February Love Project: Day 14 - Marital Love

When our marriage finally ended, we had been trying for so long to save it that we became unrecognizable people. We were no longer friendly, not to each other and definitely not to ourselves. We had overstayed our welcome, and I think if it could have, our marriage would have kicked us out.

We did try, though, to a fault, to save our marriage. Chad came from a family of divorce, so he didn’t want to repeat the cycle. I came from a culture where you make it work no matter what. And God? How could I question God's plan?

Eventually, exhaustion turned into disappointment and disappointment turned into heartbreak, and heartbreak turned us into enemies. When you are enemies trying to raise children, no one, especially them, comes out unharmed. One of us had to find the courage to see past our own pride and to put our children first. I cannot say it was me.

Still, even after we separated, we tried. We were told to fight for our marriage, we were told to overcome, we were told to continue against all odds. What we weren't told and what no one really talked about was how to cope with the post traumatic stress of the destruction that we caused.

Neither one of us could move forward. All we could do was breathe within the space that we were in. Every time we talked about getting back together, the fear, the anxiety, the thought of how we used to be always came flooding back. And then, for me, the shame showed up, and it stopped me completely from even reaching out.

In my recoil, in the great amount of space that I now had, I had to face someone I never wanted to face, myself. I had to deal with my true intentions, my insecurities, and my self-loathing. From there, was where I learned to forgive, to accept my marriage for what it was, and to no longer fight to save it.

I did think about it. Perhaps we weren't meant for each other. Perhaps we weren't meant for marriage. Perhaps we didn't love enough. But that lonely tunnel only led to more unkind thoughts, and it minimized the love that we had for each other, even though we thought there was none left.

I am kinder now. Perhaps this is as far as we go on our journey together as husband and wife. Perhaps the only thing that our marriage needed to give us was to become parents to our children. Perhaps the only thing that we needed to be are friends to each other. And perhaps there is no lesson at all.

We are friends again. Although, I am grateful that we are for our children's sake, I am even more grateful that we are for my sake as well as for his. I see a future where we may not be so close, in proximity, as well as in friendship, and I do cherish this time that we have now to rebuild ourselves, separately and together.

Neither one of us are dating. I can't even fathom it. Chad talks about it, though, to which I roll my eyes and wish him luck. There's still a lot of pain there, even for him, who said, "First, I have to learn how to be by myself."

February Love Project: Day 13 - The Nature of Love

I'm not sure if it is in our nature to love. The one thing I know for sure is that it is in human nature to progress at whatever cost. Love is a concept that seems to live in the future, or to escape time. It seems to be slipping away even when we have it. This unattainable concept, a concept that we think binds us, it's a vehicle that drives us to accomplish things. We do things out of love. We chase love when we don't have it and when we have it, it moves us to look for something more. Even those who may not be looking for love, they still see a future or an alternate life where it may exist.

Love is not always happy. There is definitely a dark side to it. At times the torment of love, can make one reject it. I've often thought that to love someone can be like tethering yourself to that person, and I've always hope that it will be a kind person at the end of that rope. Although, I know that often that is not the case. I've recently learned, though, this new way of love: to love someone is to set them free. That is the nature of love that I have come to believe in. It's the kind of love where you don't chase it or yearn for it or where it motivates you or makes you a better person. To set someone free is to accept that they already are a better person and to recognize that they are whole within themselves without you.

February Love Project: Day 12 - Familial Love

I think this kind of love is the most confusing to me of all. I know that there aren't any guarantees that just because you're born into a family or you're related by blood that you are loved by that family. I have seen families who love each other so much that penetrating that bond can at times be astronomical, and I have seen families who cannot even begin to find compassion for their family member, let alone love them.

It is also without a shadow of a doubt that I know family can also be the ones who can do the most harm to you as well. And in those moments, how do you even begin to understand that love comes from that kind of hurtful relationship? Then of course that goes on to shape your entire idea of love, which is why pain and destruction can often times be found wrapped tightly around love.

