As the title proclaims, the voids experienced through the lens of grief were “loud, apparent, and jarring,” much like a bare plot that was once filled with blooms.

Since writing that piece, I’ve had the pleasure of glimpsing what a full bloom could feel and look like in the very places that had been bare. While the blooms didn’t quite survive as I had hoped, I learned something invaluable: just because the trees are bare doesn’t mean they’re dead, and there’s a season for everything.

Back in February, as I walked through Sengan-en Garden in Kagoshima, Japan, in awe of the early blooms, I came to appreciate the bareness of the trees. I witnessed and acknowledged the kind of effort, energy, and nutrients it takes to bloom and flourish.

My voids are still here; some plots remain bare, but what feels different at this juncture is that I’m blossoming in ways I never thought possible. And as I continue to blossom, I’m seeing how that’s becoming far more significant than the voids others have left behind. With this blossoming, I can only imagine how much more fulfilling it will be when those who, one day, fill the voids I can’t fill myself, arrive.

The answer was never you. The answer was always…me.

But through the thick of it, my biggest lesson emerged. And as I reflect on that time now, I can’t help but see that all of it was necessary to bring me here:

To a place where I choose me.

Where I respect my boundaries and speak up about what I need.

Where I unapologetically hand back the burdens that were never mine to carry.

It’s been a game changer.

Lesson 4: “…people can only meet you, as deeply as they’ve met themselves.” – Matt Kahn

It’s not about you. It’s about them.

In my late twenties, I began to entertain the idea of letting go of people and things that no longer served me. For someone who is all too familiar with grief, abandonment, and an acute awareness of being alone, this was a daunting prospect. The idea of “letting go” felt frightening. I often associated it with being left behind—something I struggled with intensely in the early days of Nickolas’ passing. I found myself isolated, angry, and deeply resentful that others seemed to move right along while I remained stuck, fumbling to find a light switch in a dark room.

Over time, I began practicing letting go, albeit in small ways. Don’t quote me on this, but at one point, it was believed in some psychotherapy circles that awareness alone could spark change. More recent research and my own experience has shown that simply knowing something isn’t enough. Real change requires effort and commitment. For me, the biggest motivator was that once I knew better, I couldn’t unknow it. I couldn’t unsee the patterns, or pretend I didn’t feel the shift.

Fast forward to last summer: I let go of someone. A connection I once valued had become draining, no matter how tightly I wanted to hold on. I was emotionally and mentally too spent to keep pouring energy into a bond riddled with recurring conflict, where we struggled to bounce back each time—both individually and together. The final straw was his reaction to my grief and vulnerability. He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last, who didn’t know how or chose not to hold space with compassion.

That was the moment everything clicked. I began to understand every single person who couldn’t sit with me in my grief. It wasn’t about me. It had everything to do with them.

This realization gave me a sense of empowerment I hadn’t felt before. Letting go no longer felt like abandonment or punishment. It softened. It became an act of love toward myself. For the first time, I enforced boundaries with clarity and precision. Letting go became a conscious choice to protect the inner peace I worked so hard to build.

I’m no longer interested in apologizing for making others uncomfortable with my vulnerability, grief, or truth. I refuse to erode my integrity or dismiss the hellish days I’ve survived just to make space for those who haven’t done the work. Shrinking myself to accommodate someone else’s fragility is a price I’m no longer willing to pay. The work of healing is daunting. It requires daily courage and commitment, often without immediate results, but I’ve shown up for it, every single time.

This realization, this emotional epiphany has been one of the most significant lessons I’ve learned, not just for this sabbatical, but for a lifetime. I’ve always known intellectually that people’s reactions are more about them than me. But to truly feel that, to embody it, was both sobering and freeing.

As I bring this lesson to a close, I feel a surprising tinge of sorrow for those who couldn’t hold that space for me. Maybe they’ve never known the kind of love so profound that the grief mirrors that depth. Because love and grief are inextricably linked. Because you can’t have one without the other.

And in this life, I have been loved. I have loved in return.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

Still catching up? Lesson 3 is here—a look at how nothing happens the way we expect, and why that might be the point.

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The life I'm referring to is one filled with a loving husband, possibly children, and a shared home—the life I once thought was mine until it wasn't.

Even now, as I hold space for this lingering grief, it sometimes feels heavier than the actual loss of Nickolas. But when I look at what’s unfolded over the past decade including a pivot in my career, grad school, unexpected adventures through this sabbatical, special connections I've encountered, and most importantly, finding the courage to hope for the very life I'd once mourned—it becomes clear that perhaps things are working out exactly as they should.

It just doesn’t look the way I thought it would.

Instead of holding tight to expectations and timelines, I've learned to lean into my uncertainties, fears, and doubts with vulnerability, authenticity, and stillness. Because as we collectively know, no amount of rumination or anxiety will change our circumstances or influence how life ultimately unfolds.

And as I slowly let go and surrender, peace begins to settle in; a quiet reassurance that while life might not be unfolding according to my original script, it might actually turn out even better.

Lesson 3: Nothing Looks Like the Way You Thought It Would

Or, for that matter, nothing happens on your timeline or linearly.

It was mid-morning in early July 2023 at Kyle’s flat in Portland, Oregon. I had nursed two cups of Stumptown coffee when I hopped on a call with a recruiter. I figured that in six months, I'd be back to the grind. After all, I'd worked mostly hard to get to where I was; taking an extended break felt almost irresponsible.

Little did I know it would take six months just to unwind and let go, and an entire calendar year to get to the core of my pain points. During that time, I launched this blog, nursed my physical and emotional injuries, juggled job applications, and navigated many rounds of demanding interviews with Corporate America—the same Corporate America that dared to question if my workload had been too much, simply because I chose to take a sabbatical. Could they have managed a career change, grad school, crippling grief, and a global pandemic all at once? You bet I’m keeping score.

