Episode 47: Healing - Part 1

My left leg is propped up and iced on the corner of my kitchen table. One layer of leg wrap separates my ice packet from my scarred skin. I'm pretty sure I need more than one layer but it's been three months and by now, I'm kind of addicted to the refreshing cold on my freshly swollen knee.

Each time, after removing the ice packet and rolls of leg wrap, I'd reveal a puffy knee, red with cold. I'd invite you to feel how cold my knee is if not for social norms. :P

Anywho, it has been three, going onto four months, of quarantine. It was during this time, after buying a last-minute ticket home from my second semester of college, that I decided, "no more waiting. Let's get that fancy ACL reconstruction surgery."

Lol, of course I didn't randomly want ACL surgery because YUP. I tore my ACL.

I tore it.

I tore it back in February in a "How to Play Futsal" 1 credit course that I had chosen to take, instead of horse riding. In all honestly, I thought my chances of getting hurt in my one semester of horse riding would be much higher than an indoor soccer class... which is why I quit horse riding in the first place... welp, but the friends I made in horse riding are honestly forever. They are absolutely amazing, talented individuals.

Back to the ripperoni story...So off I went into the world of indoor soccer. I had a wonderful first three classes. I made some friends, caught some high-fives, and killed it. But by the fourth class, I had twisted abruptly, trying to the kick the ball in. Probably twisted too awkwardly. I heard the infamous pop. A crack of pain ran down my knee. I fell to the ground. And I swear, I fell in slow-motion.

Slow-motion is no joke.

It hit me, as I was on all fours on the ground, gasping at the incredible amount of pain, one word came to mind. "Fuck."

I tried crawling, trying to get back up again, but my poor, poor knee could not handle it. It kept buckling, so I don't know why, but in that moment, I thought crawling was the best thing. My coach had to blow the whistle at me and my comrades had to tell me "yooo stop crawling" for me to stop.

Arms lifted me up gingerly. My mind was blank except for the pain pole dancing in my knee.

"Can you try walking?" my coach asked. I tried, and lol, I buckled. And the three of us were kind of like "oo~oo~p".

"Okay okay, let's not then. Can someone get her a chair?"

It would be 1.5 months later that I would finally get an accurate diagnosis. It took a 30 minute drive in hard rain, in a rented car, my friend driving, none of us knowing how to turn on the wind shield wipers despite both of us having drivers licenses (to this day, I cannot believe that we made it to the MRI office in that rain and what the actual freak, lol. I am an actual disgrace haha xD), quick dangerous turns in the dark, and crutching on wet wet pavement -- it took all of that to get an MRI.

Finally, the day of my finalized diagnosis came. I had asked a mentor of mine from my Narratives Project, a wonderful, warm, positive individual; she's too good to be real. Too damn good. I asked her if she could drive me to the hospital. She said yes. I found myself buckled in her car three hours later, nervous-talking about my knee, about her life and what she did before teaching at Smith... those would be my last absentmindedly happy moments. In her car. Laughing and vibing with this wonderful wonderful motherly, goose-motherly, gentle gentle loving soul.

foreshadowingggg

The nurse called me in. The doctor shook my hand. He sat down and said, "Bad news or good news?"

"Bad news first, Doctor."

"I was... unfortunately right. Your ACL is torn. Completely. Here, on this MRI, you see this dark area? That's where it's torn. And it seems you bruised your femur and tibia a LOT, which is pretty cool. Cool in a bad way, heh.

Hey, but the good news is, the surgery to get it reconstructed is a simple one and I'm positive you won't run into any surgery mishaps."

I burst out laughing.

I laughed. I laughed-cried. That moment, as I sat at the edge of the examination bed, dangling my leg over to the side, I felt the most funny-sad feeling ever.

I would have to go through surgery. All because of one stupid, stupid mistake. I twisted a little too much. That was it.