I suppose it is true that familial love is the very first kind of love that we experience. Whether it is family by blood, by adoption, or by choice, that love that we so often take for granted does go on to shape who we love and how we love. Some spend a lifetime looking for that kind of love, while others spend a lifetime overcoming it.

The only thing I know for sure is that familial love, for me, is a lot like coming home. When I go home to visit my parents or my brothers or attend a big family event, it is me going home. Keep in mind though, I also am aware, that just because family loves you doesn't necessarily mean they like you. I suppose therein lies the conflict.

What I have come to learn, though, is that as time goes on people change, families grow, love breaks and love strengthens, and love redefines itself, as well as finds a way to redefine us as well.

If at the end of it all, my definition of family grows to include those who are related to me by blood as well as those who are chosen to be my family by choice, I hope that I may have very well learned what it means to love.

February Love Project: Day 11 - Friendly Love

I’ve had to learn over and over again how to appreciate my friends. I’ve lost a few of them over the years, some colleagues, others fair-weathered, and a handful of close friends. I’m just not that good at weathering loss.

Regardless of how those friendships ended, I eventually did find value in them. Some were just passing through. Those who stayed a bit came with a lesson. Those who stayed a little longer came with a purpose. And those few who stayed through it all, they came with a blessing.

I’ve only a handful of close friends, but that’s not for lack of trying. They don’t know each other, so I’ll never enjoy all of their company at once. I appreciate them more than they ever will know. Their superpowers are listening, understanding, accepting, engaging, and encouraging me along on this little journey of mine.

I hope your friends are as super as mine.

February Love Project: Day 10 - The Love of Animals

I've had two cats and one dog as animal companions.

Dogs are like children. Even though it may seem like they do not know how to express it, they always know exactly what you've done.

Cats could care less if you like them or not. But be careful if you don't, they know how to stalk you better than your obsessive ex.

I look at them and I just know. They can see right into the middle of my soul.

Sometimes when I look into their eyes it's as if they know all of the secrets of the universe, and other times I think the only secret they can possibly teach me is how best to eat, sleep, and poop.

Yet, I think they have taught me more about love than I could have learned from anybody else.

February Love Project: Day 9 - The Love of God

In March 2018, my sister died. In April 2018, my marriage ended. I remembered thinking that of course this was how things had to happen. When it rains it pours. I didn’t know which to mourn first. When I cried for one, I felt like I stole from the other. So I put the process on hold and I just tried to survive.

In October of 2018, after trying to be strong, after trying to hold on, after trying to withstand, it was too much. My life was a mess and I thought, perhaps God had taken the wrong sister. And in the dark, in that pit of lonely desperate despair, where your mind is more your enemy than it is your friend, I convinced myself that he did. It would be better for everyone, I thought, if I were dead.

The moment was quick. Popped the pills. Drank the bottle. Lied down. Remembered thinking, what did I do? Who do I call? My mind moved, but my body would not. As I circled down, I knew. This was my suicide attempt. And then I passed out.

When I woke up the next morning I knew that only God could have pulled me back from that. No matter what anyone says, no matter what you believe in, no matter who, I knew that it was God. I knew that it was he who was there for me.

When I finally called my therapist, she reminded me in the most compassionate way that she could: You cannot call for help when you're dead. I carry that with me now everywhere I go. I know that I might find myself there again, so I look for the triggers, I look for the signs. I pray to God: I know what you did for me. Thank you for always being there. I am humbled by your love, and I may need your help again one day.

In the aftermath of that desperate attempt, I knew that I had to make a choice. I needed me to move on, and so I chose to mourn. It was the end of my marriage. In the timeline of things, I knew that it died first.

2019 dropped me even further into despair, but it was the kind of despair that rises, the kind that looked for forgiveness, the kind that looked for peace. It was the kind where God granted me grace.

February Love Project: Day 8 - Choose Love

I am not the kind of person who loves unconditionally.
When tested, I will not always say the right things.
When you need me most, I may not always be there.
When it comes to love, I have lost more than I have won.

But through it all, through all of the conditions
Through all of the wrong things that I have said,
Through all of the times that I have walked away,
Through it all, I choose it. I choose love.