For the last seven months, everyone closest to me has been on edge, wondering if I'd finally land a job. How many final interviews have I had without an offer? Nothing worked out the way I’d hoped. Nothing fell into place. With every disappointment, I searched for answers that never came, repeatedly questioning if this sabbatical had been a mistake.

This past July, in a state of sheer defeat, I told my therapist, “I wish I had good news for you. Like, I found a job or fell in love… something, anything.” With warmth and assurance, she gently reminded me, “...that’s not the purpose of your sabbatical.”

She was right. That wasn’t the purpose.

The purpose was everything else: catching up on sleep, spending time with my aging parents, sorting myself out, and surprisingly, finally holding space for my grief with self-compassion instead of resistance and logic.

Then, as the new year rolled in, someone unexpectedly resurfaced. My first thought was, "Why now, and for what?" But through this revived connection, I saw the fruits of my labor, the invisible work I’d done during this sabbatical that led to an extraordinary inner transformation. The past 20 months had prepared me for this moment: leading with my heart, the one thing I’d fiercely protected since Nickolas’ death. After losing him, I vowed that no one would ever break my heart again. What I didn’t realize when making this vow was just how incredibly resilient my heart actually is, and that ultimately, whatever happens, I’d be okay because I’m me.

Suddenly, I was living what I had been preaching: being open to possibilities and leaving room for magic. This meant taking a leap of faith, trusting in the things I couldn’t see, and believing in the timing of everything. It is these moments that I feel gratitude for all that hadn’t worked out. Having experienced profound loss, I no longer believe in the cliché that “things happen for a reason.” Instead, I've embraced a sentiment captured beautifully by George Falconer in Christopher Isherwood’s A Single Man, who, reflecting on life after loss, said:

“A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity. When for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. It’s as though it had all just come into existence. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.”

There have been a few of these moments during my sabbatical, moments that felt exactly like this.

So no, life hasn’t turned out how I imagined—not on my timeline, or in the order I wanted, and certainly not in the ways I expected.

Then again, it wasn’t in my plans to be widowed at 26, lose my best friend, and navigate something as complex and crushing as grief. It wasn’t in my plans to roam aimlessly, searching for answers, trying to piece myself and my hopes back together. But it’s precisely all the roaming, getting lost, and seeking answers that landed me here, in a place where I’m open and hopeful.

Open to love, no matter how vulnerable it makes me.

Open to the next chapter, even without knowing how it will unfold.

And finally, hopeful—not because everything worked out the way I thought it should, but because life, with all its detours, has repeatedly shown me that the unknown holds more magic, possibility, and joy than I ever could’ve planned for.

My only job now is to keep living. The rest, surely, will unfold in its own time.

Missed last week’s post? Catch up on Lesson 2, where I reflect on the evolving meaning of home, identity, and connection.

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For as long as I can recall, I knew there was something different about me and my family. My background isn’t homogenous. My nuanced identity has always been a source of relentless curiosity and assumptions—some harmless, others laced with microaggressions and intrusive questions. There was always a gap that needed bridging—an adoptee with biracial parents who spoke two languages fluently, yet never quite fitting into any single narrative. When I was younger, I often felt the need to explain myself, overcompensating with details, sometimes even apologizing for 'being complicated.' None of which was warranted. Having to do that so early and so often, no place ever truly felt safe, or like somewhere I belonged.

And for as long as I can recall in the last decade, while my peers built their lives around the usual milestones, I was left to grieve, piecing myself back together after catastrophic losses that forced me onto a path far from the one I was supposed to continue on. Losing my late husband and best friend in one decade effectively displaced me. Regardless of age, everyone else seemed to be moving forward while I stood still, reeling from loss but also surviving, trying to figure out where I was supposed to be headed. That displacement made my grief feel even more isolating and unrelatable.

Interestingly, both of these aspects—my identity and grief, were tested and prodded on my sabbatical. I learned that home isn’t always physical or external, but something internal, something connection-driven. It exists in people, experiences, and culture—far beyond shared demographics, language, or birthplace. It became a delicate dance between finally reaching this point of sureness in my identity, owning my narrative unapologetically, and keeping my heart open. Open to meaningful connections. Open to the unexpected. Open to the things that remind me of home.

Lesson 2: Anywhere can be home.

Home isn’t always a place. Sometimes, it’s people, culture, connection, and food.

For most of my life, I struggled with belonging. It always felt like I was on the outside looking in, acutely aware of my differences and the quiet, persistent sense of misplacement. Years ago, my therapist introduced me to the idea of creating a home within myself so that no matter where I went, I’d always have one. At the time, I didn’t give it much weight or fully grasp what it would mean for my future self.

But as I began to heal old wounds and my grief shifted shape, I started to understand. That home within, built on self-compassion, self-love, and grace, became my foundation. It was a place I could always return to, no matter where I was in the world or how displaced I felt.

Fast forward to 2024. I found myself wandering through foreign lands I’d only ever seen in photos, navigating places with minimal plans and one-way tickets, smiling politely through conversations where I had no idea what was being said. There was more discomfort than comfort. I had never felt so exposed—sometimes frustrated, sometimes isolated, sometimes completely out of sorts. This was the definition of being out of my comfort zone, and there was no manual for any of it. I had to figure things out as I went.

But as I became more at ease with traveling, getting lost, asking for help, and simply existing in the unknown, I realized something: home was everywhere.