For 1.5 months before my official diagnosis, I crutched throughout Smith, waited for vans to take me to class and take me home, and couldn't so much as carry my own plate to the dinner table. I was told that I had a knee sprain and that I would only have to wait it out. 2 weeks passed. 3 weeks went. I still couldn't walk. I would wake up each morning, praying there wasn't snow or rain to crutch through.

I ended up moving from my beautiful house with that beautiful street view to a new dorm, one with an elevator. I tried to stay in my old room for three days, sitting on the stairs to go up and go down step by step. Throwing up my crutches and backpack or sliding them both down the stairs first. I relied on my roommate to get me ice. I hardly went to dinner those first few days. I didn't want to bother with stairs. I was a sad hump of human. The first night that I got injured, an officer drove me from the hospital back to school. He helped me up the ramp and then up the two flights of stairs. I hopped all the way up. Tired. Sad. Confused. He was so kind, holding my backpack and giving me encouragement for each step I managed to hop up. It would be relying on these little moments, that helped me get through each day emotionally.

After moving to a dorm with an elevator, my social life was immediately limited to my new dorm, its cafeteria and my room. Every movement I made had to be strategized and planned: there were no "backsies." My new room was one farthest from the elevator, ironically. Geez. :P

Hey, all of that up there was pretty sad; and it really was. But through it all, I consider myself lucky. Very lucky. And grateful. People made my life much better. It made those 1.5 months much happier. The friends that I had made in my classes, from horse riding (which I'd quit welp), and through all the "by chances", they made themselves available for me. They would walk with me at my slow pace to wherever I needed to go. They'd come to my dorm, far from where they are, to have dinner with me. They'd help me move, heavy heavy boxes of stuff from my old and new dorm, and later, when Smith made us scatter, they would help me clean out my old dorm room. They would grab the grab-and-gos from Hubbard and come back to eat in our gov class, while we plugged in an episode of the office into the overhead. They would randomly call in, to check with me, no matter where they were in the country (Faith, I'm talking about you). I had friends who were up for spontaneous eating out trips and who were willing to grab me boba from my favorite restaurant in Amherst - Miss Saigon - or down in Northampton - Lime Red (I love Miss Saigon's boba more heh). They'd come, study with me, go to concert festivals with me in John M Greene hall. Or, maybe we'd go see a hypnotist show at UMass. All of us boarding the bus, walking the length of UMass to get to their show halls, walking at my speed as I crutched through 30 degree weather and wind. The entire time, they cheerfully egged me on and we would all laugh or talk about something dumb, smiling through the quick-setting hunger. We would later be hungry, and crutch to a bus, head out to Amherst for something to eat or drink. More mishaps would come after that haha... but I remember all of those moments fondly.

Thank you my dear friends.

Without all of you, I would not have been as positive as I was about the entire situation.

You reminded me that where there is love, there is hope. And where there is hope, there is healing. Thank you, my beautiful friends.

I'm getting much better now.

Another, perhaps "short" blog post will be written for Part 2. I'm post-surgery and now? I can walk without crutches. :)

I hope this blog post finds you well and that you're finding your own hope, during this time <3

Your girl,
Ngoc

P.s. My friends, thank you againnnn. My heart cannot wait to see you all again, on two working legs :P.

P.p.s. Yen, I didn't forget you. You're the OG sis. :))

P.p.p.s. BIG thank you to Lauv - Sad Forever [Official Video] - YouTube. No kidding this song has gotten me through everything. I needed to focus on what I could do today. And not look at how far the distance from me now to the stronger, future me is. I'll be okay. 

episode notes from May 2017 :P

Episode ideas in case you run out:

- parents, family
- the perks of having a little sis
- connecting with nature
- going outside to think, self reflecting helps you get your life together
- just, go have fun, YOLO. one life maun.
- sleep, find that time to sleep
- if you've ever been sick, your health is your number one priority here
- Freedom
- listening to advice, honest advice - sometimes, that stuff can help. even from people you least expect to say eye-opening things. :I
- listen for once, you'll find something. you'll realize something you didn't before
- youtube teaches you a lot

the thing about writing these blog posts is the surprising amount of effort it takes to put words onto a document. Like you wouldn't know. It's about knowing how to play with words to bring out just the right amount of feeling, the right amount of everything that you want your message to carry. It's about weighing that and recognizing that your writing will have flaws and sometimes, I'd come back to my earlier posts and fix silly mistakes or add stuff or whatever. Writing is constantly a checking process and I love how once you write something, it's there forever. You never really forget an episode.

