Chapter 1 - The Year of Unraveling

Life is a journey. At first glance, it all seemed normal, at least, as normal as life could be when co-parenting with someone whose behaviors had long eroded my sense of safety and trust. That final year before the life-altering text from my dear daughter was what I now refer to the calm before the storm. On the surface, there was no explosion, no loud warning, no final act that told me I was about to lose everything again.

A decade earlier, I had already lived through a different kind of unraveling, one that left me financially gutted after seventeen years of marriage. The only thing I had left was my story, and no one can take that away from me. I lost custody of my three children, my home, most of my possessions, and any material net worth I had built. On top of that, I was saddled with years of legal fees from eight years of drawn-out court proceedings and was ordered by the court to pay child support for a full decade, until all three of our children turned eighteen, to the very person whose controlling and coercive behavior had already cost me everything. It felt like adding insult to years of injury.

I walked away with nothing and still, somehow, I held on to hope. I believed so naively, so desperately, that once my three children were free from legal restrictions, we could finally find each other again. I thought that if I could just make it to eighteen, things would shift. That date became a finish line in my mind. My daughter, my youngest of three, would no longer be bound by court orders and we’d have a chance to begin anew. I was tired and exhausted but still holding on. Not out of strength, but out of sheer determination. I had been counting down the years like someone in the final stretch of a marathon she never signed up for. Every step felt impossible, but I kept going, whispering to myself, Just a little longer. Just hold on. You’ve made it this far. You can’t give up now—not after everything. I had patiently waited ten years for the day my daughter became an adult. Ten years of missed birthdays, holidays, graduations, soccer practices, and everyday magic. Ten years of court-ordered summer visits and forced goodbyes at busy airport gates. Ten years of paying child support to the man who had torn our family apart, while I lived with trauma, insomnia, and a grief no one could see.

So when the beginning of 2023 arrived, the year she would turn eighteen in September, and I received a handwritten birthday card from her, carefully made, thoughtful, full of love. It caught me off guard in the best way. It was a handmade card and letter, written in her own handwriting, thoughtfully colored and decorated. Even the parchment envelope was adorned with stickers of a mother and baby whale, surrounded by hearts. It was a gesture that felt both childlike and deeply intentional, as if some part of her was still reaching for connection. After everything, that one small act felt like a quiet sign of hope—a reminder that, maybe, something between us was still intact.

Inside, she wrote (verbatim):

“Happy Birthday!

Mom, I know you like when people make things for you, so I made you this card. I hope you like it. I really admire your willingness to listen and try new things… It means a lot to me. Also, the fact that you’ve become dedicated to hobbies such as spirituality is very nice. I love you. Once again, Happy Birthday.

Love,
Daughter.”

I remember holding the card gently, rereading her words, touched by the care she had put into every detail. It was such a cute and endearing card, sweet, handmade, and full of heart. It felt like a moment of real closeness, unscripted and sincere. I even took a photo of the card and envelope and sent it to a few friends. When they saw it, they laughed and commented on her calling spirituality a “hobby.” It was comical and endearing, such a sweet, unintentional misunderstanding, but one that made me smile. It felt like a small, precious moment, filled with warmth and humor, even amidst all the complexity. A sign that perhaps we were finding our way back to each other.  At the time, I had no reason to think otherwise. 

By May, the distance between us felt more evident. Mother’s Day arrived, and despite the growing silence, I wanted to make it special. I drove two hours to Folsom to pick up my daughter and her middle brother, then met my oldest son, who was attending UC Davis at the time. We gathered at McKinley Park in Sacramento for a walk and picnic lunch, a spot I used to take them when they were younger. The park, with its beautiful rose garden, held so many memories. My oldest son, when he was little, couldn’t quite pronounce "McKinley," so he affectionately called it "squirrel park" because of the abundance of squirrels that lived there. I remembered how, as young kids, they would collect twigs and build little "homes" for the squirrels to eat their peanuts in. The joy they took in creating these small, makeshift structures was a simple, beautiful reminder of how they once saw the world—full of wonder and kindness.

