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There was a time I was so in love, so emotional, so vulnerable, so adorably naïve, that the world felt painted in pink and blue, a breathtaking blend of possibility and affection. There were moments I allowed myself to fall so deeply that I believed he was the one, the one I would give my whole heart to, the one I would stand beside through anything. There was a time when love felt so vivid, so consuming, that I would see him every time I closed my eyes, smile at the sound of his name, and blush at the thought of his kiss. There were nights when love felt undeniably real, the warmth of his arms, the comfort of a shared breath, the calm in his voice that made me feel seen. There were so many times I simply longed to see his face, to feel the closeness of his skin, to hear him speak with that steady mix of intellect and tenderness. I used to pour my feelings out without restraint, texting, calling, needing to express the intensity of our connection. I believed that if I loved him fully, it would be enough for both of us. But love alone isn't always enough. Over time, reality unfolded in its own quiet way. Perspective deepened. Maturity taught me to validate my own emotions, to understand the difference between what I wanted to believe and what was actually true. It was painful. It was humbling. But it was necessary. Still, I refuse to abandon the part of me that feels deeply. I believe in love that is aware and present, rooted in respect, emotional generosity, and growth. I believe there is someone out there who will feel it too, someone who won’t shy away from love’s depth, but will meet it with openness and strength. I know that not everyone sees love this way. Some dismiss it, mock it, call it impractical. But I don’t want to stop believing. Love is the core of who I am. It makes me emotionally available, vulnerable, driven, compassionate. It inspires me to keep growing, keep hoping, and keep searching for the kind of partner who values connection as deeply as I do. I’ve loved a few souls sincerely, only to discover that those connections were clouded by pain, misalignment, or fear. And still, I have no regrets. The love I gave was real. The reasons I left were real. And through it all, I’ve never stopped believing in what love can be. I long for the day when two people can show up for each other fully, to communicate honestly, grow together, and love freely, intellectually, emotionally, independently, and willingly. I long for your love.

I had a dinner with a TikToker (with 90K+ followers) for the first time. And it was fascinating. There’s a kind of connection that doesn’t ask for permission, it just arrives. Unannounced. No warning, no build-up. Just a quiet, steady unfolding of energy between two people who are actually paying attention. That’s what happened the night I met the TikTok influencer. There were no cocktails, no mood lighting, just green tea, sparkling water, and conversation that moved freely between us. I didn’t feel the need to overthink. He spoke with clarity and intention. Not flashy or performative, just honest. And I listened, not out of politeness, but because I genuinely wanted to. There was something in the way he engaged that made the moment feel worth leaning into. And then, without fanfare, it happened. That hum. That moment wasn’t about what this could become, it was about remembering what it feels like to be fully awake in my own experience. Not butterflies. Not fantasy. Something subtler, deeper. A flicker in my chest, a warmth across my shoulders, like a part of me that had been quiet finally stirred. Not because of who he was, but because of how I felt with him: wanted, engaged, awake. We talked about creativity, content, discipline. I opened up about my hesitation, how I’ve started projects, written drafts, but held back from publishing. I admitted I’d been afraid of visibility. Instead of judgment, he offered encouragement. A few sparks. Some laughter. A sense of possibility. No, it wasn’t perfect. Maybe the moment was just one story in a week full of them. Maybe he’s already turned the evening into content. Maybe none of it will matter in a month. But here’s what does matter: I felt something real. For a few hours, I was fully present. Not performing. Not doubting. Not wondering how I looked or whether I was saying the right thing. I was just there. Steady. Curious. Grounded. And I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of ease with someone new. So although it may have been just a one-chapter thing, it’s not a loss. Not even close. Because that moment wasn’t about what this could become, it was about remembering what it feels like to be fully awake in my own experience. To be open. To be moved. To trust that something brief can still be meaningful. This wasn’t just a date or dinner. It was a reminder. I still believe in unexpected beauty. And I’m still capable of feeling it. And it was good to feel again.

