You Can Love Both: A Third Culture Kid’s Guide to Not Choosing Sides

Third Culture Kid (TCK)

Let’s clear something up: just because you have a new address doesn't mean you have to trade one part of yourself for another. You can love where you came from and where you are now. That’s not confusion—it’s range.

What is a Third Culture Kid

I’m what’s called a Third Culture Kid, or TCK if you're acronym-friendly. It’s someone who grows up in a culture different from the one their parents came from. I grew up in the overlap—think Los Angeles, Bangkok, and more than a few zip codes in between, but somehow all feel like home. It’s not always tidy. But it’s honest, layered, and alive.

I love California. I love the ocean air, the casual slang, the way strangers say “bro” with sincerity. But I also light up when I hear Thai in a crowded room, when the scent of lemongrass and chili reminds me of my roots. And just because I’ve fallen hard for Bangkok’s chaos, spirit, and late-night food stalls doesn’t mean I’ve ghosted In-N-Out or SoCal sunsets. I hold them all.

You Don't Have to Choose

Some folks seem to think you have to pick. That moving forward means erasing where you started. Like we’re only allowed one cultural subscription at a time. Cute theory—but no.

For those of us raised in the in-between, the idea of choosing just one version of ourselves feels... limited. We were built to blend. We know that identity isn't a zero-sum game. It’s a mosaic.

There’s a quiet beauty in holding space for both the old and the new. In letting childhood traditions and current joys sit at the same table. In knowing that your sense of home isn’t a fixed dot on a map—it’s something you carry with you, shape, and redefine as you go.

You Get to Love it All

So, to anyone who’s ever crossed a border, blended worlds, or built a life in places your ancestors might not recognize—you’re not alone. You don’t have to choose. You get to love both. You get to love ALL.

And if someone tells you otherwise? Just smile, wish them well, and keep thriving in the layered, expansive, and beautifully complicated life they couldn’t even begin to imagine.

We the People: Showing Up for Each Other and the Future

Today, on Flag Day, people across the country are gathering — not just in protest, but in purpose. For community. For country.

This moment isn’t about one man — it’s about all of us.

It’s about the kind of world we want to live in, and the kind of people we choose to be.

We’re not just pushing back — we’re moving forward.

From the NO KINGS protest to the joyful celebrations of PRIDE MONTH, today is about showing up. It’s about standing together for freedom, dignity, equity, and love — and refusing to be silenced, sidelined, or erased.

I see you bringing your voice, your courage, and your care.

Nonviolence isn’t passive — it’s powerful. It’s a strategy, a discipline, and a declaration of the future we’re here to create.

And to my fellow photographers, storytellers, and documentarians: I hope you capture the spirit, not just the spectacle. Show the kindness in the crowd. The power of diversity. The hand-painted signs. The open hands. The strangers becoming neighbors. 

Yes, anger is louder. And yes, conflict gets the headlines.

For the values we hold and the future we still believe in.
But history needs to see the HOPE, too.
We get to shape that story — and we’re shaping it right now.  It’s being built — by us, for all of us.

THE WORLD IS WATCHING. 

We Are the City of Angels—and the World Is Watching

 A City in the Shadow of Fear

There’s a chill in the air here in Los Angeles. ICE agents are raiding homes, businesses, and neighborhoods—making assumptions based not on legal status or due process, but on race, language, and appearance. People are scared. Communities are tense. The line between safety and fear is razor-thin for many Angelenos, regardless of where they were born.

It’s heartbreaking. It’s enraging. But it’s not the whole story.

Because while fear may be in the air, it does not define who we are. It never has.

This Is the City of Angels

Los Angeles is more than palm trees and freeways, more than movie sets and headlines. This city is a living mosaic of humanity. We’re home to over 200 languages. We’re the place where tacos and kimchi and palak paneer live on the same block. Where street murals tell stories of struggle and triumph. Where neighbors become chosen family.

Together with the surrounding Greater Los Angeles area, this region is not a melting pot—we’re a garden. Each culture, each story, each life adds beauty, flavor, and richness to the whole.

We stand together as Angelenos, as Californians, and as Americans.

We are the Golden State.

We are the world’s fourth-largest economy.

And that power comes not from sameness, but from difference. From immigrants. From artists. From essential workers. From innovators and creators. From every background imaginable. We are the dream that many said couldn’t work—but we make it work every day.

Peace Doesn’t Mean Passive

Right now, some would have us believe that “keeping the peace” means keeping our heads down. Staying silent. Looking away.

But here’s the truth: peace doesn’t mean passive. Real peace requires action.

We will support and protect each other. We will not let our neighbors face these raids alone. We will not stand by while families are torn apart. We will speak up, show up, and hold the line—not with hate, but with advocacy. 