- 5/14/17

Episode 45: Vietnamerica Part 1

"Professor, I know this is my first year of college, but I truly want to get in touch with the Vietnamese side of me, the side that few schools or curricula have to offer, even here at Smith. Do you have any advice for someone like myself?" I explained to my advisor, a tall, kind, and calm figure sinking into his armchair, pondering his response to my thoughts. A part of me clung onto the hope that Smith did offer something Vietnamese, be it a course, a professor who knew lots about the country, or anything really. 

After a brief pause, he replies almost diplomatically, "I understand where you're coming from and it's unfortunate Smith can't do much for your situation, but I highly suggest you meet up with another one of my advisees. Her name is Vivian. You seem to have a lot in common with her. If you need help getting in touch with her, feel free to reach out to me." 

I could not have asked for a better advisor, but the truth was, I was still disappointed that I couldn't do more than talk to another Vietnamese upperclassman. I wanted to learn more about what it means to be Vietnamese American in a space that cultivates knowledge. I have the time, now, to pursue what I wish as I wish. I fear that after college, I may not have as much time to do whatever I want... 

It hurt that the only thing holding me back is a lack of resources in a five college system. Hey, I'm not giving Smith enough credit for all that it is has offered me, but yeah... I was sad about this for a while now until I finally did as my advisor advised, heh: I introduced myself to Vivian, who was in my comparative government class all along. Sitting less than 10 feet from me. Twice a week. 

I didn't know what to expect, but within the first two minutes of speaking with her, I already knew she was the person that could help me embark on my journey. She was the person that can answer most if not all my questions.

"Hi there Vivian. I'm Ngoc. Your advisor is Professor ***, yes?"

"Ah, yes," Vivian replies, with a calm demeanor. 

"What a coincidence! He is also my advisor. I told Professor *** that I wanted to learn more about what it means to be Vietnamese American and he recommended I talk with you, heh."

The next few minutes talking to Vivian was glorious. Four words came to mind as we conversed excitedly about navigating the little knick knacks about Smith, especially when you're Vietnamese-American.

She's graceful, elegant, thoughtful, and kind. Her eyes lit up, talking about it all. Her excitement was contagious, and soon enough, I felt hopeful again. My mind clear, filled with energy, already zooming through the next three years at Smith in a blur, exciting about all I could do. All I could be. All I would discover.

I wanted to be like her.  

In short, I was kind of starstruck. 

"Have you read Ocean Vuong? ....Something I'm working on at the moment is advocating for more Asian American classes here. We have like, four. There's also PANAsians I think you should look into... when you're Vietnamese-American, it's strange, because VSA at Smith seems to have a divide between the Vietnamese-Americans and Vietnamese Internationals...ah, studying Vietnamese through the five colleges, haha..." 

And it went on. Our conversation ended at the door of Seelye Hall, but before it did, we ran into our Professor, our advisor. 

"Professor! I finally did it! I finally talked to Vivian like you said!" I called up the stairs.

Turning around from the stairs above us, he remarked, "I don't like the two of you hanging out together. Something about the two of you hanging out together feels like something big will happen."

Honestly? I felt that too. 

I left the school building feeling like my journey at Smith just got spicier. 

I can't turn back now.

And it feels wonderful to know that someone incredible like Vivian exists to inspire and challenge my readied views of a simple question: what can I do now to contribute and understand more about myself and the community I come from?

Your excited, summery, one-good-kneed girl,
Ngoc

P.s. Hello my amazing peoplesss :) It's been two months huh? I wrote this episode about three months ago, ready to publish but somehow I got busier than I should have been, with a torn ACL and Smith having us scat-scat-scatterrr. 

