“Do You Know Where You’re Going To?”
In short, yes, I know where I’m going to.
I recently boarded a train to Seoul to visit with friends I had met in Malaysia in April.
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…