While witnessing this moment of unabashed reverence, I was reminded again how fortunate I’ve been to have a father like my dad, and a mother like my mom. Watching him in the predawn dark, made me think back to all those long ago winter mornings of my youth. It was often still dark when I’d stumble up the stairs from my basement bedroom, weak with sleep, dragging my blanket behind me as I climbed. Predictably, I’d find my dad in his underwear, kneeling in front of the brick fireplace steadily blowing life into the beginning sparks of a new flame.
The Asian Inside Me
The reality of my alleged depression being more headline worthy news than Jake jumping out of the second story science classroom set off warning bells inside my head, leading my 13 year old self to assume depression was something to be ashamed of, something you hide.
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The Art of Jumping
Jumping is a verb, and goals achieved and destinations reached often take determined action and should be celebrated.
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Blind Date with Hope
On days when I can’t seem to stop myself from stumbling into the black cave of despair, the damp cloying silt of grief clinging to […]