We Are Not the Stereotypes

There are those who look at a city like Los Angeles and see chaos, danger, or dysfunction. They see our cultural complexity and label it as something broken rather than beautiful. They hear our accents, see our skin tones, or witness our protests, and call us un-American.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

We are not the monsters that pundits make us out to be. We are not broken. We are not bitter. And we are certainly not the enemy.

We are the promise of what a truly inclusive society can look like. We are the proof that it’s possible for different people to share space, resources, ideas—and even joy.

This is our moment to show the rest of the country who we really are—not just in our words, but in how we treat one another when it counts.

Let’s Be the Example

What happens in Los Angeles doesn’t stay in Los Angeles. We set trends. We shape culture. We influence policy. What we do here reverberates far beyond city limits.

And that means we have a responsibility. Not just to ourselves, but to the world.

Let us be a model of what peace and cooperation among diverse people can be. Let us show that safety and justice are not mutually exclusive. Let us prove that a multicultural society doesn’t just survive—it thrives when people look out for each other.

We’re not perfect. But we’re learning. We’re evolving. And in moments like this, we have the chance to lead—not by force, but by example.

Let’s invite the world to see how diversity can be a superpower. Let’s make it clear that in a place like LA, no one stands alone.

For the World Beyond

To my friends outside of Los Angeles—many of you I met while growing up in Thailand, attending Ruamrudee International School, traveling, or through this global digital village—we see you too. And we know you’re watching.

What’s happening in the U.S. right now is a mirror of deeper questions facing every nation:

Who belongs?

Who gets to be safe?

Who do we protect?

In LA, we are doing our best to answer those questions with compassion, not cruelty. With unity, not fear. With action, not apathy.

We hope that by living our values publicly, loudly, and unapologetically, we can remind others that building a just and inclusive society is possible—even when it's hard.

Choose Action, Choose Care

If you're in Los Angeles right now, I invite you to act in whatever way you can:

• Check in on your neighbors.

• Share resources and updates.

• Speak up when you see injustice.

• Show up for people who may be too afraid to ask for help.
  

If you're outside the city, consider how your own community reflects—or rejects—these same values. The need for empathy, courage, and solidarity is global.

The World Is Watching

Los Angeles is being tested. So is the nation. And in a time of uncertainty, we must become certain of who we are—and who we refuse to be.

We refuse to be silent.

We refuse to turn on each other.

We refuse to shrink.

Instead, we will rise. With pride. With purpose. With compassion.

This city does not just sparkle—it leads.

AND THE WORLD IS WATCHING.

When Disruption Reveals What We Truly Value

The Disrupter

There’s no denying our current president has disrupted the status quo more than almost any leader in recent U.S. history. We are being shown how easy it is for the system we have to be taken advantage of, corrupted, and abused. We need to see it for ourselves. For some, this shift feels like long-overdue progress. For others, it’s brought deep fear and uncertainty. Often, it’s both at once. Yes, many people are being hurt by these changes—too many.

At the same time, this period is revealing a lot. Many people are now confronting the reality of what they thought they wanted—only to find that the outcomes are far more complicated than expected. Often, the assumption was that consequences would only affect others, not themselves. That’s changing. Many are realizing those effects touch everyone. They didn’t realize how interconnected we all really are. The well-being of one is tied to the well-being of us all.

When Ideology Meets Reality

As it turns out, laws don’t ask who you voted for before they take effect. The impact, once theoretical, is becoming personal. This isn’t about left or right anymore. It’s about whether we’re paying attention to the results—not just the rhetoric.

We’re starting to see what happens when slogans become policies.

• In some states, women who miscarry are being treated like suspects, questioned by police, and denied care due to ambiguities in abortion bans.
• Meanwhile, longtime residents—legal immigrants, green card holders, and even U.S. citizens of foreign descent—are being swept up in deportation efforts under the assumption that their names, accents, or paperwork must mean they don’t belong.
• And tariffs? Once touted as tough-on-trade solutions, they’ve quietly raised the cost of everything from groceries to appliances.
• Farmers, builders, restaurants, and care facilities are scrambling to find workers—fields once quietly sustained by legal and undocumented immigrants—only to watch businesses buckle under labor shortages.

A Possible Renaissance

In the long run, I believe this era could ignite a deeper, global conversation about the kind of world we actually want to live in. And that might be the silver lining: a collective push for something better, more inclusive, more collaborative.

This is a time for us to witness, experience, remember, and LEARN. Of course, disillusionment is real. Many people are exhausted, waiting for governments to act or for other people to change. For those who have long advocated for a more inclusive, collaborative world, this isn’t a time to lose heart—but to keep showing up.

Many Paths To Progress

Some will be called to action in loud, visible ways. Others will work quietly to inspire and influence. Both are valid. Both are needed. Change needs many voices and many approaches, working in tandem. Each of us has a role to play.