Everyday, it is my choice and I choose it.
It is not with conviction, it is not easily done.
But it is still something that I choose to do.
It is from the most conflicted parts of me, but I do.

I go there. I bring it back with me.
It is mine. It is my love to give.
It with all of those things above.
I choose it. That is how I love.

February Love Project: Day 7 - Privileged Love

I do not have the privilege of telling my children racism does not exist. I do not have the privilege of sending my children to school and not worrying about them being assaulted with racist remarks. I do not have the privilege of telling my children to turn the other cheek, to rise above it and to understand that racist people are humans too. That is not the privilege that I have.

The privilege I have is to tell my children when you hear a racist remark, you tell them that is racist. The privilege I have is to teach them to stand up against racism. The privilege I have is to hope that they are brave enough to do that, but to know that they may get hurt, physically and emotionally. The privilege I have is to live in a world where the color of my skin is demonized daily because of a virus that originated in a country that is inhabited by people who look like me. That is the privilege I have.

I am tired, though, and when I ask my children what do your friends do, those friends who do not look like you, when they hear these racist remarks said to you? It is nothing. They do nothing. That is the privilege they have.

Let’s be honest. My privilege is not the same as yours. I am no longer interested in whether or not you believe your privilege exists. I know mine does. I am asking you: How do you use your white privilege to help me? How do you use it to stand up against racism? How do you use it to effect positive change?

Please. I am waiting for you.

February Love Project: Day 6 - Kind Love

Kind love did not clean up after me when I made a mess.
Kind love did not comfort me when I fell apart.
Kind love did not stop me when I walked away.
Kind love did not wonder if I would return.
Kind love did not care if I did not.

The kindest love that I ever met was the kind of love that let me go.

February Project Day 5: No Boundaries Love

I remember one of the few times my mother ever talked to me about love was this kind of love. I was 13 years old. She heard that I had met a boy that I liked.

My mother was sitting in our small kitchen with another Hmong woman from our church. She said, “Kaab, I don’t want you to talk to him any longer.”

“Why?” I asked half-heartedly because like all teenage girls I already knew everything I needed to know about love at 13 years old.

“He comes from a high-ranking family in the Hmong community, and his family has money. You’re from a poor family and you have nothing to give.”

“We’re just talking, mom,” I stated. “It’s not like we’re going to get married.”

The other Hmong woman chimed in, “Listen to your mother. This boy and you are not a good fit.”

“No matter what happens his family will never look at you as an equal.”

I did go on to date that boy, but his family’s money never did make it into our relationship. There were so many other boundaries that our love couldn’t overcome.

It’s not that I don’t believe love has no boundaries. It’s that I believe love is not that naive.

February Project on Love: Day 4 - Early Love

I must have been 10 years old. My mother and father had gotten in an argument. It was a pretty bad one, one of the few arguments I ever saw them having, but I could tell my mother was very upset. It was in the desparate air around her. She gathered all of her children, all five of us, and we left the house. We walked down to a neighborhood park and we stayed there for hours.

I remembered her crying quietly as we walked through the neighborhood, and I remembered thinking that we must look like a mother duck with her five ducklings in tow. It seemed odd to me and I wondered what everyone who was driving by thought. It was the first time I remember thinking about the moments of love in practice. I saw it in the way my mother walked away from the argument. I saw it in the way she gathered her children. I saw it in the we walked through the neighborhood. I saw it in my mother’s tears.

When we returned home hours later the house was quiet. My father and mother went about their way around each other in their familiar way. The air was free and the emotions were even.

On This Day Two Years Ago

One, take a deep breath. Two, another deep breath. Three. Breathe. These days sometimes it only takes three breaths to pull myself back, and sometimes a little bit longer. There used to be days, though, days where I couldn’t catch my breath no matter how much I breathed, no matter how slow, no matter how deep, no matter how fast. I don’t think it was even about breathing. There was a knot that just sat there in the middle of my chest and it tightened up and then it flexed just enough to tighten up again, over and over. It was painful, but it wasn’t a sharp pain. It was heavy like someone was sitting on my chest. The very first time it happened I was not just scared but I couldn't even think straight. I tried so very hard to remain calm, but remaining calm while having an anxiety attack is a lot like telling someone who is choking to spit out the object that they are choking on.