It was in the way my Vietnamese friends instinctively put food on my plate before theirs, just like my mom and every Korean auntie would. It was in the way Anna, a digital nomad, and I instantly connected over coffee in Ubud, Bali, talking about everything and nothing, just like I would with my best friends back home. It was in the way I saw pieces of myself reflected in different corners of the world, despite our differences in perspectives, identities, languages, and emotional baggage.

Most of all, it was in the way I learned to trust myself. To trust my process, my timing, and my path. To embrace my nuanced identity and own my story unapologetically.

Wherever this path leads, it has already taken me to the most unexpected places. And it keeps proving what I already know: I am on my wayish to somewhere. And no matter where that is, I am always home.

Missed Lesson 1? Read about my reflections on packing light both in luggage and in life here."

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Towards the end of my time in Kobe, Japan, I scribbled in my notebook about creating a section on this blog to house my photography—something that could capture a place or an experience through my lens in a way that felt succinct and evocative. The idea was akin to summing up a thought or a feeling in just a few words, but instead, through images. I figuratively tucked this idea into my back pocket and flew to Kagoshima City on Kyushu Island the very next day.

Sometime later, on a quiet, peaceful Saturday morning, I was attempting to work through my writer’s block while engaged in parallel play. I paused, realizing just how much I wanted to encapsulate this moment forever—to revisit it when life inevitably became loud and busy again. And, of course, for the sake of nostalgia.

What triggered this was a profound, resounding sense of peace, security, and the quiet knowing that I was exactly where I needed to be. After months of giving everything I had to make things fall into place—only to see no results and feel directionless because of it—I found myself in a moment so effortless, so right, in the presence of someone who had always felt like home. But more than anything, it was how life had quietly led me here. For once, I wasn’t just convincing myself of that or using it as a means of self-soothing—I was living it. Seeing it play out in real time. Clarity like that is rare for me; I usually only find it in hindsight, after sitting with something for some time. And all of this—every feeling, every realization—was a defining moment.

At one point, I suggested to this person that we start a “memory capsule”—a place to document these tender moments, mostly in notes, something we could hold onto and carry forward. Later, once I returned home and finally broke through my writer’s block, it dawned on me: I wanted to evolve my photography project into something more intentional and meaningful. Something that didn’t just capture places and experiences visually, but also reflected the thoughts and emotions tied to them. That way, it would remain in alignment with my blog’s narrative-driven style—more than just images, but personal stories woven into them.

I don’t foresee myself producing these posts on a rigid schedule. Instead, I imagine them unfolding naturally—especially when I’m inspired or emotionally moved by revisiting a photo, a note, or a memory that sparks something worth sharing and carefully curating.

Of course, some moments will remain private for now. But maybe, one day, in a different time and place, I’ll be ready to share even those most intimate ones. In the meantime, I hope you’ll enjoy seeing the world through my eyes during this sabbatical.

For my first post, I look forward to bringing you the early blooms of Sengan-en—one of Japan’s most famous gardens, located in Kagoshima. I’ll also share what’s happening to the bare plots in my own garden, which, until recently, had remained unfilled for many, many years. Stay tuned.

In January, after digging deep and fidgeting through days of discomfort, I reached some semblance of closure—twenty-some days into the new year. This delay unexpectedly triggered an early round of spring cleaning: “…tying up loose ends, giving myself closure, and letting go of things that are no longer mine to carry”—a sentiment I shared in a message to someone at the time.

In an oddly serendipitous moment earlier that month, I dreamt I was pregnant. I was standing in a brightly lit room, happily cradling my growing bump. It wasn’t my first pregnancy dream, but what stood out this time was the overwhelming sense of peace and happiness. If you’re familiar with dream symbolism, you’ll know pregnancy often signifies the birth of something new: life changes, growth, new beginnings, or creative endeavors.

When I mentioned this dream to my therapist during a session spent painstakingly unpacking December, she gently said, “…it’s time to give birth, Ann.” She was right; it was time. What had been brewing was my metaphorical gestational period—growth, transformation, and a continuation of my metamorphosis. Reflecting back, this brewing had been ongoing, in stages, throughout 2024. I grappled with discomfort, often feeling as though I was stepping backward and undoing some of the progress I'd made in various facets of my life. Yet, as life consistently demonstrates, stepping back is sometimes necessary to propel us forward—like the explosive force behind a cannonball’s flight.

As I ready myself for what 2025 holds, I want to reflect on a few invaluable lessons learned throughout 2024 (and, if I'm honest, spilling over into 2025)—a year defined by discomfort; a year that pushed me far beyond comfort zones and lingering complacency; a year that challenged everything I thought I knew; and ultimately, a year that stripped me down to my most authentic self: a woman unapologetically wearing only her essence, free of accolades, titles, and even a permanent address.

Because this reflection became quite lengthy as I added context and clarity, I've decided to share these lessons one week at a time. I'm genuinely excited to present this series—it quickly became one of my favorite pieces after months of battling writer’s block. Thank you for riding out the silence with me and continuing to tune in. I hope you enjoy these reflections as much as I enjoyed writing them. And I hope you’re doing well and staying healthy. xo

Lesson 1: You Can Absolutely Live Out of Your Suitcase

In fact, don’t overpack—tangibly or intangibly.

At 35, I had my first hostel experience: top bunk, slim closet, zero control over my environment. As someone who grew up with ample privacy and personal space, this was entirely new. Surprisingly, the noise, communal chaos, and ebb and flow of strangers felt relatively manageable. Was it manageable because I'm naturally good at adapting to change—or was it because, after months of solitude, I was finally ready for communal living? Maybe a little of both. Until then, I had been soloing through life: traveling alone, eating alone, adventuring alone—becoming my own best friend, not just a woman confident enough to sit at a restaurant alone without needing a project or distraction.