For those who have grown tired, let them rest and recharge. Continue to support them so they can bend without breaking.

We can lead by example with peace, inclusiveness, compassion, and collaboration. We can continue to show what these values can create. When we do, those who share our vision will find us. And we’ll build the kind of community—and the kind of world—we’ve been longing for.

Understanding The Cost Of Division

Change will come. But sometimes, people need to fully experience the consequences of the division they once supported to truly understand its cost.

When Company Hurts and Heals

A Visit From Sal’s Parents

Yesterday, Sal’s parents came over to drop off some photos for the memorial slideshow. They're snapshots of Sal as a kid — smiling, playful, and absolutely adorable. I can't wait for people to see them. It’s strange how something as simple as a photo can capture a joy that feels so distant now. For a few moments, it felt good to remember him this way — full of light.

The Tug Between Solitude and Company

Even though I’m grateful for the pictures and the memories they bring, the visit was hard. Right now, solitude feels as necessary to me as air. Being alone gives me space to grieve without having to hold anything together for anyone else.

Inside me is a tidal wave, pressing against a dam I built with trembling hands. Every so often, I crack it open just enough to let a little spill through — enough to ease the pressure, but not enough to flood the valley. If I let it break all at once, I fear the surge would sweep everything away, and I don't know how long the waters would rage before they calmed. I’m not just protecting myself; I’m trying to protect everyone else from drowning too.

I can’t let the damn break. Not right now. Not until the funeral is over. Not until my duties are done.

But THEIR need for company is strong — matched only by my need for solitude. It feels like they don’t believe me when I say I want to be alone. I know they’re not trying to ignore my words; I think they’re projecting their own needs onto me. They want to be surrounded by people who knew and loved Sal. To them, being surrounded by others who loved Sal feels essential. To me, being alone feels like survival.

Grieving in Private

Only a handful of people have seen me cry during this time. It happens more often than anyone knows — in quiet moments, behind closed doors.

Sal’s parents have only seen the surface: the moments when I’ve managed to steady myself, when I can greet them at the door with a smile, when I can answer their questions without breaking down. They haven’t seen the lowest valleys. And maybe that's for the best — or maybe it’s another small act of love, sparing them my full weight of sorrow when they are already carrying so much of their own.

Questions Without Answers

His mother still cries on my shoulder. Every visit, she asks me, over and over, “What happened?” She’s asked a hundred times. Each time, it’s as if the question is brand new, as if the answer might suddenly appear if she asks just right.

Her eyes plead for an answer I don’t have. I wish I could give her something that would make sense of it all. But all I can offer is a soft, honest, “I don’t know.” And the truth is, we might never really know.

The final coroner’s report won’t be ready for at least another five weeks. Even then, I’m bracing myself for the likelihood that it will leave as many questions as answers. Some things can’t be explained away on paper. Some things just... happen. And we’re left to make peace with the pieces.

An Exhaustion That Runs Deep

I’m tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Every part of me feels stretched thin. There’s a constant tug-of-war inside: part of me wants to ask them to go home so I can collapse into bed, even for just a little while. But I don't. And I won’t.

They need this time with me — and maybe I need it too, even if I can't feel it right now. Grief isn’t a neat, linear path. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and full of contradictions. I want them here because they are a piece of Sal. I want them gone because my body and mind can barely function. Both things are true.

The Quiet Work of Goodbye

These days, my energy is rationed like a precious resource. Every task on my to-do list feels enormous, even the small ones:

• Clean the house for the reception.
• Finish the slideshow
• Curate a playlist of songs that feel like him.
• Drop off his suit at the funeral home.
• Post the funeral invitation.
• Handle the million tiny details no one will notice if they’re done, but will definitely notice if they’re not.

It’s strange, the invisible work of mourning. So much of it is practical, almost mundane. But all of it is stitched together with love — a final offering to someone who meant everything.

Letting the Days Unfold

I don’t know what the next few weeks will look like. Some days I feel capable; other days, sleep is what I crave and I intend to listen to my body when it screams at me that it needs rest.

Sal’s parents will come and go. Friends will check in. The tasks will get done, one by one. And somehow, through all of this, life will keep unfolding — messy, painful, and sprinkled with moments of happiness.

A Visit from Grief Itself

It was a few days after I got back from England that I finally got to see Sal’s parents. They had just come from the funeral home. Grief was still clinging to them like the smell of incense after a long ceremony—faint but unmistakable, woven into their expressions, their movements.

They stopped by to see me. Just for a moment. Just to talk. Just to cry.

The Weight of Loss

I’ve been so wrapped up in my own grief that I forgot: other people are grieving Sal too. People who loved him. People who are trying to carry their own version of this heartbreak.