I haven't had an anxiety attack in a while, but today I remembered the date, and there it was. February 1, 2, 3, 4. It was the day my sister was admitted to the ICU two years ago. The ICU where the air was always cold and the light was dim, where the doctors said without emotion, "when someone is admitted to the ICU, they usually do not leave". No matter what time of day it was, no matter how bright it was outside, in the ICU it always felt like nighttime. I could see the ceiling. For some reason, I always saw the ceiling. And I then I would hear it, my sister pleading: Help me, Kang. Help me. Which meant I knew what would come next, the panic attacks, the memory of her having them.

The nurses told me not to help her because once she started to have a panic attack there’s nothing anyone can do to help her. Still I couldn’t sit idly by doing nothing, so I tried to help her. Every one of us who saw her tried to help her. Nothing, though, could alleviate the pain she was in and eventually her body convulsed and she went into seizures. I remember the first time I witnessed that I felt so incredibly helpless that it would have been better if I could have just crawled out of my own skin.

I try not to go there anymore. I try to tuck it away, but some days are harder than others. Some days the memories go hand in hand where I remember her beautiful smile, her face, her voice and then it goes dark. I've never had a panic attack. I pray that I never do. I pray that none of you ever do. I have had anxiety attacks, though, and today, well, there it was.

February Project on Love: Day 3 - Thankful Love

I am thankful for the kind of love that lets me breathe, the kind of love that doesn’t demand so much from me.

I find that kind of love early in the mornings, before the sun comes up, before my children are awake, before the day starts to get away from me.

I find that kind of love when I’m exhausted and frustrated, when I make mistakes and say unkind things, when my children see me like that and love me anyway.

I find that kind of love at places where people talk and listen and interact, where difficult conversations are had and are met with commitment and understanding.

I find that kind of love requires people to be exactly who they are without judgement and without exultation from God or from any other higher power from above.

I find that kind of love in people who show up for each other when life is easy as well as when life is challenging, when love is more about compassion than it is about joy.

I find that kind of love exists somewhere between being surrounded by everyone I love and being left completely alone, where love nourishes me and gives me space to move.

February Project on Love: Day 2 - Self Love

(Noun) Self love is the belief you hold that you are a valuable and worthy person.

At the beginning of December 2018, I did something that I never in a million years thought I would ever do. Broken, defeated, exhausted, and in a complete state of utter despair, I wrote:

I am loved.
I am loving.
I am capable of love.

I am worthy.
I am worthy of love.

I am deserving.

The list of affirmations went on and on and on. As I wrote those words, the tears flowed out of me like never before. I had been crying for almost all of 2018, but this time it was different. It was not out of sadness or out of anger or madness or even out of fear. It was out of compassion. These tears came with understanding. These tears were full of love, the kind of love that only I could give myself.

As I wrote I am loved, I am loving, I am capable of love, in my mind I saw the missing word of “not”. It was ever present and magnanimous. I resisted the urge to write it in because I knew that not only did I not feel loved, loving, capable of love, or deserving, but it was the reason why I rejected it every time I loved and was loved in return. The power of “not” was smothering me and I wasn’t quite sure I would be able to survive it.

I wrote those words of affirmation down on paper for 30 days straight. It seemed foolish in the beginning, but writing them down, facing them, forced me to step out onto that most uncomfortable ledge and deal with my self-loathing. At the end of that time, however little it was, I did feel loved, loving, capable of love, deserving, and much more.

The reason for my self-loathing is still locked away in all of the layers of me. It is not as important, though, to uncover them just yet. First, I needed to learn how to love myself. First, I needed to know that I can find value in that.

There are still days. There are still moments where I find myself back there wanting to return to old familiar ways. I haven’t written down any words of affirmation recently, but they still go through my mind, sometimes quietly and sometimes like a mantra. I am loved, where the “not” is diminished, where the self-loathing quietly lives, but where I am no longer unsure that I can survive it.

