. - from “Brand Name” “Them pills that I’m popping, I need to man up / Admit it’s a problem, I need a wake-up / Before one morning I don’t wake up / You make your mistakes, your mistakes never make ya / I’m too obsessed with going down as a great one”. - from “Perfect Circle/God Speed”

The most haunting example is an excerpt from a 2016 documentary for Fader, where he said:

“I’d rather be the corny white rapper than the drugged out mess who can’t even get out of his house. Overdosing is just not cool. There’s no legendary romance, you don’t go down in history because you overdosed. You just die”.

Mac was very self-aware. And it was this mindfulness that made him so easy to root for, as well as believing that no matter how bad it got, Mac’s story was one that ended with him being triumphant. This is why the news of his death was something I refused to believe. I sat down at a bus stop for 20 minutes, refreshing my Twitter feed, googling his name, refreshing Instagram, and typing very violently into my group chat “I JUST WATCHED HIM ON INSTAGRAM LIVE 12 HOURS AGO. THERE IS NO WAY HE CAN BE DEAD”.

Death is a very difficult thing to process. It is one of the only things that you can be certain of in this thing called life, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with when it happens.

A loss of any kind is tragic, but when it is sudden, and the person is young, it feels unfair. Mac was 26 years old — a baby. It felt like he was just scratching the surface of his potential as a musician. Swimming — his latest album — felt like the work of someone who understood, and was now comfortable in their artistry, but realised that there is so much more to discover and create. “2009” (the stand out track for me) sounded like it came from a man who longed for a simpler time but was hopeful for what the future might hold. And although he may not physically be here anymore, the impact he had and the music he created will last forever.

Mac Miller is one of the artists that I grew up with, so taking his death personally makes sense. If anything, it is a lesson on how no matter small you think your actions/art/music/poetry/writing are/is, keep going because you never know who you might impact. It might be a scrawny 17-year-old who is still trying to make sure his Tumblr has enough Asian-American teens dressed in Supreme.