I’m so sorry for losing sight of that. I imagine many of you miss him in your own quiet way.

And you know what? I thought I was still buried under the weight of grief. I thought I had a good handle on how deeply I was mourning. But seeing his mom—really seeing her—changed that. She moved toward me, slow but steady, and then she was in my arms, sobbing. Her whole body shuddering in a way that made me think of the word ripped. That’s what this looked like. Like someone had ripped something vital out of her, and the rest of her body was struggling to stay upright.

Grief clings to me like wet clothes in winter—heavy, cold, and impossible to peel away. But her grief? It’s a different species altogether. It’s not just wet and cold—it’s freezing, immobilizing. The kind of sorrow that makes you forget how to be a person for a while.

Trying to Stay Strong

Sal’s dad was there too, standing next to her, quiet but solid. He looked like a man trying to hold up a building with his bare hands. You could see it—he was NOT doing okay. But he was doing enough so that she could fall apart.

Their Grief Is Bigger Than Mine

As much as I hurt, it’s nothing—NOTHING—compared to what they’re going through.

It’s one thing to lose a partner. It’s another thing entirely to lose a child.

I saw it in his mom’s eyes—the desperate need for reassurance. That he was loved. That he mattered. That he had people.

That’s why I’m writing this. Because I know now, without a doubt, that this funeral has to happen for them.

Sal didn’t want a big funeral (or any). He wanted his body donated to medical science. That was his way—simple, private, no fuss.

But after seeing his parents, I know that’s not going to be enough.

They need this funeral. Not because they’re big on tradition, or because it’s “what you’re supposed to do.” But because it’s the one moment they’ll have to stand in a room with people who knew their son and cry together. Laugh together. Say goodbye together. They need to see proof that their son’s life meant something to the world beyond their home.

They apologized to me for not following Sal's wishes. His mom, half jokingly, half seriously asked if he would be mad at her. He wouldn't. He would have wanted to make them happy. He would have also complained about it the WHOLE DAMN TIME, though. 

Let Me Tell You a Story

I’m telling you this because I want you to come. I want you to be there—not for me, and honestly, not even for Sal. I want you to come for Sal’s parents. He loved his parents even if he would never admit it.

Let me tell you a story. Sal didn’t introduce me to his parents until about two years ago. That’s right—after nearly a decade of being together, I was still a mystery to his family. Sal preferred to keep his life in compartments. He was the kind of guy who had his family, friends from college, friends from work—and never the groups shall meet. Well, it was rare, at least. The man loved a boundary.

So when he finally introduced me to his parents, it felt like a BIG DEAL. A surprisingly nervous moment for him. Later, his mom confided in me that they were beginning to think he was gay. His dad had, apparently, sat him down and told him, very gently, that they loved him no matter what—even if he was a maricón.

We laughed about that story so many times. Probably more than Sal was comfortable with. I’d bring it up just to see his face twist in embarrassment while I giggled. His parents were awkward and earnest in the most lovable way, and they just wanted to understand their son.

That story sticks with me. Not just because it was funny (and it was), but because it says so much about how much they wanted to know him, and love him, however he came.

What This Funeral Really Means

They need to see the people Sal let into his life. The ones he shared meals with, had adventures with, worked alongside. Grew with. Because from where they sit, grief can play cruel tricks. It can make a parent wonder if they did enough. If their sacrifices mattered. If uprooting everything—moving to a new country, starting over—was worth it. They need to know that it was.

By showing up, we’re helping them see the full picture. That the son they raised had a rich, full life here. That he did find connection. That he was cared for. That they gave him a good life—even if it ended too soon.

So I’m asking you—if you knew Sal, if you ever shared a moment with him that stuck with you—please consider coming to the funeral. Come stand in the room. Come hug his mom. Tell his dad your favorite story about their son. Let them know, in your own way, that they raised someone worth knowing.

The Morbid Part

I suppose this is morbid so you might want to skip this part.

It was a few days before someone could get to Sal. Maybe 36, maybe 72 hours. The human body starts to decompose not long after death. Fluid is released. “Purge fluid” is what the forensic and mortuary science fields call it. It refers to the dark, foul-smelling liquid that can leak from the nose, mouth, and other orifices during the active decay stage of a body. This happens as the body starts to break down internally, especially in the gastrointestinal tract and lungs.

That’s how Sal’s mom found him. It’s not the last memory I want her to have of her son. She told me about how she walked into the kitchen and wetted a paper towel to wipe it from his face, but it wouldn’t come off because of how long it had been dried.

Please help me carry Sal’s parents through this. I don’t want their last memory of him to be the one of how they found him. I want them to see their son lying peacefully as they say goodbye.