This outing was the second Mother’s Day we’d spent together in the past ten years, since the child custody arrangement meant I only had them in the summer months of June, July, and August, so that day in May fell outside of that time. But this day felt like a return to something familiar. Everyone seemed happy, laughing, and enjoying the moment, and for a brief time, it felt like we were the family I had always hoped we could be again.

After lunch and volleyball, we went to Nordstrom at the Galleria Mall in Roseville, where all three of them picked out a beautiful and elegant heart necklace for me as a Mother’s Day gift. It was the first Mother’s Day gift they had ever bought for me, and I treasured it deeply, not just for the necklace itself, but for the memory of that moment. It felt like the kind of day I had long dreamed of, a reminder that, despite everything, there was still love between us.

As the beginning of that summer approached, I began to feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Real, fluttering hope and optimism. As her eighteenth birthday approached, I imagined what it might be like to finally hear from her again, free and clear of legal restrictions. To have a real conversation, heart to heart, without the barriers that had stood between us for so long. To perhaps even rebuild what had been lost. I daydreamed about the kind of relationship we might have as adults one rooted in truth, healing, and love. After everything we had both endured, I told myself this was the light at the end of the tunnel.

And there was something else stirring in me too, a sense that I was slowly coming back to life. Just months earlier, I had broken my right foot in a terrible hiking accident. What should have been a straightforward recovery turned into a drawn-out ordeal due to medical mismanagement and lack of support. I didn’t get the surgery I needed right away, and the delay added complications that made the healing process even longer and more painful. I spent nearly a year unable to walk properly, cut off from the world in ways that were both physical and emotional. 

By summer, I was finally beginning to move again, inside and out. And with that movement came a surge of possibility. That’s what led me to Spirit Rock in summer of 2023. I didn’t go looking for answers. I went looking for air, something spacious and real enough to hold both the weight of what I had carried and the spark of what was beginning to rise within me. I sat on the land at Spirit Rock, nestled in the golden hills of Marin County, attending a retreat called Awakening of the Sacred. After three days of meditating, reflecting, and releasing years of tightly held emotions, something in me began to shift. I had come to the retreat worn down, not just from recent struggles, but from a lifetime of quietly carrying what felt unfixable. On the final day, we were invited to do a written exercise, to reflect on our life mission and purpose. I didn’t expect clarity to come so easily. But as my pen moved across the page, the words flowed out with certainty:

“May my personal healing journey be a source of inspiration for others on theirs.”

That was my vow. A sacred promise that didn’t come from striving or ego, but from the deepest part of me, a place that had waited patiently to be heard. And yet, when I looked down at what I had written, my first reaction was almost cynical—Yeah, right. I was barely holding myself together most days, still trying to make sense of my own mess. What made me think I had anything to offer anyone else? But in that moment apart from the world, something rooted and real began to take form inside me. That day, through the stillness and sacred space of the retreat, I claimed something I didn’t even know I had been searching for: My life’s purpose. That vow became my anchor. My compass. And a reminder that none of the pain was wasted, it had shaped the very path I was now called to walk.

If Spirit Rock was where clarity began to return, where I reconnected with a deeper sense of self, then what came next felt like divine choreography. I returned home with a sense of openness and renewed awareness, just enough space for something meaningful to find its way in. About a month later, through a series of unexpected events and synchronicities, I came across a book on healing from trauma, written by a former UCSF medical doctor who had become a Buddhist monk. She had been personally ordained by Thích Nhất Hạnh at Plum Village in France, the late Zen master whose teachings have touched millions. I knew little about the monastic Sister at the time, only that something in her voice felt deeply familiar and true. I ordered her book from Amazon that same day.