February Love Project: Day 1 - Remember Me

Today is February 1.
Today is my sister Nue’s birthday.
Today I remember her.

One of the last things Nue asked for at the end of her life is something I think we all want but are too afraid to ask for, and so we let it sit in the crevices of all of those things that go unsaid: Remember me.

When Nue said that, I thought, well of course I will remember you, what a silly thing to say. But still it stopped me cold. The act of saying that, the verbalizing of those words, that is not a simple thing to do. It implies ominous things that we are not ready for. But I knew if it was hard for me to hear it, it was even harder for her to say it. And so, with tears falling down my face and hoping that she would not see them even though I knew she did, I replied, “Yes, I will remember you.”

In Hmong when we say “I miss you” it translates to “I remember you”.

I remember you, Nue.
I remembered you yesterday.
I remember you today.
I will remember you tomorrow.

If you haven’t verbalized that to anyone yet today, please do.

Someone Like Me

I’ve told myself many, many times over the years…

“Look on the bright side.”

“Be positive.”

“Get over it.”

“Think of your family.”

“Choose to live.”

I look on the bright side. I am positive. I get over it. I think of my family. I choose to live.

Every. Day. I do these things.

I do it with gratitude. I do it with love. I do it with anger. I do it with exhaustion.

I’ve bargained. I’ve cried. I’ve even tried to leave a couple of times.

I am still here. You are reading this because I am still here.

I do these things not because I can't but because I can. I do these things as a reminder to myself and as a reminder to you. I do these things so that you won't have to lose another someone like me.

You should know that as someone who lives with depression, anxiety, suicidal tendencies, these things--these words--of "looking on the bright side" or "choosing to live" or "do it for your family", these words that are said so nonchalantly may come easily for others, but they are quite a hurdle for someone like me. Please don't say them to someone like me.

Please know that if there is anything you should know about someone like me, know this:

When I am positive, when I smile, and when I see life through a brighter lens—no matter how few they are—please know that these moments are victorious for me.

Every day when I write, whether it is a post or an email or a text, you should know that I’ve revised it several times before you even see it. I’m afraid that it is too dark. I’m afraid that I’ve revealed too much.

I've written and I've walked away more times than not.

I write because I love it but I hate it just as much. It takes me back there. Back to where I have to choose again: to be positive, to get over it, to think of my family, to live.

When I smile, when I write, when I share, please know that although it may not always be happy and positive, it is still me contending with myself and hoping that I do not come out on the other side a darker version of me.

Please know that there may not be anything that you can say or do to help me, but you should know that you are still part of the process.

Everyday when I wake up I do these things: I pray, I stretch, I get coffee, I turn on my sunlamp (I love my sunlamp), I meditate, I take my vitamins, I take my meds. I do these things because I am afraid that I cannot let the mental and physical parts of me start in the dark. I know my anxiety is already there.

As someone who lives with depression, anxiety, suicidal tendencies, I have to be cognizant of anything that may compromise my immune system. A cold or flu may take someone else out for a few days or maybe a week, but for someone like me it can drop me into the depths of darkness. Not always, but for even the one time that it does, it can be crippling.

Please know that I live with depression. Please know that I live with anxiety. Please know that I live with suicidal tendencies.

I may not always live with them, but it is important that you know because there may come a time in the future when you will wonder whether or not I’ve made it.

Please know that I want to be there. I want to tell you that I've continued to walk out of the darkness, and I want to tell you that it is because of you knowing all of these things about someone like me that I will be there to tell you that I've made it.

Please know that is just a little bit of what it's like to know someone like me.

To Be A Daughter

I wonder what it must be like to be him.

I see him holding on to his crumbled pieces. I see the fear on his face. I see the pain held at bay so tightly that it almost seethes through the seams of his broken heart. But it is held together still with thread and needle, a patchwork part of him sewn back together time and time again.

I see him, not a drop, not a single drop of tear. Is it pride that holds him still? Does he wonder what everyone would think of him if he were to let it drop, just one little drop? Does it lead him to be stoic and full of unclaimed pain?