How to Help Carry Them Through

And if you can’t come, but you have a few dollars to spare, we’ve set up a GoFundMe to help with the funeral expenses. It’s not cheap to die in this country. I certainly can’t afford to give him the farewell his parents want to give him. And I don’t want them to go into debt just to say goodbye.

I get it if money’s tight. It is for too many of us right now. If donating isn’t an option, that’s okay. Truly. But if you can do anything—come to the service, write a message for his parents, even just share the link—it would mean the world.

I will remember all of this kindness. Every text and phone call, every meal dropped off (especially when I forgot to eat), every penny offered to help lift a little of the weight off our shoulders. Every gesture, big or small, has meant more than I can put into words.

I don’t know when and I don’t know how, but I hope one day I can find a way to give that same love and care back to each of you tenfold.

When We Gather

I don’t know what happens after we die. I’m still wrestling with that. But I do know what happens before we’re forgotten. We gather. We tell stories. We show up. We carry each other through.

If you ever loved Sal, or even just liked him a little bit, please do something beautiful in his name. Help give his parents one last gift: the comfort of knowing that their son’s life touched more people than they realized.

It’s a terrible thing to bury your child. But it’s a little less terrible when you don’t have to do it alone.

P.S.

Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay in time. I have my people. They will carry me through.

Dear Sal…

I catch myself reaching for my phone to text you. To tell you something I thought was funny. To vent. To ask what you think. And then it hits me all over again. You're not here. Not the way you used to be. But I write to you anyway.

I still hear your voice in the quiet moments. I still hear the way you say my name like it belongs to you. Sometimes I hear you call me “Chompy”—softly, or with that sarcastic lilt when you were trying to get under my skin.

Yes, you annoyed the shit out of me sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time.... but in between, there were the good moments. Road trips, cooking together, taking classes random ass classes together, cuddling in bed together, all of the "togethers".

At times, I feel angry at you for leaving me, and I ache to be with you again. But I also know—deep down—that you wouldn’t have left me if you didn’t think I’d be okay. You believed in me even when I didn’t. In the end, I am grateful for the time we had together even if I wish there was more.
It’s funny how the things I used to think mattered so much just don’t seem all that important anymore. 

The Ones Who Change Everything

There are people who pass through your life and leave you mostly unchanged—nice enough, fun enough, maybe somewhat forgettable. And then there are the rare ones. The ones who don’t just leave a mark, they carve a whole new depth inside you. You are that person for me. You are MY person.

Having you in my life has forever changed the way I look at and experience the world. It’s not that you were a good influence (because most of the time you got me into trouble) or that we had some fun adventures (though that’s also true). It’s deeper than that. You rewired something in me.

You asked better questions than I was asking myself. You challenged my assumptions, not in a confrontational way, but with that childlike curiosity I appreciated so much. 

The Gift of Being Fully Seen

There’s a kind of transformation that happens when someone really sees you—not the version of you that you’ve edited for public consumption—the messy, complicated, unedited version. And instead of running for the hills, you leaned in. You never ever gave up on us even when I did. You kept coming back to me.

There’s a strength in that kind of partnership that gave me the courage to lean into myself too.

Carrying the Love Forward

You are done with this part of your journey. I knew you didn't want to stay here long anyway. And in a way, I'm happy for you.

But you’re not gone either.

You are EVERYWHERE.

All that makes you a permanent part of who I am. Everything I do from this point forward carries a trace of your influence. There’s no part of my day you haven’t woven yourself into. You’re stitched into me now, in ways I never knew a person could be.

Even my thoughts sound different now. They carry your voice. Your perspective colors how I interpret what’s happening. Your faith in me echoing when I start to doubt myself. You helped me become who I am. You helped me get to this place. So now, when I make choices—big ones and small—I do it with that inner alignment that you helped me access.

I didn’t recognize how fundamentally you had changed me until now. Not in the way that overtakes my identity, but in the way that becomes the scaffolding for a stronger, more honest version of me. That’s what you gave me. A scaffolding. A foundation. And room for me to grow into myself.

Your love is still doing it’s work.

One Day

One day, my love, I'll join you wherever you are. But for now, I know you'll understand that I want to stay a little longer. There are still places I want to see and things I want to do. And yes, I will always be there for your parents. They are my family too. 

Wherever you are, I still hope you find a way to take care of me. Because I miss you. I love you. 

“I’m Not Disappearing—Just Taking a Moment”

The Love Behind the Check-Ins

I know some of you suggested that I shouldn’t be alone right now. I’ve heard your concerns, felt your care in the texts, the phone calls. You've offered to visit, to stay the night, to take me out of the house for a while. I know you want to help take away the pain. I appreciate all of it—truly. Your kindness, your check-ins, your love… it means everything.

Why I’m Choosing Solitude

People grieve in all kinds of ways. Some need distraction. Some need company. I need solitude. I need this time alone. Not out of despair, not because I grang jai (เกรงใจ), but out of necessity.