The next afternoon, it arrived. I took it out to the small backyard of the place I was staying, a modest space, but a pocket of refuge in an otherwise loud and uncertain life, and began to read. By the end of the first chapter, I was weeping. Not just because of the pain she had endured, though that alone was profound, but because of how beautifully she wrote. She made something so harrowing sound like poetry. There was a clarity, a tenderness, and a way of seeing the world that only someone who had walked through fire could hold. It wasn’t that our stories were the same. They weren’t. But the intensity of the emotional terrain, the soul-deep recognition of suffering and survival was unlike anything I’d ever encountered in a book. 

I knew, with absolute certainty, that I needed to meet this woman. So I did what anyone might do. I googled her name, hoping there might be some way to connect. And there it was, like something out of a storybook. She was living at a monastery in San Diego County, Deer Park Monastery, part of the Plum Village tradition. Even more astonishing, she was scheduled to do a book signing that Saturday in Pasadena, a city just outside Los Angeles, only three days away. I had discovered her book just days earlier, thinking I had to meet her, and now, I was. The timing felt uncanny, as if something larger had already set this into motion.

I don’t remember much else about that week, what I had planned or what I was supposed to be doing. I only remember the feeling in my body, still healing from a foot fracture that had left me unable to walk for months. I probably had no business traveling, but I didn’t care. I just knew I wanted to be in her presence, to hear her speak, to feel what had come through so clearly in her writing. Even though the drive from the Bay Area to Los Angeles was long, the hours disappeared. What stayed with me was a calm sense of resolve that settled in as the miles passed. This wasn’t about finding answers. It was about showing up, open, present, and willing. Something deeper was guiding me, and all I had to do was follow it.

The book signing was being held at someone’s private home in the hills of Pasadena. I didn’t know what to expect, but as I stepped onto the grounds, something in the air felt familiar, as if I had arrived in a space that had been waiting for me. Clusters of people were scattered across the wide terrace and garden pathways, mingling, chatting, holding books, exchanging warm greetings. It all felt easy and welcoming, even though I didn’t know a single person. Rather than linger awkwardly, I made my way into the house to introduce myself to the host. It felt like the most respectful thing to do, especially since we were guests in someone’s home. I also wanted to find a place to set down my backpack and take a breath before the event began.

And that’s when I saw her. She was just beginning to walk down the stairs from the second floor, calm, deliberate, carrying a grounded presence that seemed to fill the entire space. There was something unmistakable about her energy. I stood still in the foyer, watching as she descended, taking it all in. And when our eyes met, I knew it was her. The sister from the monastery I was meant to meet. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she opened her arms and gave me the biggest hug, as if we had known each other forever. We hadn’t even exchanged words. We were complete strangers. And yet there was no hesitation. I melted into the embrace. It was surreal and unexpected, and at the same time, deeply comforting. She radiated the kind of peace and groundedness I had only imagined in figures like the Dalai Lama or Mother Teresa. There was something sacred in the way she held space, not just for me, but for the moment itself.

The hug lasted longer than I expected. After a while, I began to feel a little self-conscious, unsure of what to do next. I gently tapped her right shoulder to release the embrace, and she stepped back with a soft smile, still radiating that same steady calm. It felt as if the moment had unfolded exactly as it was meant to. Looking into her eyes, I said, “I discovered your book just a few days ago. And I just want you to know how much love and compassion I have for you.” She smiled gently and replied, “I’m so glad you’re on the path now.” Honestly, I don’t remember much else about what I said. I was in awe. Just a week earlier, I hadn’t even heard of her or her book, and now I was standing face to face with her. The whole experience felt dreamlike, as if I had stepped into a story that had already been written for me.

After she turned to greet someone else, I noticed a woman standing nearby with a large professional camera. She looked at me and said, “I really wanted to capture that moment between you two… but I was so taken aback, I couldn’t move.” She introduced herself as a Los Angeles news photographer and shook her head, smiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t get any pictures. I literally just froze.” I smiled back. There was something funny and beautiful about that. The moment had been so extraordinary, so full of presence, that even someone whose job was to capture it had been completely swept into it. That spoke volumes about the depth of the moment, more than any photo ever could.

