Year Ten - The other side of grief.

It’s been a decade.

Sometimes I ask myself whether I finally made it to the other side of grief, but the truth is I no longer think grief works that way. I don’t believe there is a finish line where loss disappears, and life suddenly becomes untouched by absence again.

What I do believe is that grief changes shape over time. Maybe the “other side” is not about escaping pain, but about learning how to live fully while carrying it. Over the last ten years, I have come to understand that life is always made up of both light and darkness. Meaning is not created by avoiding the difficult moments. It emerges when we allow ourselves to share those moments honestly with people we trust.

As an immigrant, I have had to work intentionally at building that kind of community. Villages do not magically appear around you when you are far away from where you began. You have to seek people out, nurture relationships, and create spaces where vulnerability and belonging can exist.

One of the deepest truths I now live by is simple:
Every single day we are alive is a gift.

I try to approach life with the understanding that both joy and conflict are teachers. The moments that challenge me reveal where I am uncomfortable, reactive, fearful, or still growing. The moments of joy remind me what actually matters. Someone wiser than me once said that the truth of your life reveals itself through how you spend your twenty-four hours.

Time is the great equalizer.

At thirty-three, before all of this unfolded, I still felt emotionally unfinished in many ways. I had freedom, independence, and ambition, but very little understanding of what it truly meant to care for another human being while simultaneously trying to hold myself together.

When I became a mother and lost Mom almost simultaneously, I was overwhelmed in ways I could not even articulate at the time. I was grieving, sleep-deprived, emotionally volatile, and terrified by the weight of responsibility that suddenly defined my daily life.

And honestly, there were moments where I deeply resented everyone else’s grief too.

Thomas’s grief. Dad’s grief. The emotional chaos inside our family.

The younger version of me wanted silence, space, control, and solitude. Real life gave me noise, emotional messiness, responsibility, and relationships that required me to continue showing up even when I felt depleted.

At the time, I did not even fully understand that mental health was something I needed to actively care for. At forty-three, I have finally accepted that the messiness is not going anywhere. So instead of trying to eliminate it, I have started building better tools for living alongside it. Therapy. Journaling. Meditation. Drawing. Reflection. Honest conversations. Boundaries. Self-awareness.

Could I probably add more exercise and movement to my life? Absolutely. Work in progress.

The truth is that most of my struggles now come from ordinary human relationships, which somehow remain both the hardest and most meaningful parts of life.

Thomas and I still see the world differently in a thousand small ways. When I am exhausted, there is still a part of me that wants him to magically understand what I need without me having to communicate it.

(Don’t judge me. I know I’m not alone in this.)

After more than twenty years together, our relationship is no longer dramatic in the cinematic sense. It is deeper, quieter, more layered, and full of constant recalibration.

The same is true with Dad.

When I was younger, especially after Mom passed, we had explosive fights because we were both carrying enormous grief differently. Now our biggest challenge is usually geography and time zones. When he is energized and ready to talk, I am exhausted. When I am beginning my day, he is winding down his own.

And then there is Lila.

She walks through the door every day carrying her own giant emotions, curiosities, ambitions, frustrations, and dreams. And because I chose to become a parent, I have to keep learning how to hold space for another evolving human being, even when I am emotionally tired myself.

Sheesh.

(Nieces and nephews over fifteen reading this: your parents are human beings, too. Ask them about their day once in a while.)

Currently, Lila wants to become a K-pop idol, which means our home is now filled with ITZY, RIIZE, TWS, dance routines, skincare rituals, and endless conversations about choreography.

My inner only child still fantasizes regularly about silence and calm. But I also know that my job is not to mold her into a smaller or more convenient version of myself.

She is not mine to control. She is mine to love, guide, protect, and encourage while she discovers who she wants to become.

Would I personally love it if she sat quietly reading books and shared all my interests?
Absolutely. Every single day.

But if leadership has taught me anything, it is that growth happens only when people are allowed to explore who they actually are, rather than who someone else wants them to be.

So I encourage her.

I celebrate her wins.

I send dance videos to family members with the same ridiculous pride my mother once had for me.

I gently question her commitment whenever Roblox begins competing too heavily with dance practice and occasionally remind her that dance outfits cost money I could hypothetically spend on massages, vacations, or art.

But mostly, I try to support her while quieting my own fears about uncertainty, stability, and the future.

Because the truth is, parenting constantly reveals parts of yourself you still need to heal.

Mom and Dad used to say that children become your greatest teachers, and they were absolutely right.

But life lessons do not stop at home.

Work continues to be one of my greatest mirrors.

I have been incredibly lucky to build a career solving systemic problems because I genuinely love the complexity of people, organizations, and ideas. Design is not simply my profession. It is one of the deepest expressions of who I am.

But loving your work also means it can consume you.

My days are full of conversations, negotiations, compromises, emotional labor, leadership expectations, and constant interpretation between people with competing needs and perspectives.

And like most adults functioning in society, I am expected to remain calm, rational, emotionally regulated, and productive even on days when what I really want is someone like Mom or Dad telling me:
“You’re doing great.”
“You’re right.”
“You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

Some days, showing up with grace requires extraordinary effort.

Over the years, though, grief has sharpened my understanding of what deserves my energy and what does not.

I have become far more protective of my time, relationships, and emotional bandwidth.
I no longer invest deeply in one-sided friendships.
I no longer chase people who cannot meet me with honesty or vulnerability.
I no longer stay in environments that consistently drain me while asking me to betray myself in exchange for belonging.
This applies to work too.

I understand the conventional wisdom about compromise, endurance, professionalism, and not burning bridges. But I also understand something else now: our lives are fragile.

And spending years inside spaces that diminish your spirit comes at an enormous cost.

That does not mean leaving at the first sign of discomfort or conflict. Growth often requires tension. But if a relationship, workplace, or environment consistently shows you that your humanity, gifts, or energy are not valued, there is wisdom in walking away.

One of the biggest things Mom’s death taught me is that time is not renewable.

So I prioritize ruthlessly.

I fill my life with meaningful conversations, emotionally honest relationships, creativity, reflection, and people who want to participate deeply in life alongside me. In the end, I do not think my legacy will be the projects I completed, the titles I held, or the systems I helped shape. I think it will be whether people felt seen around me.

That was Mom’s gift too.

She moved through life making people feel valued, welcomed, celebrated, and alive.

I hope to continue carrying that forward in my own way.

Not through perfection.
Not through performance.

But through honesty, presence, curiosity, generosity, and the willingness to meet people where they are.

So have I reached the other side of grief?

No.

But I have learned how to carry it with more grace than I once did. And maybe that is enough. Thank you for continuing to read these reflections on love, motherhood, work, identity, and becoming over all these years. Now go live like your time matters.

Because it does.