Sal and I were a team. We had a rhythm. A shorthand. A way of moving through the world together. And now that he’s gone, I need time to sort out my feelings, to figure out my next steps, to grieve and ugly cry the kind of tears that come from deep inside—the kind that don’t need to be explained or comforted.

Right now, I need space to grieve on my own terms without being watched, consoled, or reassured. Because honestly, even the kindest words of comfort can feel like a disruption when you’re in the middle of feeling something so raw and so cutting.

Not About Strength—Just Truth

I’m not trying to be strong for the sake of it. I know I’ll be okay in the long run—not because someone tells me so, but because I know myself.

I just need space to walk through the rooms of this house—our home. It still holds so much of him. His clothes in the closet. His toothbrush by the sink. His tools in the garage. The groceries we never got around to cooking. His scent still lingers in some rooms.

These things are painful, yes, but they’re also deeply comforting. They’re pieces of the life we shared, and I’m not ready to pack them away just yet. I want to be near them. I want to smell his robe. I want to sit in his favorite chair. I want to feel him close, even if it makes me cry.

The House We Made a Home

There’s something about being alone in this house that feels essential right now. This isn’t just a building—it’s our home. This house holds our routines, our laughter, our fights, our quiet nights. It’s where we made dinner, paid bills, danced in the kitchen, folded laundry, binge-watched shows, and made plans we thought we’d have time to fulfill.

Every inch of this place holds a memory. This house is a living scrapbook of our time together. It saw us grow into each other, build a rhythm, become a team.

The Pressure to “Be Okay”

It’s not easy to sit with someone who’s in emotional pain. So it’s no surprise that many people tried to lift my spirits—sometimes with jokes, other times by pointing out a “silver lining” in my situation.

I know they meant well. And yes, laughter and lightness can absolutely be part of healing. But at times, I felt a subtle pressure to seem like I was doing better than I actually was—mostly because I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable just by being real.

There’s this unspoken pressure in grief—to move quickly through the pain, to get back to being “yourself,” to make sure others know you’re coping.

But the truth is, I don’t want to perform my healing. I don’t want to smile for the sake of appearances. I don’t want to be reminded that “he wouldn’t want me to be sad” when sadness is exactly what I need to move through.

If I do laugh or smile, I want you to know it's real in that moment because the grief comes in waves and, sometimes, I really am okay.

Grief is not a problem to be solved—it’s an experience to be lived. And sometimes that means being alone with it.

My Quiet Rituals

I’ve started texting him when I’m alone—to tell him the little things I want to share about my day, the funny moments, and to let him know when I miss him. To tell him how much I still love him. I know these are messages he’ll never read, but it makes me feel connected to him anyway.

I don’t know if anyone would understand it if they were here. And that’s part of why I need this solitude—it gives me the freedom to grieve in ways that don’t make sense to anyone but me.

I Still Need You—Just a Little Differently

This doesn’t mean I don’t want people around at all. I still need you. I’ll still reach out. I’ll still say yes to meals, to walks, to check-ins. I still want to see your faces, hear your stories, feel your hugs.

But I’m just asking for a little more room right now—room to fall apart and rebuild in my own time, in my own way.

What You Can Do

So if you’re reading this and feeling unsure of what to do, here’s what I’ll say: Just trust me. Trust that I’m not isolating myself out of despair, but out of a deep need to be with my thoughts, my memories, and my pain without interruption.

Please don’t take it personally if I say no to a visit or a phone call. It’s not about pushing anyone away—it’s about making space for this part of the journey. I’m not disappearing. I’m taking a moment. And when I’m ready, I’ll come back to the world with open arms.

Thank You

Until then, I just ask for patience, for grace, and for trust.

If you’ve ever felt the need to grieve on your own terms, I see you. We all heal differently—and that’s okay.

Sal is gone... How I'm doing...

As some of you may already know, Sal, my fiancé and partner of over a decade, has passed away.

FINDING OUT

I picked up the phone and immediately heard it—the anguished wailing that seemed to stretch on forever. It was Sal’s mother. She didn’t say a word, just cried in a way I’d only heard once before in my life—when my sister called to tell me she had found my brother. A part of me already knew what it meant.

After what felt like an eternity, Sal’s dad came on the line and told me, “Sal is dead.”

I repeated the words, hoping I had misheard. A part of me clung to the hope that he had just passed out, like he sometimes did after drinking too much. But no, it was true.

At the time, I had been in England. We’d been messaging, but I hadn’t heard from him in nearly 24 hours. Concerned, I messaged Sal’s parents to check on him for me.

It kills me that his dad had to be the one to find him, that his mother had to see him like that. It should have been me. I should have been there with him.