The Sister’s talk about her latest book took place outside in the stunning backyard, surrounded by beautiful multi-level landscaping. The garden was nothing short of breathtaking, each level of the landscape flowing seamlessly into the next, with stone paths winding through lush greenery and vibrant flowers. The furniture was made of wood, simple yet elegant, blending perfectly with the natural surroundings. Everything in the yard felt organic and nature inspired, as if the space itself had been designed to honor the land it sat on.

As I sat there, listening to her words, I couldn’t help but think to myself, if I ever own a home again, I would want this exact blueprint for the layout of the house and the landscaping. The design was a dream home, reminiscent of a Frank Lloyd Wright style, bringing the outside in, with large windows framing the natural beauty and open spaces that invited peace and connection. It was everything I had imagined my future home could be, and in that moment, it felt like life was offering me a glimpse into the possibilities ahead.

After the talk, everyone moved toward the buffet-style vegetarian lunch, and the book signing began. The line wasn’t very long, so I found myself among the first to step up. I held two books in my hands—one for myself, and one as a gift for my daughter’s eighteenth birthday. As I stood there waiting, I felt a quiet reverence for the moment. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew this experience would stay with me for a long time. The Sister’s words had already touched me deeply, and now, all I wanted was to express my gratitude for the space she had created, both physically and emotionally. 

When it was my turn, she looked up and, without me having to say a word, said, “You have to forgive your father.” I was taken aback. It wasn’t something I had planned to address, nor was it why I had come. But her words hit me like a wave. It was as though she saw right through me, straight to a part of my heart I hadn’t been ready to face. I didn’t know how to respond. I had come with the simple intention of getting these books signed, one for my daughter and one for myself, and now it felt like everything had shifted.

After a beat, she asked, “What’s your situation?” and I found myself telling her, in a few short words, about my life. “I’m a survivor of domestic abuse, the emotional and psychological kind, for seventeen years,” I said. “I’ve lost my three children to my ex-husband and have been paying him support. For the last ten years, they’ve been living with him, and I worry about them all the time, about the psychological and physical toll it’s taken on them.” I spoke quickly, summarizing years of struggle, trying to fit a decade of pain into a few sentences. But her gaze never wavered. She listened, absorbing every word, without interruption. There was no judgment, only a steady presence that gave me the space to speak. Then she said something that, in that moment, felt like a lifeline—something I hadn’t realized I was waiting to hear. She validated what I had been through, what no one else had ever truly acknowledged. She said, “In many ways, your situation is actually much worse than mine. Mine was challenging, but it was finite. Yours is still ongoing and without resolution.”

Her words felt like a deep breath of relief, as if someone had finally seen the full weight of my pain. No one had ever spoken to me like that. For the first time in a decade, someone validated my experience. She was intelligent, self-aware, and deeply attuned to the human condition. She saw me, heard me, and understood—something I had longed for but never received. More often, I had been met with dismissiveness. People would say, “Your divorce ended years ago. Why don’t you move on?” But she didn’t rush me forward. She honored my journey, met me where I was, and recognized my pain not as something to fix, but something to witness. And in that moment, I wasn’t just surviving. I was seen. And that changed everything.

Then she looked at me again, this time with a kind of tenderness I wasn’t prepared for, and said softly, “The best thing you can do now is heal yourself.” Her words were simple, but they carried the weight of lived wisdom and lived science. “Your children are deeply connected to you,” she said. “Not just spiritually. They came from your womb. You shared a body. That connection is earthly, physiological. It lives in your cells and theirs. No matter how far apart you are, they feel you. Your nervous system, your healing, your peace, it all matters. Worry will only drain you. It won’t change what happened. They have their own journey now, but your healing helps them walk it.” There was no spiritual bypass, no false hope, only a clear presence that honored what was real. She wasn’t asking me to move on but inviting me to move forward in a way that didn’t depend on anyone else. For the first time, I saw my healing not only as my own but as something real and invisible that reached them too, like a thread through time still unbroken.