Intro: I originally wrote this in December 2021, in a moment of deep reflection. Looking at it now, I still see truth in these words, and I want to share them as a reminder—both to myself and to anyone else who might need them. Regret is a tricky thing. Some days, it feels like a lesson, reminding us of what we can do better. Other days, it feels like a weight, holding us back from the very growth we seek. I’ve spent time wrestling with regret—regretting my past choices, my actions, my words. But I’ve also learned that regret alone changes nothing. What matters is what comes next. This piece is a reflection of that realization. Some days, I fully believe in it. Other days, I struggle. But no matter where I stand today, I want to hold onto the idea that regret should never overpower action. Here’s a piece I wrote in a moment of clarity—maybe it will remind me (and you) that we have the power to move forward. I Regret That I Regretted I regret spending too much time remorseful over my years in school. I regret feeling ashamed for not achieving the same wealth as my peers. I regret that I regretted not being a better human being. But why regret? When I could absorb knowledge, appreciate what I have, and strive to be a better person. I regret the distress of not giving my sisters thoughtful presents and quality time. I regret feeling sorry for being a less-than-perfect older sister. I regret the unease of taking my family’s love and care for granted. But why regret? When I still have the chance to make things better. I regret grieving over the truths I once told. I regret doubting so many of my decisions. I regret questioning my own values and principles. But why regret? When I can acknowledge and confront my uncertainties. Why did I speak those truths? Why did I make those decisions? Why do I hold onto these principles? The answers have always been within me. I regret that I regretted not being a good friend. I regret that I regretted not being a good wife. But why regret? This is my life—my choices, my movements. I don’t need to dwell in regret; I need to act with intention. Today, tomorrow, next week, next year—there will still be moments of regret. But in those moments, my strength will be found in mindfulness. To recognize, to accept, and to improve—for the better.

I’ve written a lot about love—but I don’t know if I’ve ever truly written about the love I want . I was born into a broken family, never knowing what it feels like to have a mother’s or father’s love. But I remember the love of my grandmother. In my weakest moments, that love is what has kept me standing. She left too soon. She left me too soon.  And maybe that’s why I’ve spent my life searching—searching for a love that fills the void she left behind. I hope that one day, I’ll meet the person who shows me what love is supposed to be. The one who loves deeply—not just in words, but in action. The one who values my presence as I value theirs. The one who gives strength and motivation, who shares in both joy and sorrow, who offers support without hesitation. The one whose love is felt in both quiet moments and passionate ones, in the way they hold my hand, listen to my fears, and stand by me when the world feels heavy. The one who knows that love is not just something to give, but something to receive —who understands the power of intimacy, of connection, of being fully present with one another. The one who can sit with me over coffee or tea, talking about everything and nothing, laughing without effort. The one who can sit in comfortable silence beside each other for hours, without awkwardness. The one I can gossip with at home. The one who hugs me after a long, exhausting day. The one who asks about my day—not out of obligation, but because they genuinely want to know. And I would do the same for them. The one who encourages me to live a better life. The one who has empathy for others and compassion for the world. The one who lives with dignity, curiosity, and honesty. The one who knows when to be humble, when to be firm, when to be gentle, and when to be strong.The one who knows how to cook—and enjoys my cooking, too. The one who keeps pushing me forward, and lets me do the same for them.The one who loves. Of course, we will fight. But we will also reconcile. The making up will be a reminder of why we chose each other. Our love will grow stronger. The one who isn’t afraid to plan a future with me—not as a backup plan, not with an escape route, but with the belief that this  is it. That person may not exist. Bummer. But at the very least, writing this has made one thing clear: I need to stop accepting less than what I deserve. This has helped me see my current situation for what it is. It has made me realize that I am not happy.  That I have been unhappy for a long time.  That I have felt lonely and isolated. That I have ignored my own needs for far too long. And now I ask myself: If today were my last day on earth, is this how I would want to live my life? My inner voice screams, NO! I need to live differently. I need to figure out a different way forward. I cannot keep torturing myself like this. I cannot stay trapped in this cycle. It is destroying me from the inside out. Yes, I am scared. Scared that my next step might be even worse. Scared that I might have to start over. Scared of failing. But what terrifies me even more is the thought of staying exactly where I am. This reminds me of my parents’ miserable relationship. This reminds me of how my mother was destroyed. This reminds me of the chaos that shattered my family. This reminds me that I grew up in hell. And worse, I realize that I am still living in hell. And I need to get out. I need help. So God, please help me.