I hope this episode finds any and all of you happy and healthy. I pray for all of you. You're in my heart and you're free to check this song below for a good pick me up. :) (warning, there's zombies for the first minute and it's so freaking lit)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iR0Mic_J_wM

P.p.s. In case Vivian, you see this episode yourself, I have to thank you. Your existence itself is already an inspiration. You have worked tirelessly at Smith to create a safe space for other Vietnamese students like me who are far from home and far from their Vietnamese(-American) communities.

You've gone off starting your life in the middle of a pandemic but knowing you in the small ways that I do--  the world isn't ready for you. It isn't; it probably doesn't deserve you.

Episode 44 - Special post!: Vietnamerica

This post is different. As a first-generation student, I was a part of the First-Gen Out Loud program at my school. Each of my friends and I made videos sharing a piece of our story. :)

Below is a link to mine. ^_^

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1SshS6Wt-k&list=PLiU2Yj6S1O3TBd-S6eS-9Z3f1fRwEPsMC&index=33

I hope you'll enjoy! Like, comment plzzzz ;)

Episode 43 - I Want to Buy Her a House

It was around Christmas time of last year when one of my mother's customers needed a pedicure and couldn't leave her house, so my mom, sister, and I took the car over and serviced her.

Let's call this customer Eva. Eva is a bright, joyful older woman with a happy lilt to her voice and springs under her feet. My mother, Yen, and I walked into her home and was awed by its vastness, decor, and extravagance. Everything was so neat. The wooden floor was so clean, it was reflective. The lighting was bright but warm and there was so much space between things. Space between recliners, space between tables. And there were so many framed works. Even the TV was framed. It was hard not to look like we wanted to live there.

My Mom easily looked like the happiest woman on earth. Her eyes reflected her dreams. She's been in the US for over 25 years and has always wanted a beautiful home. A simple, beautiful home with a simple, beautiful view. 

"That's all I want. Oh, and a garden. I want a garden big enough to grow every beautiful thing."

And I'm seeing her come alive like that, in someone else's home. It's not that she can't give herself these things, but she would have to work to death and live on nothing to afford a place like that with the things it had inside. Naturally, it would only be me, to make sure the rest of her dreams come true. 

To afford her a beautiful place with a beautiful view. A simple thing like this isn't simple to get. 

And I'm 19. I do feel excited about my life. There are so many options and so many things I can be. But at the end of the day... what's going to bring me happiness but also allow me me to afford my mother the happiness she deserves? 

Look, I'm not an idiot. A new house and beautiful things wouldn't easily make my mother happy, persay. Spending time with her is, of course, a big part of that, but there's only so much life she has left and she's sacrificed her youth and life for me and my sister and her extended family that I feel this giant need, this obligation as a daughter, to give her the life that she's seen watching American movies or whenever she takes us out to go trick-or-treating at the more affluent neighborhoods. Those were mere moments. I want to give her experiences that is a part of her everyday life.

These things need money. A good source of money. 

As I write this, I'm only a first-year in college. Yes, I have time. And I'm lucky to be on generous scholarship in order to afford college, but there's only so much college left until I have to fend for myself and for my family. 

My mother's poor nail salon business can only float for so long. 

Money isn't everything. But it can buy her things. Afford her travel plans to a beautiful island. A cruise to Southeast Asia. A reliable water well in her hometown. Elegant dresses. Experiences. Things.

I don't know what I want to do with my life. I don't. 

It doesn't make it easier, since that December at Ms. Eva's house, that I realized how much money I want to make, that I'll need to make to make it. I've been feeling really scared lately, that I might not be able to make this happen. To afford her dreams. I have a vague idea of public policy something, of sociology something. These kinds of "ideas" of mine aren't traditional enough to lead me to where I would be to do what I want to do. 