Another moment of divine timing unfolded as I waited in line for the book signing. While standing there, I struck up a conversation with the woman behind the book-selling table. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I casually mentioned how, for the past ten years, I had tried to visit Deer Park Monastery. When I moved back to California a few years ago, I had called the monastery several times, only to find out they were closed due to Covid. After that, I gave up, thinking maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. I told her the first time I heard of Thich Nhat Hanh was while watching Super Soul Sunday on Oprah. His words stopped me in my tracks. I was deeply moved by the presence he carried, the peace that radiated from him. That moment stayed with me. I knew I wanted to visit the monastery someday, though I never imagined it would happen like this. She smiled and said, “It’s actually open for the first time since before Covid. They’re hosting a Day of Mindfulness tomorrow.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Don’t you need to register for that?” I asked, a sense of excitement building in my chest. She smiled again and reassured me, “No, you can just show up. No one ever checks attendance.” It felt as if the universe whispered, When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. After years of longing to visit Deer Park, it had never quite worked out. But now, because I had surrendered, let go of my grip on the outcome, the doors opened. It reminded me that sometimes the best things in life don’t come from effort, but from trusting the timing and flow of the universe. 

The next day, a Sunday, I set out for San Diego, eager to visit Deer Park Monastery for the first time. When I arrived, I was greeted by a sign that simply read I have arrived. I am home. The moment I saw those words, a wave of emotion flooded over me. It was such a beautiful, simple message, yet so profound. Tears filled my eyes. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear those words. For years, I had been running from my past, from pain, from the unknown. But in that moment, I found what I had been longing for all along: peace, belonging, and the knowing that I could finally stop running.

When my daughter’s eighteenth birthday finally arrived, it didn’t unfold like the victory I had imagined for all those years. I didn’t feel the sense of relief I thought would flood in after everything we’d been through. In fact, it was anti-climatic.  Friends, therapists, even strangers who had heard fragments of my story told me to hold on. “Just wait,” they’d say. “When she’s older, when she’s free to choose, she’ll come back. She’ll see the truth. You’ll be reunited.”  And so I waited. I pictured a sunlit reunion, balloons drifting in the breeze, music playing, maybe a field near the State Capitol. Laughter echoing after years of silence. I remembered the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure my daughter and I once participated at Land Park in Sacramento when she was just eight years old, how strangers cheered and cried and embraced at the finish line - and I imagined that for us. That after a long and bruising journey, there would be a celebration. That we’d find each other again, joy in our eyes, relief in our arms, surrounded by thousands of people clapping and cheering as if love and justice had just crossed the finish line. But when the day arrived, it passed quietly. She wasn’t available. I don’t remember if a reason was given. We made plans to meet the weekend after, and I tried to temper my expectations. We lived two hours apart, me in the Bay Area, her in Folsom. I had made a deliberate choice to live far from her father because I didn’t feel safe near him. That distance was a boundary I had to hold, even though it made seeing her harder.

She picked the restaurant, Fat’s Asian Bistro in Folsom. A sleek, modern place trying hard to pass as upscale Asian fusion, but really just overpriced Chinese food with ambient lighting and too much sauce. I had looked forward to this moment for years, the chance to take her out for her birthday and sit with her freely. I had imagined it a hundred different ways. But from the moment we sat down, I felt the distance, not just physical but energetic. She was polite. Pleasant. Careful. I brought her a gift bag with carefully chosen presents. Inside was a long, flowing summer dress, feminine and elegant, something I hoped would make her feel beautiful. I added several pieces of jewelry she had picked out online a month earlier, back when I thought we were rebuilding something. There was also a handwritten card and a book I had signed and set aside for her two months before, a book I believed could offer guidance. I told her, “If you ever have questions about how to navigate life… the answers are in here.” She had always loved to read. Books were a thread between us. On past mother and daughter outings, we always ended at the bookstore, her arms full of novels, mine full of longing.