Yet, one thing became clear very early: I had seriously overpacked. Did I really need four extra pairs of shoes? (Probably not, but who was I kidding—my beloved Aquazzura surf sandals that have been repaired multiple times by a cobbler were absolutely coming with me around the world.) Still, could I have skipped those extra toiletries, easily replaced at any Watson’s (think Walgreens or CVS) or 7-Eleven? Definitely.

But what truly caught me off guard wasn’t my tangible luggage. It was the intangible baggage: grief, loneliness, aspirations, and ever-present questions of purpose and direction. I assumed I'd left most of that behind at my home base. Instead, it followed me, haunted me, and at times taunted me relentlessly. Strangely enough, yet unsurprisingly, the communal chaos sometimes made me feel even more alone. It amplified the voids in my heart, reminding me how far I was from the people I missed—especially those who were no longer just a phone call or flight away. This frequently left me in deep introspection, making it difficult to stay present or connect as meaningfully as I wanted to.

It became abundantly clear that overpacking—whether it’s sunscreen or spiraling thoughts—is unnecessary. Extra SPF? Easy to replace. Answers to your biggest “whys”? They'll surface when you least expect it. Grief? It’ll hit you like a ton of bricks at random—like it did for me over falafels in the middle of Georgetown, Penang.

Instead of carrying these burdens physically and emotionally, I wish I had let go sooner—tossed some unnecessary things into the bin, detached from my spiraling thoughts, and allowed myself to simply be in the moment. To savor it. To be awestruck by it.

Next time, I’ll remember this: Lighten your load, live out of your suitcase, and trust that whatever you truly need—clarity, closure, or SPF 50—will show up exactly when it’s time.

Continue reading the series:
Lesson 2: Anywhere Can Be Home
Lesson 3: Nothing Looks Like the Way You Thought It Would
Lesson 4: “…people can only meet you, as deeply as they’ve met themselves.” – Matt Kahn

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Last month, I was preparing for my second round of interviews with a Fortune 100 company. I had such a good feeling about this job—everything about it was perfect: timing, location, salary, and culture. This was the big break I had worked up to and had been waiting for; the kind of place I so desperately wanted to get my foot in the door with.

And, without a hitch, I made it to the final round of interviews.

In between, I imagined what my new life post-sabbatical would be like in the city I had wanted to relocate to for a while. I casually perused available flats and Googled what the commute would be like. I wondered if I’d purchase that Volvo without delay or if I could get away with a mint green Vespa and a pink helmet for a little while. I imagined the dinners and cocktails I’d be having with Kyle on school nights; finding a home for tennis; new groups of friends; weekend drives up and down the Pacific Northwest; maybe I’d buy a little cottage on the coast; maybe fall in love; and perhaps this would take me somewhere completely unexpected. The possibilities seemed…endless.

The final interview came and went; two follow-ups in, I realized I had been fully ghosted.

What is this? Modern dating?

When has it ever been appropriate for recruiters to vanish into thin air?

Actually, when has it ever been okay for anyone to vanish into thin air because they can’t have difficult conversations?

What the actual fuck?

About a week and a half into the silence, I sat on the veranda of my parents' flat and wept. For the fifth time, I figuratively took the needle and popped my big balloon of possibilities and hopes. I finally, finally, after all of this grief business found it in me to dream big and think big instead of taming my inner fire because I was too afraid to fail or for things to, again, “not work out”.

How dare I dream?

How dare I hope?

How dare I reach?

How dare I think what I brought to the table was enough?

I mean, who did I think I was?

All of this, probed and prodded by my Inner Censor.

This kind of rejection cracked open tender places, making me revisit things that never were and were never going to be: starting with the rest of my life that never was with Nickolas and the loss of my best friend, Jess.

In this lifetime, there wouldn’t be a third wedding anniversary, a child, or the house renovation we often dreamed of—complete with kid-friendly modifications. Nickolas was never going to be 34. There wouldn’t be an “us” for the rest of year 26 or the rest of whatever time I had left on Earth. Our living version of love would expire in 2015. Nothing more, nothing less.

The same could be said about Jess, my best friend who would never live out her 20s alongside me. There would no longer be girls’ trips—especially the one we’d planned to Korea when my parents eventually moved back—no late-night vent sessions after long days at work, and no weekend sleepovers like the ones that started in sixth grade. Neither of us would see our individual lives blossom and fall into place after all that had transpired over the years. There was nothing more, nothing less.

The never-weres and what could have beens hold such weight because they mattered deeply. And every time it wasn’t, the insurmountable heartbreak was inevitable.

Only because it mattered.

Only because it carried weight.

Only because I really, really wanted it.

At this moment of fragility, vulnerability, and uncertainty, I miss them more than usual.

But truth be told, lately, as a woman navigating her mid-to-late 30s, I miss my Jess even more. I think many of us with best friends from our formative years can relate—those friendships carry a unique connection that feels irreplaceable.

Nevertheless, I knew this before writing, but putting it on paper makes me truly feel the weight of the voids they left behind and the barren soil in my garden where they once were.

Yet, it is through these significant relationships and profound losses that I’ve come to understand the depths of love. In this lifetime, I have loved and been loved. I’m not sure there’s anything greater than that—no amount of money, tangibles, or experiences could ever replace or outdo love.

As I find my way back to my centered self, I am reminded that life rarely unfolds on my timeline and rarely looks how I imagined it would. Time and time again, I am shown that it often turns out to be so much more, so much better, so much more full and vibrant than I could have dreamed or imagined.

Only by embracing this truth can I stay open to the boundless possibilities of this lifetime and the magic that happens in between. So, perhaps the little cottage on the coast will have to wait. Or maybe it’s not a cottage at all but instead, a cozy flat overlooking Lumphini Park in Bangkok. I’ll never know until that day comes and my only job is to live it out wholly and authentically.