She's never been one to force me into something for the sake of money. These are all my thoughts and I wish I didn't feel so constricted by this new realization of mine, but I am. There's no safety net for me here. I don't have relatives to fall back on. My father is retired. My mother will work until the day I make enough that she won't have to. That's all we got. Haha, this is it. I'm it. 

I just... geez I don't know what I'm going to do. Should I just be a doctor, be on the safe route, and go there? Should I just be a corporate lawyer, another safe route, and make the big bucks there? An economist? Haha, maybe not. A data scientist? A moo-moo? A chicccen? welp. im so so so lost. 

What does make all of this easier is when I set my mind on something, I have the grit and resilience to go through with it. It'll happen. I just gotta put some things together. And think. And wonder. And dream. My good friend Manal once told me this with eyes so intense and feverful, I couldn't forget: "Stop being so realistic for once. Dream big! Don't be afraid!" Haha. Okay, buddy. Just this time... I will still think about the numbers though, but maybe not dream and do math at the same time. :P

Maybe I'm putting all this weight on this more than I should. But I swear to every good god that I want to see my mother smiling like that again, not in someone else's home, but ours. 

Your sad sad girl,

Ngoc

P.S. My story is not unique, or for that, my own. I've just been a late-bloomer when it comes to reality and there are undoubtedly individuals going through worse worse. Praying for those that are. Don't know what's going to happen. But something will... 

P.P.S. I'm just the most confused teenager ever. Speaking of teenagers. My little sister looked at me in the eye one morning and told me one thing I couldn't have if and when I turn 20. And that's a teenage pregnancy. 

I don't know why I laughed, but I did. God, my sick humor. And hers. :I 

Episode 42 - Like Blood

I have approximately 8 blog drafts left unfinished in my blog waitlist. To be finished. To be touched.

Tonight, I'm finishing this episode. It's been left too long unsaid.

Tonight, I want to write about my father. I can't write about all of him, not tonight, but I can write about something that's left an indelible mark on my life: his bedtime stories.

Right now, I'm finally at home, with my family, yet alone in my own room. Not my room though. My real room, I share with my younger sister. Tonight, I sleep in the room that I shared with my father for many years when I was much younger. When Yen was just a baby, huddled up against my mother in their own separate room.

This is the room where I would ask my Dad questions like, "Why is it that now the light is turned off, yet I still see sparks of light dancing and moving in the darkness?"

He would answer quickly, "Because your eyes are slowly adjusting. It's seeing a record of what was there. Don't worry. Give it a few more moments and you'll see the shapes that do exist."

Nighttime was when I'd get to learn about the world. I'd have all the time in the world to ask him all the questions I could possibly want. Until, well, until he would say that we ought to sleep so I could wake up early for school. :P

"How was your life like when you were a kid, Dad?"
"Why don't dogs and cats get along?"
"How is it that I would get a paper cut and then the next day, it starts to heal up?"

This is the room where I believed in my Dad as if he was the brightest thing in my world, in the darkness as he answered each question and told each story.

This is the room for the years when I loved him and loved him only. Haha, of course I loved my mother too. But not in the way that I loved him. I loved them both equally yet in different ways? Hm... how do I explain this?

With my mother, she was always taking care of me, kind to me, gentle. Her love consisted of constant check-ups and Ross trips and rice soup and waking up in the middle of the night to make sure I took my medicine and putting in a new VCR tape of the Monkey King. I felt both strong and a little fragile with her, as if "sure, I can do this on my own, but my mother can do this better" kind of love. With my father, it was a muscled kind of love. His love consisted of Vietnamese history lessons and math and the legacy of the Nguyen Khoa family and memorizing Buddhist prayers and new heavy yellow boots that were supposed to hurt if I kicked someone. I felt powerful with him, as if I was meant for great things. A little invincible.

I grew up falling asleep on the crook of my father's muscled arm for many many years. When it was wintry outside, he was the warmest and strongest thing in my world. This room was a fortress built on his wisdom, our nightly prayers, and life-- I lived in this room.