But that evening, it felt different. She unwrapped the gifts with a quick thank you, then tucked them away. There was no sparkle in her eye, no lingering moment. Between courses, she scrolled her phone. Our conversation stayed at the surface—school, schedules, safe topics. She didn’t ask how I’d been. She didn’t ask much at all. I tried not to take it personally or let the disappointment show. But it felt like I was sitting across from a version of her I didn’t recognize, like a carefully edited draft of the girl I used to know. She looked like my daughter, but the essence, the aliveness, the bond was missing. 

After dinner, I dropped her off and sat in my car before heading home. The sky was dark, the roads were empty, and I sat in the stillness, trying to name what I was feeling. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even shock. It was grief, not for what had happened, but for what hadn’t. The moment I had waited for all these years had passed, and nothing had changed. Or maybe everything had. The story I had held onto, the one where love heals and mothers and daughters find their way back, faded into the silence. Because the truth is, time alone doesn’t mend what’s been torn. Not when a child has been fed a different version of you for years. What I wanted wasn’t just dinner. It was recognition. A softening. A sign that said, I remember you. I want to know you again. But that night, I understood. She wasn’t ready. Maybe she never will be. What I do know is that real love doesn’t vanish. What I was left with that evening wasn’t rage or despair. It was the beginning of a different kind of letting go.

A month after her eighteenth birthday, I went to visit her with the plan to take her out for dinner and a movie. But when I arrived, she said she had something to show me. What I saw left me speechless—her very own car. Well, not exactly a new car, but an old one. It was a very old car, but still, she had managed to get it on her own, with the help of her oldest brother. I had spent the past year or two teaching her to drive whenever I visited her in Folsom, so seeing her with her own car, proudly displaying her independence, left me both overjoyed and filled with concern. The car was old, and I couldn't shake the worry that it might break down, especially on the highway, or worse, that she might get into an accident. I knew her history with C-PTSD although never officially diagnosed, and I knew how that could sometimes cause distractions, dissociation, and focus issues. I feared these challenges could interfere with her ability to stay fully present and alert on the road. Yet, as she offered to drive me and her brothers around, I was surprised at how well she handled the car. She was calm and confident. In fact, as we drove, I realized that she might be an even better driver than I was. I’ve always struggled with coordination and motion sensitivities, my neurodivergence making it difficult for me to navigate my body in space. But she? She handled the car effortlessly, with such skill and ease, I couldn’t help but feel proud. There was a part of me that was in awe of her, seeing the person she was becoming, independent, capable, and strong.

Then, as if to add another layer to her newfound independence, I noticed something new about her, something I hadn’t expected. She had gotten a large tattoo on her right arm—a detailed image of a girl in an open-back black dress with a polka dot hair tie sitting with her back to the viewer reading a book. The tattoo caught me off guard. It was bold, much bigger than the small, discreet ones I had seen before. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but it did make sense in a way. She had always loved books, had always found comfort in stories. I remembered how much that part of her had shaped who she was, and there, in the tattoo, was a permanent expression of that love. It made me think about how much I wanted her to understand my own love for words. I was writing this book with the hope that one day, she might read it, but part of me wondered if she'd ever find her way to the non-fiction section of the bookstore. She always preferred fiction, and the thought of her picking up a book like mine seemed almost out of reach. But sometimes, life is stranger than fiction, and I couldn’t help but hope that somehow, some way, this story might find its way into her hands.