I have come to a realization: I know nothing about life. After all these years, time has flown by so quickly, and I feel like I’ve lost my youth. I can’t get that time back. And now, I find myself wondering—what have I truly done with my life? Have I tried enough? Have I missed my opportunities? After all these years, I am still searching for meaning, still questioning if life has a meaning at all. I often ask myself why life has to be so difficult. I replay my decisions, wondering if things would have turned out differently if I had chosen another path. I question the circumstances of my past. What if my mother never left? What if my grandmother had lived longer? Would our family have been different? Would I be different? I wonder if the strength I have today was born out of my difficult childhood, or if I would have been just as strong without it. These questions weigh on me. They circle in my mind, unresolved, leaving me mentally exhausted. Right now, as I write this, I feel down. I feel devastated about life. I don’t have much hope. I don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. I don’t dare to believe things will get better. I am afraid of what’s ahead. And yet, I ask myself: Why am I so scared? What exactly am I afraid of? I think I fear failure. I look at my partner, and while he may not be living his healthiest life, he is building wealth, making an impact, securing his future. At 40, he owns a house. He has a truck, a bicycle, a plot of land. He makes close to $200,000 a year and has substantial savings and retirement funds. Then I look at myself—39, with no property, no actual shelter of my own, living on my salary, just now learning how to save. It’s embarrassing. And not to mention, I may never have a child of my own. This fear of failure terrifies me. I want to find a way out. I want to be better, yet I keep thinking I might be too late. Too late to advance my career. Too late to change my professional path. Too late to be seen as valuable in a competitive job market that favors the young. I have no talent in business, and maybe I never will. At 38, 39, my career has reset back to almost square one. I thought that by now, I would be in a senior-level position, having a real impact, making decisions that matter. Instead, I feel stagnant, and that makes me question my worth. I never imagined that at this stage in life, I would still be questioning everything. Instead of standing tall, I feel like I’m starting over. Maybe I haven’t prayed enough for what I want. Maybe I just need someone—anyone—to tell me how to be better, how to get where I want to be. I wish there was someone who could guide me. But writing this has given me a bit of clarity. Even if I don’t know the answers yet, I can see now why I feel this way. I am scared. And after all these years, I am still figuring life out.

When I was a child, I played cards to ease my fears. If I could solve all 52 cards, I thought the next day would be good. If I failed, and the ace of spades was left unsolved, I believed my next days would be terrible. It scared me so much that I cried. When I became an adult, with financial independence, I picked up drinking. And for a while, it worked. Alcohol made things blur, easier to handle. It helped me forget bad times, Helped me avoid certain emotions, certain truths. Drinking became a solution for everything— Happiness, heartbreak, celebrations, loneliness, boredom, relationships, breakups, holidays. Drinking became bravery, self-love, self-destruction. Drinking was how I forgot. Drinking was how I pretended. Drinking was how I risked myself and others. Drinking was how I avoided reality. It took me over a decade to face this ugly truth. And now, I am working on building a better relationship with alcohol. Not because I have  to, But because my body and soul demand it. And I’m not upset about it. Facing Fear Instead of Escaping It This reflection is not just about my fears. It is about how I let them control me. How I let them shape my life. I have lived in fear for as long as I can remember. And maybe, I will always live with some fear.Maybe life will never be easy. Maybe I will never fully escape insecurity. But at the very least,I know that now, I have the power to face it. And I want to. If I hit rock bottom, so be it. At least I will know I tried. And if I fall, I will get up again. Because that is still better than living in fear forever. I am choosing to fight. I am choosing to be truly independent. Because for the first time, I believe I need this. I believe in myself. And I love myself enough to try.