In the darkness of this room, he'd paint it with stories. Stories of his pilot-fighter days in the Vietnam War, how he felt flying the Cessna A-37B in the vastness of the sky, how he escaped the North Vietnamese prison labor camps through years of strategic planning, how weak of a boy he was growing up, how much he loved martial arts, how he came to the States with nothing but his mind and body, how much he misses Vietnam, how he fell for my mum --- god I could go on. I can. There's just too much history that I have with this man, so much history he has with himself. So much so that one day, I hope to write most of this in a book somewhere, anywhere. Recorded. His history a part of history.

It feels all too nostalgic to return to this room. My father is a huge figure of my life, often reminding me to succeed, to continue his legacy, his history. Applauding the loudest at each checkpoint in my life. So enthusiastic with any handheld camera that he'd slowly but persistently hobble forth on uneven feet, feet deformed by years of gout, to reach the front of the stage and make sure he has pictures of me to print out from Walgreens later. So proud of me and my sister that he'd make sure to slide in her name or my name and list off our "achievements" into every phone call he has with friends or relatives on a years-old flip phone that keeps failing him every 3 months. And persistent enough to make sure I have a flashlight everywhere I go, his reminders haunting me all the way through college: "Always, always have a flashlight Ngoc. You never ever know."

His love is encompassing. When he loves something, he feels it in all the fibers of his being. Despite his love, sometimes he can be harsh in what he feels. Any feeling he feels, he feels fiercely. He loves fiercely. He hates fiercely. He acts fiercely.

He's a gentle man too. Sometimes it's easy for me to forget how gentle he can be when almost every day of his life he's so... so tough about things? I honestly wish there can be less "masculine" language that I use when describing my own father. God. I mean, Buddha. But it's so culturally ingrained in Vietnamese culture for men to be this way-- but in all respects, despite his worst days, I know that he loves me. Even if it's really tough love. Even if it's harsh love. Even if it's the kind of love that hurts me a lot at times. That hurts my mother and sister sometimes. Ag.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, my sister would ask me, when we're both tucked in our bed, "Why don't you hate him, Ngoc? Can't you see??"

I would hesitate to answer but the answer would always be the same. Blood. I love him. Thinking about him, about his dark sides would only bring me to the times when there were light. When things were better, when things were warmer.

He's not a perfect man. Never was. Never is. Just, it was when I was a child, listening to his stories, shaped by his stories, that I saw him as a flawlessly all-knowing being. All of his attention was on me. Mine on him. We were a duo. I was his brave little girl. The little girl who'd do anything to impress her father. Who'd run lengths to be the best.

In all of this thought, despite his faults, I still have faith in him.

Yesterday, I came home, fresh out of college, on crutches, 5 weeks into my knee injury. Seeing my father see me as a physically and emotionally broken individual woke me up. I'm not his flawless little girl either.

Tonight, before I even began writing out this episode, he came into this very room, where all his stories began, and sat down by the head of my bed. I looked up at him. "Ngoc, good night con. I am glad you are home."

"Me too, Dad. Me too," I responded.

"This is the room, isn't it?" he asked nostalgically.

"Haha yes. This is the room where you'd tell me stories every night for many many years," I said as I wrapped my arms around his growing belly, my face against his chest.

I felt small again. Blood. I miss that. I miss that feeling.

In that moment, in that hug, I felt full of all the answers to answer my sister's questions about why, why I still love him despite all this time, despite everything that's ever happened.

I love him because I know his love for me is true. It is a sword, piercing any facade the world can hand me. It is fact and story and real.

His love for me runs like blood. In this vein... it makes sense that my blood, that my existence, runs too.

Because how can I not love the very blood running through my body?

I consider myself lucky that I have blood that I can love despite the past. Not everyone feels or is in the situation to feel as I feel about their own blood or blood kin, which is duly noted and I respect.

Ah gosh. My father is my blood. He's the roughness, the toughness in the heavy yellow boots he gave me that spring morning for first grade, "I want you to wear these and feel strong, Ngoc. Feel as if you can walk through anything."