As we continued to drive, I couldn’t help but notice how she had decorated the car. Colorful pastel crocheted covers for the headrests, strings of faux ivy leaves hanging around the interior, and a fuzzy steering wheel cover. The car was filled with stuffed animals, scattered across the dashboard and seats. It had become a cozy, whimsical space, her own little sanctuary on wheels. I laughed to myself, remembering all the times I’d dealt with car break-ins growing up in New York City. If someone broke into her car, would they think they’d stumbled into a toy store instead of a vehicle? It was a perfect reflection of her personality—fun, quirky, and completely unapologetic about who she was.

Around that time, I spend most days doing volunteer work, since holding a steady full-time job was nearly impossible with my health issues. Volunteering allowed me to give back to the community while honoring my limits. It felt like a way to contribute, even if I couldn’t fully support myself through traditional work. Still, I knew my focus had to be healing. I couldn’t help anyone, not even those I loved if I wasn’t well. It was a commitment, not just to recovery, but to becoming whole. I trusted that if I rebuilt myself from the inside out, maybe then I could give her a mother who was clear, calm, and strong. But for now, I had to begin with me. Not perfect, but present.

By December, we spent Christmas Day at the rental I was staying in Pleasant Hills. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours for a few days, and that meant everything. My roommate at the time, a single dad of three, had kindly left town so we could have the house to ourselves. That gesture gave us space and privacy to just be together without tension or interruption. There were only four of us, including a close friend who felt like a maternal figure to me, but it felt full in all the right ways. I wanted it to be special, even if simple. My daughter had asked for honey glazed ham instead of turkey, so I got it. We had a table of delicious sides: sautéed haricots verts with garlic, roasted sweet potatoes, a big salad, and creamed spinach. I even baked Christmas cookies from scratch, something I hadn’t done in years. We turned on music and built a gingerbread house, singing along to Christmas carols and Celine Dion. It was messy and chaotic, with frosting everywhere and the walls collapsing more than once, but it was full of laughter, the kind that comes straight from the belly.

What stayed with me most was a small, unexpected gift, a pair of trendy jeans, picked out by my daughter. It was the very first Christmas present she had ever given me on her own. I hadn’t asked for anything or dropped hints. She had simply remembered, chosen, and wrapped it herself. It wasn’t about the jeans. It was about being thought of and being remembered. After dinner, I cleaned up while the kids got ready for bed. With limited space, my sons unrolled sleeping bags on the floor of the workout room, and my daughter settled on the living room couch. After a long, joyful, and slightly exhausting day, we all drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I remember one moment that stayed with me. I woke up feeling surprisingly rested, maybe for the first time in years. I’ve always noticed I sleep better when all three of my children are under the same roof with me. There’s a calm that comes from knowing they’re safe, something I had lost during the years we were apart. That absence had worked its way into my nervous system, leaving me with chronic insomnia. As sunlight filtered in, I moved through the house to check on each of them, needing to be sure it wasn’t a dream. That we had really shared a holiday together. That they were truly there and okay. I started with my daughter, still asleep on the couch. She didn’t have a blanket, so I draped mine over her and leaned in to kiss her forehead. Just as I did, her eyes flew open, startling us both, and we burst into laughter. I had truly thought she was asleep. It was a tender moment. A little awkward, but revealing. Maybe she too had inherited a sense of alertness from all those years apart, never fully able to let down her guard. But what struck me most were her eyes, wide and luminous, framed by long lashes. For years, since she was ten, she had worn thick black-framed glasses. She rarely took them off. They had become a kind of shield, a way to feel safe in a world that had often failed her. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. And that morning, I saw her clearly for the first time in years. Without the glasses and without the armor. And it stopped me. Not just because she looked beautiful, though she did, but because I felt I was seeing the girl I used to know, beneath all the layers of pain and distance. And I remembered how powerful it is to truly see someone, and how deeply we all long to be seen.

(Continue reading in the full book, coming September 2025)

Read Unsent Letter to Daughter (link below)