For years, I’ve lived in distress and quiet panic. The truth is simple: I’m unhappy in my marriage. I tried to make it work, but nothing ever brought lasting peace. We don’t connect. Our conversations—when they happen—are tense, surface-level, or driven by fear. Never about us . I can’t remember a time when I felt true happiness between us. What I do remember is tension, criticism, and the constant urge to shrink myself. I censor my words. I tiptoe through the days. And intimacy? Hollow. There’s no warmth. No real connection. Disagreements are constant. Around him, I am not myself. I choose my words carefully to avoid conflict. I adjust my actions to keep the peace. I pretend to enjoy things I don’t. Love shouldn’t feel like a survival tactic. I gave and gave. But it was never mutual. I shaped my world around his moods. Now, without him, I feel free—free to wear what I want, to work without needing to prove my worth, to enjoy life without fear of being judged. There are truths I’ll never tell him: that I feel emotionally numb, that I crave intimacy with depth, that I long for meaningful, intellectual, and uplifting conversations. But I already know how those talks would end. So I won’t keep pretending. I am done pretending. I need to leave. I don’t know how or when, but I know it’s time. This chapter is ending. I won’t relive it. I deserve happiness. And I will claim it.

Simply put, it was tragic. Neglect. Ignorance. Bullying. Violence. Harassment. Abuse. Abandonment. Poverty. Inferiority. Separation. Scars. Depression. Devalued. Unloved. Writing this down, I felt a wave of realization wash over me. It took me decades to grasp how horrifying my childhood truly was. Lord, it was too much, wasn’t it? It is  too much. The saddest part? I never fully acknowledged it until now—until I put it into words. No wonder I am so broken yet fight so hard to be strong. No wonder I am extremely sensitive to rejection. No wonder I’ve been in repeated toxic relationships, holding on too long, craving love so deeply that I overlook the pain—until it happens again. No wonder I am crying as I write this. No wonder I feel so much sorrow for myself—yet, for the first time, I also feel love for myself. This is another moment of self-reflection in the midst of my struggle, a moment of awakening. I am trying to step out of a space that I once called a comfort zone, though in reality, it has been nothing but an emotionally torturous zone. I am seeking freedom, the life I deserve. Yet, I am terrified of failing. My left foot moves forward, but my right foot freezes. What if this is the wrong step? But deep down, I know—I have known for so long. I have been stuck. My fear held me captive. Because I grew up poor, and financial security became my chain. Every time I’ve had the urge to resist, a small act of kindness, a fleeting gift, a moment of warmth has pulled me back in, making me forget my plans, ignore the red flags, and convince myself that if I  change just a little more, maybe things will be okay. If only I speak a little less. If only I try a little harder. If only I am a bit more compliant. If only I am less opinionated. If only I try to be a better friend and partner. If only I am less demanding. If only, if only, if only... Each “if only” stacked on top of the other until they formed a version of me that barely looked like myself—quieter, softer, smaller. I thought maybe, just maybe, shrinking would make me easier to love. But what about me ? For so long, I’ve been trapped. What if I leave and struggle again? What if I can’t afford a good place? What if, what if, what if... Until I realized, in doing so, I have silenced my own needs. I have ignored my dignity, my emotional well-being, and my life. A Conversation to Myself But my inner voice refuses to be quiet. I know  I can do more. I know  I have more to offer—to myself, to this world. I have not yet lived up to my potential. I have settled  for survival, but I want to thrive . Lyda, trust us. This is not the life you were meant to live. This is not the life that will fulfill you. Look at our mother. Look at how she left, the same way you are planning to—out of fear. And while it is hard to forgive, it is also hard to blame. But you? You are capable of more. You will find that six-figure job. You will be the sister who takes her family on trips to places. You will be the aunt that your nephew loves and respects, who comes to you for wisdom. You will be the woman who stands tall, strong, and capable—who lifts others up. You will be the woman with the financial freedom to move, to travel, to buy without fear. You will be the woman who walks away from toxic relationships—because she knows her worth. You will meet someone who loves, respects, and cherishes you in a way you never have to question. You are the professional who walks into any room with confidence and keeps growing . You are the woman who never forgets where she came from—who gives back, not out of obligation, but out of understanding. Lyda, you can  do this. And we will do it together. I love you. I will never stop loving you.