I don’t know what it is like to lose a child. I don’t know what happens to you when you have to walk out onto the ledge like that.

I’ve often wondered why the older generations preferred the birth of sons. I used to think it was cloaked in unequal gender roles, and perhaps it was, but I’ve learned to understand now that was equally cloaked in loss. To have a daughter was to mourn her from the moment she was born. We are daughters born with one foot in the family we are born into and one foot in the family we will marry into. We are born leaving.

Twice. He lost her. Twice. Once when she married and moved away. He mourned her, no longer the daughter under his care. To say goodbye and to know that her life, her future, her well-being belonged to someone else. And then again, when she died. He mourned her. I can’t even imagine it. To mourn her all of her life.

I don't wonder what it must be like to be him. I don't even want to.

Narrative via Hamilton

I cried at the end of Hamilton when Eliza sang her final song and stated “I put myself back in the narrative” and ended it with “who tells your story”. I saw Hamilton back in December with Tristan. I paid a heck of a lot of money. I went mostly for him because he had been talking about it and singing all the songs for four years now. I knew how popular it was. I knew who it was about. I knew who wrote it. But I wasn’t ready for all of the things I felt.

I watched while the stage was occupied by actors of different ethnicities. I watched while Asian actors portrayed Hamilton and Washington. I watched while black actors portrayed Burr and Eliza. I watched uneasily at first because I was unsure what would transpire. Then I watched in fascination, and finally I felt an overwhelming emotion come over me. It was important. It was a musical set in history about the founding fathers of America. It was sang in hip hop and rap. It was portrayed by actors who were descendants of immigrants, refugees, and slaves. It was powerful. It was about putting us back in the narrative. It was about us telling our story.

I sat in the audience overcome with so much emotion but afraid to feel it. Is this for real? I heard a comment about how talented Lin-Manuel Miranda was. I heard a woman say that this was her fourth time seeing Hamilton. They were both white. I looked around and saw faces who were not the same color as mine. I was surrounded in a sea of white. I thought, do you even know? Do you even know how important this musical is for me?

It's ok, though. In the end, the most important thing is that I know.

If you can, I encourage you all to go see it. It's not about the story. It's about the narrative. And, I do see it, the irony in how expensive it is to even see this musical, a musical that affects the very people who cannot even afford to go and see it. For those of you who can, please go see it. For those who can’t, just know…the narrative is changing.

May the Road Rise to Meet You

I used to be annoyed by, or better yet, jealous of the people who brought it, conquered it, slayed it…that mentality scared the frick out of me. I was the one who sat in the back of the classroom and prayed “Dear God, please do not pick me.” I was afraid that I wouldn’t rise to the challenge, and even if I did, it would be a road littered with a massive mess, unconquered and unslayed, and I definitely wouldn't have known what to bring. I’ve learned now that there are many ways to rise to a challenge. 

Now, I am in awe of the people who bring it, conquer it, slay it because I know I do not belong to that group. My group is vulnerable, conflicted, reluctant, unequivocally scared. My road is a mess, I conquer ungracefully, I slay unsteadily, and I still don't know what to bring, but I am at peace with that. 

I am rising to meet it.

To Bear Witness

This year, I am working on being more present. I am working on stepping into a space where time does not exist. For someone like me, and maybe someone like you too, it's hard as heck.

Most of my life is about timing: it’s time to go to college, it’s time to get married, it’s time to have children, it’s time to start dinner, it’s time to do homework, it’s time to go to sleep, it’s time to get up, it’s time to get ready for school, church, a meeting, run an errand, have fun, do nothing, anything in general has a timing to it. I am either waiting for time or thinking about a time that’s passed. The present is a gateway, and often times the gateway feels like a trap.

Today, I learned that to be present is to bear witness, and, wow, that turned the trap on its side. I have witnessed many things that shook me to the core, I think we all have. I did not and do not like being a witness because I felt and feel helpless. So just imagine my experience in trying to be present wrapped up in being a witness—the present helpless.

This year, I am learning to be more present, to bear witness...phew...to crawl out of that trap.