For now, my journey continues with another flight, another city, another interview, another opportunity. That’s not so bad. As I grieve the things that never were, I remind myself to stay open to the things that could be and will be.

Possibilities. Magic. Dream big. Reach far.

I caught air, alright; promptly hitting the road and landing on my left sternum. I walked away with deep cuts, major bruises, and impact, but no broken bones or broken spirits. If anything, I completed the ride because I’m me. Granted, days later, I formed a monster hematoma on the inside of my right thigh that lasted six weeks. I feel lucky it wasn’t anything serious. I didn’t feel the need to see a doc, but truth be told, I should have gotten that thing drained.

Despite the gratitude since this could’ve been far worse of an accident, I was majorly bent out of shape about it that evening. I was utterly pissed off that I flew off a bike. I was utterly pissed off that somehow, I fell into this trap that nothing bad would happen to me, at least, not physically.

I couldn’t help but wonder: why did I let my guard down?

Come to think of it, eight months later, maybe that was a good thing.

Finally, living life with my guard down? Living life as if the other shoe isn’t going to drop?

Isn’t this something to be excited about?

Isn’t this what progress looks like after years of surrounding myself with unscalable, 10-foot steel walls surrounded by scaffolding? A cute little sign written with a pink marker and bubbly handwriting that reads: “Keep out. Beware of dog.” Granted, the dog was Sophie—the type you could dropkick due to her small stature despite her fierceness and delusional thought that she was ten times her size.

All of it, just to protect my heart.

Over the years, I’ve convinced myself that my heart couldn’t handle another heartbreak. After all, I’ve had too many for one lifetime.

Anyway.

There have been other bike rides without incident: like the one in Hanoi where I rode alongside the organized chaos of motorbikes and steep hills through Banana Island and that solo ride of my life along the Royal Coconut Coast on the east side of Kauai with cliff views equivalent to that of a cat’s meow. I can close my eyes and still, fondly, remember that ride. So why the fall now? Or, was I due for one?

As I mulled over my fall, I needed to remind myself to be gentle and kind; and take under consideration the physical and mental shape I was in. Fun fact: I was still recovering from Covid and physically, I was weak and mentally foggy. That’s right ladies and gents, I managed to test positive for Covid two days into Bali.

And, the reality is, shit happens, as we know it. Covid or no covid, guard up or down, there was no guarantee that I wasn’t going to get hurt from a bike ride or all matters that concern the heart.

If that’s the case, what the hell was I doing holding onto this notion of safety? Excessively, in my case.

Days later, wincing in pain, I remember feeling compelled to break up with safety.

I didn’t know exactly what that meant or how that would look but as time passed and controversies arose, it became increasingly clear that safety also known as protecting my heart at all costs plagued me with self-doubt, which inevitably led to self-sabotage. It was always safer to pick a fight, talk myself out of it, and be done with it.

Is this really the way to live? How much longer was I going to be a self-fulfilling prophecy perpetually?

I have been warned in the past, sternly. Typically, it went through one ear and out the other.

On the flip side, after everything, can I blame myself for wanting and needing to be safe at all costs?

In these moments, I feel for myself just like I would for anyone who has experienced loss, trauma, and heartbreak. Then, there is traumatic loss, which from experience, I can attest that it adds a layer of complexity where I can’t even begin to explain how that plays into coping with grief. If anything, the trauma delays the grief process.

My overzealous need to keep safe has shackled and held me back. Over the years, I have broken my own heart multiple times by choosing safe decisions over great ones. My censor scrutinized every move, every thought, and every decision playing risk management. Throughout the years, there have been glimpses of myself challenging my censor. I can tell you that during those times, I felt the freest and my heart, the happiest.

But, inevitably, I would return to my safe place with 10-foot steel walls and scaffolding because of its familiarity. I would, again, reluctantly, surrender to the want to protect myself despite intelligently knowing that I was strong enough to withstand any storm. In trying to keep myself safe, I lost trust in my own strength and my ability to handle whatever life threw my way.

The irony in all of this is that I wouldn’t have known to expand my capacity to love let alone understand and love deeply as I do without the losses, the intense mourning, and the ongoing living breathing grief. The very thing that broke my heart repeatedly taught me to love in a transcending way. Yet here I am, holding onto my need for safety that hasn’t served me for as long as I can recall.

Was I never going to get back on the bike again because of a fall? Of course not.                                                                                                                               

Was I never going to love again because of my loss? Of course not.

But according to my censor, I wouldn’t get on that bike again or love again because there’s a chance I’d get hurt, and then what? I used to believe this wholeheartedly.

It took me a long time to abandon my censor. It took a physical injury as in something tangible in a far, far away land for me to recognize that it was time to walk away from overly protecting myself.

I had to get here on my own; on my timeline; and will. With this, these would be some of the last times I would allow self-doubt to become self-sabotage.

Just as I was wrapping up Bali and feeling good about leaving the need for excessive safety behind, I fell out of a snorkeling boat on Nusa Penida Island and hit my arm, leaving a gnarly bruise. That definitely sealed the deal.

See? Rarely was anything ever safe to begin with, but oh so very worth it: the majestic scenery, unforgettable moments, so much passion, so much love, and so much life—a vibrant one at that.

No doubt, I want more.

Just, maybe next time, I’ll pack a little extra padding for those inevitable falls.

It occurred to me that the last time I was in the bustling capital city of my motherland was a little before the autumn equinox of 2013. It was an epic holiday, actually. Korea was the second part of my and Nickolas’s almost four-week-long honeymoon. We spent a glorious week on the breathtaking island of Kauai soaking up the Hawaiian sun before boarding a flight to our motherland. We would spend 15 days getting reacquainted with the country we both came from; fly to Honolulu for an extra-long layover; and go back home to do the married life thing.