On the morning of January, the Winter, of 2024, I woke with a heart full of warmth and vivid memories of an incredibly real dream. In this dream, I found myself unexpectedly falling in love with a man whose name I wish I knew.   It all began as I was helping a friend rent out a villa in an urban area. Our client was a cocky, average-sized Asian man, and though I had no experience in real estate, I agreed to help. The man was not the most pleasant, and I doubted his ability to afford the place. Yet, as we discussed the leasing contract, a flirty moment between us sparked a thrilling excitement in me.   After the meeting, it was time for lunch. My friend had arranged a group meal at a nearby resort, and on a whim, I wanted to invite him to join. Though my friend hesitated, the man showed up uninvited, and I was secretly glad. As we sat together with the group, he seamlessly blended in, much to the confusion of my friends. The details blurred, but in my next memory, we had become partners, sharing a cozy apartment.   The most cherished memory was of us lying in bed, cuddling and talking, wrapped in each other's arms. The intimacy was profound, filled with tender embraces and whispered words. The scene fades to black, only to shift to a breathtaking trip with friends. We stood amidst stunning landscapes—a waterfall, sky, mountain, and river. Holding him close, feeling the warmth of his half-naked body, we marveled at the beauty around us. My heart raced with love, excitement, and an unforgettable connection.   In the final scene, we were walking down a busy street with a little girl who turned out to be our daughter. She was adorable, and as we enjoyed ice cream, he stepped away, leaving me to care for her. As I helped her with her tangled bead necklace, I realized the depth of my love for this little one.   I awoke from the dream, filled with happiness and a longing for the love I had experienced. Though it was just a dream, the emotions felt real and left me smiling with contentment.

By Lyda Ngin | January 8, 2025 In the weeks leading up to 2025, I had a series of vivid dreams—each one oddly fulfilling in ways I didn’t expect. On the mornings I could remember them, I’d wake up feeling happy, satisfied, even intimately connected to something larger than myself. One dream stood out: I got to hang out with Elon Musk. It was brief but surprisingly impactful. In the dream, I had an appointment to meet him, but I kept running late. He was always a step ahead, punctual, efficient. When I arrived, flustered and apologetic, he didn’t mind. Instead, we went out for a late dinner with two of his male friends. We sat at a street-side restaurant (maybe Chinese, there were dumplings and noodle soup), just about to order when I got a phone call. I stepped away to take it, rushed through the conversation, though I can't remember who it was with, probably a close female friend, and hurried back to the table. By the time I returned, Elon had finished his food. His friends had left. I felt awful, like I’d been gone forever. I apologized again. He didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he casually asked if I wanted to come hang out at his place. His apartment, or maybe a loft, was at the very top of a high-rise. The space was open and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a sweeping city view lit by soft lights. It was beautiful. We sat on round outdoor furniture on his balcony, drinks in hand, talking. I don’t remember what we discussed, only that it felt easy. Relaxed. Like I could finally breathe. I didn’t want it to end. But then I woke up. I tried to fall back asleep, hoping to slip back into that world, into that feeling. Even now, as I type this, I feel a little thrill. I was lucky to have dreamed about him. Elon Musk, in this dream, embodied intelligence, advancement, and charisma, qualities I admire deeply. Maybe it’s no surprise, considering I’ve been reading his biography keeping it by my bedside. I wish the dream had lasted longer, but I’m grateful it happened at all. It stirred something in me—emotions I’ve been craving. It reminded me that there’s more to life. That there's still wonder to experience, even in sleep. We often overrate the “meaning of life,” yet somehow underestimate what it means to feel  alive. Even in dreams, there’s so much we can learn, experience, and remember.

