Two years after:
a catch up, of sorts
Two years have now passed since you left, Dad.
One month after you’ve gone, we brought you back to Vietnam and had an impromptu family reunion. We threw street parties, grilled food, drank, sang, and then laid you to the waters of your home. It was HCM for the first time without you, I felt like my steps were our steps, I think I ate for two during that trip because I knew how much you missed it. I pranced through your childhood streets, laughed with friends and family, and nestled into our family homes, I’ll try to visit more often.
On my first Father’s Day without you, I spent hours at the gym avoiding the looming feeling of your absence as much as I could (I couldn’t). I stepped home and puddled into the living room floor with a weight I didn’t know how I’d ever carry. This year I made a voice memo telling you what you’ve missed. On my first birthday without you, I watched old videos of you singing to me to forget you’re gone for a moment. On my 30th, I celebrated, explored more, and had many of my dreams come true, I traveled so much and spoke to you on every flight (all 8 times in that one month!). On your first heavenly birthday, I went home to Mom; we tried not to talk about it much and went to our rooms to grieve alone. This year, I woke up with a heart bursting with gratitude, I received so much love, and my friends even sang in Vietnamese and blew out a candle (I let them all have a piece of your birthday wish btw) haha
Figuring all this out is an ongoing journey and a funny thing because there’s no right way, just our own. What feels like the loneliest experience in the world starts to fill itself with company. We learn that some people know the feeling all too well, some fear the feeling that is your truth, and some love you enough to feel yours too. So maybe if we’re as lucky as I was, our loved ones carry us through. They remind us we’re strong enough to feel the hardest parts, acknowledge our consistent efforts and growth we may be blind to, and encourage us through the pain instead of around it. My people celebrate me and remind me of your impact in the most beautiful ways. I think my luck is a bit of magic you left to me.
You’d teach me lessons like “Be brave to live boldly, be kind, do good, have compassion everywhere you go, don’t be afraid, daddy’s got you.” You made sure my heart was big like yours yet courageous to tread through. I leaped into the world knowing you’d catch my every step. Relearning life without you felt like falling and falling and falling. It sometimes still does but I’ve been rebuilding my safety net- from myself and everyone around me. Slowly and steadily, I started to feel safer again.
Grief stays but I think it constantly redefines itself, it’s actually kind of beautiful (I can say that now). We often associate grief with pain and it is. My god it is. But it is equally the way that love is so big that it can’t help but linger and demand to be felt. It dies if starved of love but instead, it persists in new meanings every so often because we care so deeply. I am so okay baba, we all are.. and when we’re not, we’re going to be :)
