personal reflections on healing, solitude, writing, home, and the small moments shaping my life.
the notebook
she tried to be good. tried to fold herself small enough to fit inside someone's safe place. but they made a spectacle of her grief, like a saint gone rogue. she keeps running from the wounds they left, stitching a life from the pieces no one else wanted.
the notebook
i came from a faraway city, where my childhood unfolded inside a poor but warm little house, where every meal was served with three dishes, where my father’s voice was always soft enough to hear, and where the windows always opened to a gentle kind of sunlight. once, i
the notebook
when all the expensive lipsticks in the world can no longer keep you calm, when all the luxury, the bright events, the perfect outfits, the exchange rates with too many zeros, and the direct flights to promised lands still cannot quiet the ache in your chest. and somewhere between those
the notebook
people say it is strange, to be from Saigon and still have no home. as if my heart was forgotten somewhere between all these crowded streets, as if my homesickness had nowhere left to be sent. people say it is sad, a child of Saigon living like a guest who
the notebook
it's been almost half a year since i wrote anything. the last thing i published was about losing myself in love. i was writing from inside the wreckage. then i disappeared and let the storms do what storms do best: wreck, pass, and leave their strange little ruins