We were happily in love; I was happily in love. I shouldn’t speak for him, but I presume, he was too.

All of this reminiscing and nostalgia brings me to a place of fondness, sorrow, and sentimentality; a reminder of a very different time and place in my life—one I will never be able to return to. One doesn’t need to be acquainted with loss through death to understand what this feels like. I distinctly remember how painful those reminders were when the grief was still raw. But now, in 2024, despite the bittersweetness, there is more fondness and gratitude than anything else. This shift in perspective tells me how far I've come in my journey through grief and in my personal growth and evolution.

So much so that I’ve found redemption.

My redemption in all of this is the new, wonderful memories made with the present people in my life—both old and new; some for multiple seasons while others for a season with a reason. By doing so, I have actively chosen to keep living my life. Over the years, post-grieving, I’ve been able to do just that: make new memories, especially in places that were heavily saturated with the memories of Nickolas and me. At times, bravely, those new memories didn’t include anyone else, but me.

Initially, it took courage to make new memories: courage to sit down for a meal at a restaurant we used to frequent, courage to continue shopping at our favorite market, and courage to relearn independence as an "I" instead of a "we." It took courage to survive grief, to love again, to open up and make space for others. There was courage in taking risks, in failing, in facing my pain, and, most importantly, in moving forward in all aspects of my life.

Without my courage, I’m unsure I’d be as far along on this grief journey and in turn, this far along in my relationship with myself and all that entails.

It wasn’t a perfect process or a fast one.

The digression throughout the years before propelling forward was frighteningly real. So was the hopelessness, emptiness, and feeling of being stuck in a nightmarish loop. The learning curve was steep, but somehow, I kept going with one foot in front of the other, at times with my head down, defeated. Then one day, I looked up and saw how far along I had come and I was no longer where I used to be. The mileage I had accrued was pretty impressive if I say so myself.

The mileage included this day trip to Seoul.

No, I would never again frolic through Seoul with Nickolas as a newly married 20-something-year-old where love alone was enough and I was still trying to figure out who I was individually and who we were together. Instead, 11 years later, just before another autumn equinox I would be frolicking in Seoul with friends as my self-assured, wise, unburdened, and lovely mid-30s self, navigating this sabbatical with a whole new set of problems and mistakes; and committed to doing things differently.

The city changed, but some things have remained constant.

And, I too have changed, but some things have remained constant.

Sometime down the road, I imagine I’ll return to Seoul under different circumstances. Life, as always, will bring more—another great love, more friends, more losses, and inevitably, more grief and voids. But along with those, there will be moments of joy, memories to cherish, growth, and love. Life will continue to ebb and flow, as it always does.

So, do I know where I’m going to? Yes. Forward.

Epilogue

That night, I had a dream. I was wearing an ornately decorated red and white bracelet meant for protection, much like the Balinese Tridatu bracelet I have on currently. For some reason, the bracelet unraveled on its own. The strings were so frayed that I couldn’t tie it back on. I remember feeling sad because it was something I cherished.

Yet, once the bracelet was off, I felt a surprising sense of relief and freedom. I realized that this protection, which once felt essential, had become a shackle—a crutch I had used to keep myself safe, to guard against the unexpected. The sadness of losing it quickly gave way to the understanding that this protective barrier no longer served me.

I had known intellectually that being overly protective wasn’t helping me, but I hadn’t fully acknowledged how deeply I had relied on it. This dream reminded me that I am no longer in survival mode and haven’t been for a long time. I don't need to live as if something inevitable is about to happen. I thought I had left behind the need for excessive safety in Bali back in February. More on this later…

For the last two weeks or so, I’ve been a fly on the wall.

About a month ago, one of my mother’s friends, who I affectionately call “Imo” (Aunt in Korean) had been freshly minted as a widow. Her husband, Mr. B made his exit from this lifetime after a battle with late-stage Glioblastoma. Talk about timing, Mr. B passed on his 72^nd birthday. I found this to be…poetic.

As soon as I returned from a two-month stint in Bangkok, I got straight to work between shuffling paperwork and unintentionally being present for my Imo. After the paperwork or the occasional dog sitting, we would share meals, have bevvies, make small talk, and catch up on k-dramas together. Often, my mother would be present too. As the two spoke, I would silently sit and listen to Imo rehashing what happened that day, who Mr. B was, and the significance of this relationship, of this love was to her in this lifetime.

I could feel her void reverberating.

I could feel her longing and the missing for that specific person, knowing not a damn thing could be done about either of them except to ride it out.

I felt the familiar pang and the heaviness of the heart.

None of it—the sensations, the process, the atmosphere, the timeline, the crushing emotional pain was any different from my grief.

There was a night when I decided to stick around a little longer than usual where, to my surprise, Imo felt safe enough to tell me about her past trauma and explain to me why she and Mr. B’s relationship and love was so significant. As I listened and quietly admired her courage to speak so candidly (and coherently) about her trauma and grief together, I realized I was holding space for my Imo’s grief with the same kind of compassion and empathy I was giving myself recently.

In fact, this was the first time on this grief journey that I felt relief knowing what this all felt like. In the not-so-distant past, I used to recoil in horror and despised knowing what “this” felt like. “I shouldn’t have to know what this feels like, I hate that I know what this feels like,” would be the thing I would say bitterly. Since I’ve been holding space for my grief and purposely tapping into my pain, I bravely began questioning why I felt so put off knowing what I know. Dare I admit it’s likely due to some residual shame and stigma? If it is, I’m finally, freeing myself from my shackles of shame as a young widow.