I love you Ba.

Con Thương Ba.

Your daughter,
Ngoc

P.S.
There's more to this story, more to his story and mine that I cannot wait to share in the future.

Haha, and yes! I finally finished!!!! AH THERE ARE SO MANY DRAFTS IN MY BLOGGER FOLDER THAT I'VE YET TO FINISH OR DELETE. I FINALLY, FINALLY WROTE ONE. Gosh, it just kind of sucks that my father won't be able to read or understand this piece that I wrote about him. But really? I can just tell him, heh.

As for this actual blog and keeping up with it...

The truth is... I am afraid. I am afraid of writing something I won't like. And this fear has kept me off my blog for so long. I wish I can return to the more carefree days of this blog, back when all I did was update the world about the events of one single day or shared a link to an interesting place or a beautiful song on the internet.

Slowly, this blog has evolved into something like art? I love that. But, I wish I can go easy on myself too haha.

I'll do better with the role of this blog in my life. :)

Until then, I hope you enjoyed this imperfect episode. <3

Thank you for staying and supporting me this far.

Seriously.

Episode 41 -- Dreams Can Burn Too

After getting off a call with my younger sister a while back, I realized something a little too simple and a little too painful: I've taken life too seriously for well too long.

Yen is in her sophomore year of high school. On the phone, she talked about how stressful she felt not knowing what she wanted to do, what she wanted out of life, how she should start planning for college. She's worried she doesn't know how to shape a compelling story to sell herself... she felt all these pressures to figure herself out. To "figure" herself out. To "sell" herself to colleges.

"Ngoc, I feel like I'm not worrying about this enough. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to start getting into Tufts. I just want to be happy with my classes, but I don't know what I enjoy..."

All of these worries that her little self has... She's 16, my god. I remembering being 16. 3 years ago, I had felt all these pressures. I remember little beyond the hours that had passed where I'd just be sitting in front of homework or researching scholarships and colleges. Lots of it. *agh*

In my high school, "college" was a natural word. Everyone worked hard. Working hard, sleeping little, coffee, and scoring well was our mantra. All of that work to be where we are today...

Hey, I'm glad I worked hard. And I'm proud of those that have too. Hard work definitely pays off.
But isn't there another conversation we should have with our younger generation? With ourselves? "How much is too much?"

Personally, I had allowed all these pressures to invade my everyday space. I was hurting myself, and I didn't know it. I did the AP thing where I loaded my schedule with many AP classes, with the hopes that I can prove how deserving of a scholarship I was, that I was a hard worker... I didn't allow myself to have fun. I ploughed through. It was an unhealthy and unhappy process-- my mantra? Getting myself as close to a full-ride as I can. Whatever that looked like. And hey. The dream is real. It happened. But... at what cost?

Sometimes, I wonder, "Would I still be where I am today without having to work as hard as I did? Would it have changed things too much if I didn't take the extra hours to study this or that or spend more time with family?"

Because now, I'm away from family. The very family that raised me. Where has the time gone? Was it really my fault for being so caught up in the swell that is my future? Clinging onto the pedestal that seemed inescapable --  there's no other way to be amazing than to attend a great college. "You're going to be set."

There exists a pedestal for getting kids to the Ivies or the top liberal arts colleges. These schools deserve their names. They do. Just, are we pushing them too hard?

Are we letting them grow up too fast?

One second, I was a college-hopeful high school freshman, working hard, not noticing how hard was hard until I felt the tears welling yet again. "Gosh mom, it's going to be another all-nighter..." Next, I find myself researching colleges, excited at the prospect that pizza in the north is better than pizza from the South. The next second, I'm working to the last sweat to tackle my AP tests as a senior. "You're almost there. You're almost done," they said. "Done with? What am I done with exactly?" I thought, as I sat in the audience, gripping the time sheet in my hand with who says what when, unwilling to let go of high school despite the mountain that it was, yet smiling and waving the audience as if I'm sure what happens next... as if the next chapter of my life is pre-written, pre-read, full of spoilers my father's already whispered and my mother worries about. I glided across that stage as if I'm promised a happy ending.