NO WORDS

I speak three languages, and there isn’t a single word in any of them that comes close to describing this pain I’m feeling. I keep trying to find the words for what this feels like, but they don’t seem to exist. “Devastated” isn’t strong enough. “Heartbroken” doesn’t even come close.

I’ve known heartbreak before—the kind that crushes your chest, makes it hard to breath, and leaves behind sharp little pieces you carry around for years. But that pain feels trivial now. Tis but a scratch compared to this.

Some kinds of pain go so deep that language just… can’t follow.

PATIENCE

I know many of you are concerned, and I truly appreciate each and every message. Please bear with me as I try to respond. Right now, I just don’t have the capacity to answer each message individually, but I want you to know that I see you and am so grateful for the support.

ARRANGEMENTS

As of this writing, we still don’t know the cause of death. We’re still waiting for the report.

Sal never talked much about his health. As far as I knew, there weren’t any serious conditions—but even if there had been, he wasn’t the kind of person to say anything. He always told me he didn’t want to burden me with problems, even though I reminded him that we were partners, and that whatever happened, we were supposed to handle it side by side.

Today, Sal’s parents and I will go to the funeral home and make arrangements, and will post on Facebook to let you know what they are.

WHAT’S NEXT

The hardest part will be reshaping the future I thought I had. The life we were building. The plans we made together, both big and small—vacations we were going to take, the way we split chores, the way we took care of each other. Every little detail of daily life that I assumed we’d share now has to be reconsidered. Rerouted. Reimagined.

The practical part of me can’t help but think about what comes next. We were a two-income household, and now I have to figure out how to manage finances on my own.

The “To Do” list has now become overwhelmingly long.

SUPPORT SYSTEM

I’m lucky. Even in the middle of everything—this heartbreak, this loss—I can still say that. I’m lucky because I have an incredibly strong support system. Not just one family, but many. I never thought for a second I had to go through this alone.

There’s my kin—my parents, siblings, and cousins. Then there’s the family I’ve built along the way: Sal's family, my Cypress Photo family, my RIS family, my Samy’s Camera family, and all the extended circles I’ve built over the years. I’m deeply grateful to have people to lean on. These are the people who show up with hugs, with food, with late-night check-ins, with quiet understanding when I don’t have the energy to explain anything. These are the people who remind me that I'm not alone.

I also have my therapist on call. That alone is something I don't take for granted. She helps me make sense of the mess in my head and heart, one session at a time.

Writing has also become a kind of lifeline for me, even when the words don’t come easily. It’s not always pretty or polished. Sometimes it’s just scribbled notes or half-thoughts typed out at 4 a.m. But putting my feelings into words has helped me put the chaos in my brain in order so I can address them one at a time.

NEEDING HELP

Right now, I need help in all kinds of ways. And I’m not afraid to ask for it.

I know I’ll need a few weeks of help as I get my footing. I’m hoping to create a new rhythm for myself, something that works for this new chapter I didn’t ask for—but still have to live through.

There are the practical things: getting the house back in order, managing funeral expenses, and figuring out how to take care of all the everyday responsibilities that Sal used to handle without fanfare. The lawn. The laundry. The grocery shopping. The car maintenance. The little things you don’t realize are being done until you’re left trying to do them all yourself.

And then there’s the emotional side, like the guilt that creeps in for leaving him to die alone. If I had stayed, would things have been different? Could I have done something to save him? Could I have at least held him my arms to comfort him as he passed? These questions linger, quietly but persistently.

Our lives were so deeply intertwined that almost everything reminds me of him. I find myself in tears at the thought that we’ll never cook side by side again, never fold laundry together, never plan another trip. We were a team in every sense of the word—partners in the everyday and the extraordinary. And now, even the quietest moments echo with memories of the life we built together.

I don’t expect any one person—or group—to carry all this for me. That’s too much to ask, and it’s not fair. But I do hope it’s okay if I call on different people for different things. Maybe I’ll need help running errands one day. Maybe I’ll need someone to sit with me while I cry. Maybe I’ll need a distraction—someone to go on a walk with or help me declutter the garage.

But I’ve learned that when people say, “Let me know if you need anything,” they often mean it.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be finding my way through this grief, and your patience and understanding will make all the difference. Thank you for being here with me during this impossibly hard time. Your kindness is not unnoticed, and it’s a lifeline.

London, Old Friends, and the Magic of Saying Yes

Tomorrow morning, I board a plane to London.

Even saying that feels a little surreal. Europe has always existed in my mind as something distant and dreamy. But somehow, after a series of spontaneous invites, slow planning, and a nudge from a couple of people I adore, I’m finally going. And not just for the adventure or the photo ops (though yes, my camera is absolutely coming with me)—I’m going for the people.

This trip is one of those rare, perfect intersections of timing, friendship, family, and the kind of “why not?” energy that doesn’t come around often enough.

