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.

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.

“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