Soon enough, I find myself sleeping alone in a dorm room, with nothing but a few things from home.

All of my hard work for another bed to sleep in, another space to study in.

Senioritis is a thing. But I realized too late that what mattered most were the friendships and relationships I had with friends and family. Those are the things that last for a long time...

It's like running a 5k. The finish line grows closer to you, and you're almost there, but it's like... those last few seconds, you know you can make it. You're going to be there-- of course you'll cross the finish line. However, something about those last few seconds makes you want to whip your head around and look at how far you've come, look at all the things your eyes missed because they were so set on the road, drinking and savoring it.

Soon enough, you're across the finish line. Your legs have been moving forward automatically, spinning wheels of their own.

What I'm trying to say is... you're going to be where you're meant to be. You're going to be where you want to be. Of course, you'll need to put in effort to get there, but if all you see behind those eyes is the goal and the goal only? You might miss a handful of amazing sights. You might sit where I am, and I say might, because I know someone will fight me on this, haha, and right... You might sit where I am and wonder my very questions, "Were those years worth it? Where has the time gone?"

What I hope for my younger sister, my niece, my nephew, and for you is that... we live our lives healthily, happily, kindly, and *sigh*, live in a way that we can look back on and feel a bellyful of warmth.

That warm feeling? It's an indication of time well-spent.

I hope you feel warm when you don't regret spending an extra half hour on the phone calling home instead of beginning work a little earlier. Warm when you think about that detour you took just to walk a little longer outside under the sun. Warm when you took a short break in between it all to look out the window and dream.

Warm.

And if you don't understand what I'm trying to get at? hm... go eat your favorite food, or treat, or dessert. Eat it. Now think, did you regret eating it? Maybe it wasn't a healthy snack/food. Maybe you ate a little too much of it. But the feeling is the same yes? You felt happy eating it right? Dare I say, you felt satisfied devouring it?

Satisfied.

Satisfied is a feeling too. Almost warm, yes? :)

Don't take life too seriously. Leave room for messiness. Leave room for lazying around. Leave room for lungfuls of cold air. Leave room for dancing, swinging, flying. Leave room for unplanned lengthy phone calls.

Because you never know, you never know if one day you can't do the very things you thought you could anymore. Or if the people you love will be there, just a walk or drive away.
One second, I lived with my family, holding my sister close. The next second, I'm free. I'm out. I'm alone. Alone with new faces, new textures, new hands to hold.

It's unfortunate. I went to New York City last month, on my own, and... well. I forgot to taste the pizza, the pizza that deliciousness was promised. Haha. :P

I hope this finds you well. I hope this finds you warm, despite the winter setting in.

My heart goes out to the world tonight-- to those who aren't warm, in every sense of the word :), and to those who are :).

Let's feel warm today. Let's feel warmer tomorrow. We'll be where we're meant to be. ^_^

Your girl,
Ngoc

P.s. Another imperfect episode, :P. This one took a while to crack. Honestly? There were actually 4 different episode 41s that I have on standby in case I hated all of them. But how can I hate any of them if they came from me?

There was so much I wanted to discuss more in this episode. So much to touch on. Episode 41. Wow. 41% of the way there, to 100 episodes.

P.p.s.

Shout-out to Yen, my sister. Awaiting my arrival to Houston. I'll be home for Christmas. My heart is all yours. :)

Shout-out to my newfound friends at Smith. I can't believe I have friends, ohmigod. <3

Shout-out to Lucy, who may be back home in Texas-- I love you. I support you. I can't believe we'll see each other soon.

Shout-out to Faith, who may be all the way in Illinois, our friendship never wavers. In fact, it feels strengthened by the distance. I love you. okayitakeitbackyouprobsthinkimgay4u

Shout-out to my nephew and niece in DC. I wish you both strength. I wish that you realize the wealth of love that you mother surrounds you with.