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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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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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.