It All Started With a Message…

A few months ago, I got a message on Line from my high school buddy, Somchart. He lives in London now, but at the time, he was back in Thailand, hanging out with Michael—another friend from our school days. The two of them had apparently been tossing around the idea of Michael visiting London, and somewhere in the mix, my name came up.

Next thing I knew, I was reading a message that basically said, “You in?”

The three of us went to high school together in Thailand. We were nerdy, creative, curious about everything. It’s wild to think how far we’ve all come since then—across continents, careers, and entire life chapters. And yet, here we are, somehow finding a way to orbit back toward each other for a few days in London. 

After graduation, life pulled us in different directions—college, jobs, families, different countries. We stayed loosely connected through social media and the occasional birthday message. But then someone floated the idea: “What if we all met up in London?”

At first, I didn’t think it would actually happen. You know how these things go—everyone’s excited for five minutes, and then the group chat fades into the background noise of adult life. But somehow, despite the delays, the indecision, and the usual grown-up chaos, the idea kept coming back. And eventually… it stuck.

We made it happen.

I’m going.

First Time in Europe

For years, I’ve dreamed of wandering through old cities, soaking in a world I’d only seen in movies and travel books. But something always pushed the trip a little further down the road—timing, money, responsibilities. I kept telling myself, “One day.”

Now, that day is finally here.

This will be my first time in Europe, and I’m feeling all the things: excited, grateful, curious—and just a little nervous. I’ve pictured this moment so many times: me, strolling through historic streets with my camera slung over one shoulder, accidentally ordering the wrong thing at a café, trying to look like I totally belong (while quietly fumbling with the Tube map like a confused tourist).

And the fact that it’s all coming together because of friendships that go back decades? That just makes it even better.

Beneath it all is this deep, undeniable thrill. I’m about to step into a place I’ve never seen with my own eyes—and somehow, it feels like exactly the right time.

And Then There’s Karn

Now here’s where the plot thickens—in the best possible way.

Turns out, my little sister Karn is also in London right now, doing her MBA. Totally serendipitous. The kind that makes you pause and say, “Okay, universe, I see what you’re doing.”

She’s honestly one of the big reasons I decided to go for it. Sure, I was excited to see Somchart and Michael and relive a few of our high school glory days (and laugh at the cringey ones too). But the chance to spend time with my sister—in London, no less—was just too good to pass up. We haven’t had many adventures together as adults, and I’m really looking forward to changing that.

Of course, she’s got her own full plate with grad school, her own friends, and her own growing life. But I’m hoping we can carve out a few solid sister moments. Maybe a cozy meal. A stroll through a museum. Or just sitting on a park bench somewhere. And yes, she’s definitely going to laugh when I try to pronounce “Tottenham.”

I want us to make the kind of memories that show up in family group chats for years. The kind that become our shared stories. Our “remember when...”s.

Old Friends, New Streets

Reuniting with Somchart and Michael in a new city feels like the start of a really good movie. One where the soundtrack is a mix of nostalgia and discovery, and every scene is tinted with a little jet lag and a lot of laughter. 

There’s something irreplaceable about old friends—the ones who knew you before you knew who you were. Before life got heavy. Before you edited yourself to fit into jobs or roles or expectations. These are people who knew me before I really knew myself. Before responsibilities and taxes and back pain became part of the conversation. There’s a beautiful kind of ease in that. You don’t have to explain your backstory. They were there for it.

I know this won’t be a perfect trip. No trip ever is. I fully expect delays, detours, maybe even a moment or two of hangry silence. But I also expect to laugh, to learn, and to feel more alive than I have in a while.

What I'm Hoping For

More than anything, I’m hoping to reconnect—not just with the people I’m meeting there, but with parts of myself I may have forgotten. The curious part. The spontaneous part. The part that says yes, even when the details are fuzzy.

I’m hoping to feel that little spark again—that sense of wonder that sometimes gets buried in the routine of adult life. 

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll come back with a few new stories, a full memory card, and a little more clarity on what really matters.

The Night Before

As I write this, my suitcase is mostly packed and probably already overweight (translation: I’ve definitely overpacked and will regret it at Heathrow). My camera gear is charging. My passport is safely tucked away in the one spot I think I’ll remember. And my brain is buzzing with excitement, nerves, and that very specific panic about whether I’ll need that 17th pair of underwear for a 9-day trip. You never know when you might poop yourself.

But under all of that is this quiet hum of gratitude. For friends who reached out. For family to look forward to. For the chance to say yes to something that once felt like a “maybe someday.”

Tomorrow, I’ll be in the sky. And not long after that, I’ll be walking through a city that’s brand new to me, and hanging out with people who make new places still feel like home.

London, I’m coming. Let’s make some memories.