By doing so, somehow, my emotional pain around grief has lessened and somehow, I’m able to beautifully hold space for another widow’s grief authentically, whole-heartedly, and presently.  I’m not sure I’ve been here before. I guess, more places in grief-land have yet to be discovered. Or, is it not grief but some other lovely places encompassing wisdom, love, and openness? Or both?

As Imo continued speaking, there was so much I wanted to tell her.

I wanted to tell her it would eventually be okay and with time, it all passes. I, so desperately wanted to tell her, or better yet, give her a roadmap on grief because she was in so much pain that night. I wanted to clue her in that eventually, her voids would be filled with different things and people; therefore, to not hastily and forcefully try to fill them.

Instead…

All I could tell her was that it was going to take time.

All I could tell her was whenever she felt anger and resentment, she should honor those feelings because she was entitled to both.

All I could tell her was that she was doing all of this right especially when she would apologize for talking about her grief.

Imo doesn’t need a roadmap on grief. Imo already has one and has been navigating it through the darkness, in pain, in mourning, and through her voids. Just like I did nine years ago. I didn’t know it then, but I now know that this is what people meant when they used to tell me, “Trust your process.”

Observing Imo’s grief, I was reminded of why I grieved in the first place. I always said and so have countless others that grief and love are inextricably linked. You can’t have one without the other. I grieved because I loved; and because I loved, I grieved.

This reminder makes grief and all the unpleasant things that come with grieving acceptable and justified.

True to my words and outlook, the voids that were once so loud, apparent, and jarring are no longer the same. A part of my heart that was once in full bloom, filled with the people and things that later became voids, was left bare for a long time. It took courage to return to that space, but I did. With time, patience, dedication, and nurture, that bare plot is mostly in full bloom, though a few spots remain unfilled. I trust that with more time, years, and life lived, they too will be filled.

Now that, my friends, is hope.

And I hope, one day, my Imo’s heart will also find new blooms, as mine has.

I also do this thing where I use Nickolas’ death as a benchmark and point of starting over for my own life.

His death and the dissolution of us was the end of an era.

I inevitably find myself auditing my progress in places like grief, career, and love every so often to ensure that I am and have made progress according to my impossible standards. Or is it maintaining standards or the proverbial “not settling” bit? Guess it depends on who you ask.

I chuckle as I write this. With reflection, I see how unforgiving this all sounds, and acknowledge, albeit, with tinges of regrets here and there, the pressure and work I have put on myself to incessantly “get to my next place” not just in the realm of my career or romantic relationships, but my grief, my healing process, and my stuff that was inadvertently brought to light through my grief journey that needed sorting.

Not too-too often, but on occasion, I would ask my therapist if this or that was normal. Typically, she would shoot right back and ask, “What’s normal?” I’d get exasperated by her response but she had a point. My questions about whether something was normal weren’t just about grief but about various aspects of my life.

“Normal”, whatever that typically means, rarely has been part of my life. Certainly not when it comes to my adoption, identity, family, and being slapped with the label of “widow” at 26. Even as a kid, I often wondered what it would be like to be “normal” or at the very least, average.

Weeks before posting my first entry, I got close to talking myself out of launching my blog altogether. Mainly because it still hurts to talk about it let alone write about it. I questioned whether the pain I kept subjecting myself to by rehashing it for the 100^th time was a conducive thing to do at this point. And, is it “normal” to still feel this kind of pain over something that happened all those years ago?

So, true to my form, I took it to my therapist.

“Is it normal to still feel pain about my grief?”

This time, she answered with a very direct, “yes” followed by a, “…why wouldn’t it hurt?”

Good question. I figured enough time had passed (and by whose and what standard, I don’t know), the pain would’ve subsided by now. Granted, I’m not topping the figurative Richter scale but is it normal to feel consistently some-kind-of-way about it as frequently as I do?

I guess that’s why the experts say “coping with grief” rather than overcoming it.

It turns out, there’s really no expiration date with “coping”.

Here’s where it gets interesting and a testament that my grief has changed and I have evolved and I’m not where I started all those years ago.

Present day, my grief is less, if not barely about Nickolas or the future that never was. It is, no doubt, still the very essence of profound loss but less attached to an individual. As I think about this, I’m not sure that what I’m feeling and working with is exclusively grief either.

When I brought this to the attention of my therapist, she shared something with me that ultimately served as a compass that guided me to the right path after being directionally turned around for quite some time. She shared with me that when her clients are grieving, she holds space for their grief in a place of compassion and empathy. More than likely, this is where I was with myself: holding space for my grief in a place of deep self-compassion and self-empathy.

Makes sense. We do this for others, so why wouldn’t we for ourselves?

Honestly, I don’t know how to put this into words. However, if I were to describe what I am visualizing in the context of holding space for me, it would be my survivalist, tough-as-nails self tenderly holding my vulnerable and sweet self; my then broken 26-year-old self who had to pick up the shattered pieces and put it all back together; and lastly, the little girl in me who needs constant reassurance and validation.

No judgment. No criticisms. No admonishments. No questions. No strings. No hostility.

Just acknowledgment, acceptance, compassion, empathy, and love.

Nobody will and was going to fill these cups, but myself.

You’re probably wondering what took me so long to get here.

I never had the leisure or the time to get here sooner (talk about trusting in your timing) because tending to my grief and relearning how to do life as an “I” instead of a “we/us” was a much more pressing issue solely from a survival standpoint. Ultimately, I had to figure out how to be okay and function in my new reality before anything else. Grief or no grief, anyone who had to survive something knows what this feels like.

This place of self-compassion and empathy is a whole new place; an uncharted territory with my relationship with myself and the little girl within me. Although I would preface that this is a culmination of all the inner work I have put in over many, many years. Which also meant traveling to and from the depths of my hell all the while carrying the weight of my grief.

