The suffering is real, the scars are visible, and the weight of loss lingers across generations. Yet alongside this sorrow is a powerful determination to continue living, rebuilding, and loving despite what has been lost. Perhaps what resonates with me most deeply about Vietnam is not only the reminders of humanity's capacity for destruction but also the enduring strength of the human spirit. Even after immense suffering, division, and loss, people continue to find ways to c

This piece is a deeply personal reflection on grief, resilience, and what it means to keep living after profound loss. Inspired by a long-awaited journey to Cambodia, it explores the emotional and spiritual impact of visiting a country marked by unimaginable history, including the legacy of the Khmer Rouge regime. What began as a postponed trip due to COVID-19 became something far more meaningful—a journey intertwined with memory, faith, and the loss of a beloved son.

There is a quiet distance between who I once was and who I am becoming, a space shaped by love, loss, and a deeper awareness I did not carry

I didn’t truly grasp the complexity of suffering until I lost my beloved son, Kevin. Before his passing, I experienced pain like many others—disappointments, heartaches, and challenging times. Yet the kind of suffering that burrows deep into your soul and reshapes your view of the world was entirely foreign to me. Suffering, in its essence, transcends mere pain. It embodies the profound emotional, mental, or spiritual distress that weighs heavily on our hearts when something

Sleepness Nights Grief is exhausting. It drains the body, clouds the mind, and settles deep in the bones. Yet even when we are utterly worn out, sleep may still refuse to come. After Kevin died, my husband and I experienced insomnia in ways we had never known before. We were tired all the time. Grief made simple tasks feel heavy. But when night fell, and the house grew quiet, sleep felt impossible. Our bodies were weary, yet our minds remained alert. The silence magnified the

The hardest part of losing my son is living in the “after.” Suicide divided my life into before and after. I replay our final conversations. I wrestled with guilt. I questioned God. I lived in a fog of disbelief, moving through days that felt heavy and unreal. Yet what has sustained me is not trying to conquer grief, but learning to walk with it. I rediscovered faith. His death by suicide still leaves me grappling with how someone so gentle and creative could suffer so deeply

Some days, the emptiness feels overwhelming. I trust God, yet I remain human. I grieve. I long for what might have been. I know death does not have the final word and that Jesus conquered the grave, but faith does not erase the ache. It gives me permission to bring my brokenness honestly before God. Scripture reminds me, “See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19). I hold onto that promise, even when I cannot yet see the new thing

Hope did not arrive for me as something bright or immediate. It came slowly, almost imperceptibly, shaped by loss, memory, and faith. It did not erase grief, nor did it demand that I move past it. Instead, hope learned how to live alongside sorrow, breathing gently in the spaces where pain once felt overwhelming.Hope has taught me to trust what is unfolding, even when I do not yet recognize its shape. To believe that God is at work not only in what is restored, but in what is

Advent becomes the spiritual framework for this slower, more intentional season. Rather than skipping ahead to joy, Advent asks for waiting,sitting with longing, expectation, and hope. This reflects on how the Christian story itself unfolds this way: before celebration, there was darkness; before joy, there was waiting; before the birth of Christ, there was love preparing to arrive. Christmas, at its core, is not about perfection or excess but about God choosing closeness,ent

December feels heavier when grief walks with us. Advent reminds us that peace doesn’t erase pain—it grows slowly, quietly, alongside it. Read my reflection on finding hope, love, and presence during this season.