When I was young, I was always afraid. Afraid of the bad days. Afraid of my parents fighting. Afraid my father would come home in a bad mood. Afraid of being caught skipping school, Punished for not getting good grades, Or being too uncool for my classmates to like me. I was afraid of my body being criticized, Afraid of not having enough money for school, Afraid of my mother’s youngest brother Of his fists, his rages, The knife he threw more than once. Afraid that one day, it would stick. And we would bleed. I was afraid my mother would leave me behind. Afraid she didn’t love me. Afraid the night two criminals broke in When she locked herself and my sisters in the bathroom, Leaving me outside, alone. I was afraid of being abused again. Of the silence. Of the darkness that once made death feel like an option. I was afraid to speak up. Afraid to open up to my family Because what if they never understood? I was afraid of the ace of spades in a deck of cards Convinced it meant bad luck. Sometimes, I still am. I was ashamed of how I looked. Ashamed of my cheap pink rubber shoes. Afraid to stand out, Because bad things always seemed to follow me. I was afraid I couldn’t protect my sisters. Afraid there wouldn’t be food to eat. Afraid to admit I lost my bike— So I lied. And then feared my lie would be found out. I was afraid my best friend would stop talking to me After I asked her to return the money she owed. Afraid my life would never get better. Afraid to ask for a raise. Afraid to have lunch with my boss— So much that I once crawled under a table to hide from her. Afraid to say no. Afraid of rejection. I was this girl who was afraid of everything. And I still carry fear. Because I am human. But I no longer run from it. Now, I walk beside it—with courage. Courage that didn’t come all at once, But grew with every heartbreak, every challenge, every truth I dared to tell. Life didn’t make me fearless. It made me brave.

The atrocity. The genocide. The killing. The shooting. The torture. The nonstop bombing. So many lives—innocent lives. Children, women, men—gone. And yet, the killing does not stop. It keeps going. You  keep going. You keep killing and destroying. And I sit here, a civilian, safe in my home, feeling guilty. Guilty for the unfairness of it all. Guilty because I have shelter and food.Guilty because I feel safe. Guilty for drinking my morning coffee while war rages on. Every day, I hear the news.Every day, more lives lost. Every day, another war competing for attention. How do we even keep track anymore? So many tragedies that we can no longer hear the cries. So many tears shed across continents. While the world focuses on Ukraine  and Israel , we forget that another 6,000 souls  have been lost in Sudan . And then we wonder. We wonder why the number of refugees and displaced people  keeps rising.We wonder why they seek safety here. We wonder why they turn to the United States and not elsewhere. We wonder why we should help them. And yet, you forget — you are the reason  for all of this. You, the war lovers. I woke up today, desperate, scrolling through updates of yet another mass killing event . And I felt even worse, knowing there was so little I could do to stop it. So, I prayed. And I prayed harder. "Please, no more war. Please, no more killing. Please, no more innocent lives lost." The people dying are already among the most vulnerable, born into suffering, destined for tragedy. And now, they live in fear—waiting, until the day their lives are stolen by a bullet, a bomb, a decision made by men who never have to face the destruction they cause. So, tell me, are you sure what you are doing is to save society? Are you sure you are not the destroyer? Are you sure you are not the cause of the suffering? Are you sure this is not just for your personal  gain? Are you sure you hold the collective  interest in your heart? How many more bodies need to fall before you fill your pockets? Are you sure there are no other solutions— besides killing ? Are you sure? Are you sure, war lovers?