So, is this all normal? I still haven’t got a clue. But if it isn’t, I’d like to normalize it. Normalize grief. Normalize putting in the work. Normalize loving yourself unconditionally, unapologetically, and fiercely. Normalize the fight to save yourself. Normalize choosing yourself above anyone and anything else. Normalize owning your narrative. Normalize taking off that protective shield to accept and acknowledge all the bad things that have happened in our lives so we can heal and move forward.

All of this, with the hope that eventually, we’d all get to the point of thriving because as I have always said and countless others, surviving simply isn’t enough.

I’m here though, thriving alongside my grief, uncertainties, and pain points.

It’s not a perfect place or easy or always exciting or peaceful, but it’s a place that is consistently light and most importantly, free.

“Here” also known as “I’m 9,000 miles away from where it all happened.”

In May, I spent a few weeks in George Town, Penang, Malaysia where the street food and hawker centers are a chef’s kiss; where many endearing and meaningful art line the streets; and where a mish-mash of culture and history meets.

In my early days in George Town, I made a friend that I instantly gravitated towards likely due to the similarity in age. After all, we were mainly in the company of early to mid-20-something-year-olds who were bright-eyed, curious, lacked frownies, and certainly not on a sabbatical due to career burnouts and sorting out messes and unfinished “stuff” from life circumstances.

On a rather mild, but humid night, we sat down for a meal at my favorite falafel joint on Chulia Street. Truly, it was the best falafel I had tasted in Southeast Asia (coming from a Korean who is an American, you can certainly take this with a grain of salt).

Somewhere between enjoying our falafels and talking about our sabbaticals and lives before, the inevitable came up: my grief. As I began to recall the details of my beloved late husband Nickolas, like it was yesterday, I felt the ever-familiar lump in my throat and my tears streaming down my cheeks.

Grief didn’t care that I was in public.

Grief didn’t care that I was enjoying falafels.

Grief didn’t care that it’s been nine years and that, I was 9,000 miles away from it all.

At that moment, there was no fighting back tears or kicking and screaming in protest that grief was, once again, sweeping me away. The best part was that there was no apology for the very public display of vulnerability.

Instead, I sat paused; and ever-so-quietly and physically still surrendered to the mercy of grief.

It came, did what it needed to do, and disappeared without a trace.

After all these years…my grief, more times than not, has become fleeting, transitory.

What felt like hours, in reality, were minutes. In those moments of grief, I am viscerally somewhere else. And, when grief’s fleeting moment passed, life resumed as if someone pressed play. My tears were dry and I was back to enjoying my falafel.

To think there used to be a time when it wasn’t so fleeting but all-encompassing, but that’s for another day.

Epilogue

Late 2015

I wanted to run away, honestly.

I wanted to run away from it all: the intense grieving (I swear, it almost destroyed me on the inside), the endless crying…waking up every day, and repeating this nightmare again and again and again.

I thought, maybe, by running away, I could leave it all behind; move on; “get over it”; start anew, and help me forget the man I loved and the future we once spoke of.

The emotional pain was truly, unspeakable and unbearable and uncomfortable.

Without a plan, I was pretty firm and sold on leaving, except, my dear friend Kyle asked me to reconsider and to work through it instead.

Why…?

He said with much conviction and love that “it” would follow me wherever I went.

This. This became one of the defining moments in my grief journey and applied to all the lessons that followed. Nine years later in a place so far from where it all happened, “it” was there just like Kyle said it would be (and countless places before this).

Except my grief changed; and I, too, have changed, evolved, and grown exponentially.

Still today, I revisit this conversation now and again with much gratitude and fondness with a breath of relief that I never ran instead I sat with my grief, my loss, my heartache patiently tending to all the wounds as best I knew how at the time. And trust me, it wasn’t a perfect or an easy process; and certainly not for the faint of heart.

Some of it is still a blur, but somehow, I survived it and reached a point of thriving. The relief…

Thank goodness for Kyle.

Thank goodness for the people who have our best interests at heart. x

Honestly, I had this lovely, warm-fuzzy intro post drafted a few weeks back but I couldn’t quite get myself to post it and officially launch this blog that I have been sitting on for a long while. After all, this is nine years in the making.

Despite the courage I have amassed; the conviction to give my grief a platform; and an abundance of “trust in my process and self”, I found myself in a perpetual state of doubt, fear, and an unhealthy dose of the what-ifs.

I sat with these feelings long enough and as best as I knew how.

Thankfully, my courage, conviction, and self-assurance overruled my ever-present censor to keep me safe.

So, without further ado, in the heart of Bangkok while sipping a Cosmopolitan with utmost clarity, here is the official launch of The Wayish.

In the meantime, I’m keeping this brief to jump right into things.

Before I do, I’d like to take this moment to recognize my friends, family, and therapist.

These people are special. They have shown up for me during my hardest, darkest days; carried me when I couldn’t hold myself up; and lovingly walked behind me as I navigated grief and life after independently. I always said that I was rich not because of the tangibles, but because of the people I have in my life.

The nourishment was and still is very real. Thank you for feeding me; giving me a safe place to let my guard down and simply rest; the best wines and cocktails (you know who you are); virtual happy hours; guidance and encouragement through it all; quality time; the belly laughs when I thought I would never laugh again; belief in me when I couldn’t believe in myself; and most importantly, love, so, much, love.

And, an extra special recognition to my mom and dad. Need I say more?

It took a village, it really did.

Actualizing something I have been talking about for many, many years feels, well, surreal.

This is for you; for me; and anyone who has lost someone.

I promise, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

Ann xoxo