Dear LG,

Some things were easy for you, while many other children have struggled. You learned how to read when you were two years old, and you do not remember a time when you did not know how to read. 

You do not remember struggling. On the first day of school, you were the only kid in your kindergarten class who could already read.

That is impressive and I am so proud of you! What is even more amazing is learning a skill you struggled with and have since overcome.

Jump roping.

Kids usually learn it when they are in kindergarten. You tried and failed at that time. The other kids and adults called you clumsy.

You felt discouraged. 

You stopped trying to jump rope that year. And the next year.

Then, one adult believed in you: your second-grade teacher.

She threw you in with the kindergartners as they learned how to jump rope and encouraged you as you tried to learn.

You towered over the other kids in your second-grade class, let alone the kindergartners. You felt awkward.

The kindergarteners and their teacher cheered you on as you jumped and tripped over the rope hundreds of times.

Eventually, it all clicked. You learned how to coordinate your jumping in perfect timing with the swinging of the rope.

You were so proud of yourself, you just kept jumping and laughing happily.

Not only did you learn jump roping, you became an expert in the third and fourth grades. You joined the jump rope club with the girls and you jumped double dutch with ease. You also loved swinging the two ropes while the girls jumped in.

You were in your happy place.

Sometimes you will forget what you have overcome in your life and then remember that seemingly simple story of learning to to jump rope.

It was something the other kids took for granted, and you struggled to overcome.

And you did it!

You don’t know this, but this little life lesson – failing hundreds or even thousands of times before succeeding – will take you far in your life.

You will write the first 50,000 words of novels and then scrap them because they were ideas that failed.

You will write other prose that meanders.

You will craft rhyming poetry that does not quite flow.

You will not stop trying to write something that suits your style.

You will find your big break, one way or another. When you do, it will be a spectacular victory.

I believe in you, LG. My younger self who will never, ever quit doing what they love. You will always live inside me.

I stood on the corner with others in the cold
I grabbed what I could to feed the hungry & the old

They had nothing in their hands but dust & sores
Their shoes tattered and clothes with holes

“Do you have more? I need more they said”
Laying on the floor without a bed

“This is all I have, I’m so sorry.
I’ll do my best to come back in a hurry”

“Thank you, mam,” they all said.

“What do you need?” I said
“Socks and warm food, I’m cold.”

Down the street someone asleep as others walk over them
Sunburned, dried hair, and nothing to cover

Their cracked skin, no shelter, no water

I shed a well of tears that woke the earth
And shortly after I gave birth

To a drive inside to fight harder & to never hide
The power of my ferocious voice

My will of fire became unmatched
As I unleashed my skill & removed my mask

Beneath, a face of many
Two feet on the ground standing steady

I knew what I had to do
To turn the skies from grey to blue

I refused to let the fear make me believe
That there was no one like you and me

Who also cared about the world
And all the life that lived inside her

With debt on my back
I turned to others to help me lay a new track

A new path to justice
As we march ahead to help the many

Unafraid of what would come next
But we knew, we would stand together at our best

10-1-2024

Dear Dad,

Did you know what you instilled into me when you taught me to “keep on, keeping on,” as Bob Dylan crooned so many years ago? Sure, he sang of a woman he couldn’t free from his mind, but you taught me I need to free myself from my own mind. Took me decades to realize what weight those words held for me, how it pushed me through tough times, how it caused me to question each comfort I found in some new demise, and that I can – but must not – give up.

The first time you quoted this quip to me, I don’t even recall what fall I took. Must have been something light, merely a flesh wound (as another quote chides). Perhaps I
scraped my knee or fell off my bicycle. Whatever it was, it caused tears to roll down my cheeks as I processed the shock of physical pain. No whining though, just tough tears that I brushed off like a champ ready for the next bruise or abrasion, as I told myself to “keep on, keeping on.”

Next time, as I recall, was a bit closer to the heart. A so-called friend turned the other way when she found a prettier face or personality. No longer was my playmate knocking on my door or calling the house. I was yester-year, a has-been, a thing better left in the past. My ego took a big hit, but Dad, you lifted my head and bid me to keep it high, to look ahead and not behind and to “keep on, keeping on.”

As my mind and body grew, so did the darkness deep inside. I did not know if this aching was how everyone lived their lives or if I was alone in my depression. Too young to fairly compare, but too old to not notice the smiles and laughter that mocked the feelings I held hidden. Even you, Dad… I did not know if you knew what I had become… this black ball of misery and confusion just trying to “keep on, keeping on.”

Over the following years, which creaked by like rusting gears, I realized, Dad, that you too struggled to keep on. You’d come home late at night from work, with a grimace that sometimes scared me. You had your own darkness to work through. I wish I could have helped, but I was still so small and powerless, and drowning too. But I still remembered what you taught me – you must just “keep on, keeping on.”

When I finally reached adulthood I thought my new freedoms, that were denied to children, would open up my world and free my burdened soul. I fled the nest and forgot the past – even you, Dad, I had put behind me. But no light leaked through the hardened barrier I had built around myself over those tender years. Like the ants that creeped into my room, people crawled in and out of my life without much notice, rarely getting through my tough exterior. Meanwhile, as sour grades turned into expulsion, turned into low-paying jobs, turned into another existential crisis… I became deserted in my own hole of Hell. It was lonely without you, Dad, but I didn’t forget to “keep on, keeping on.”

Eventually though those words started losing meaning or got scrambled in my brain. I wanted to “keep on” but for what, I did not know, and each moment carried with it more questioning, suffering, and dread. It was as if I was drowning, trying to hold my breath in the midst of it all so as to not swallow in the deadly waters surrounding me. I found some things to help me hold my breath a little longer – drugs, sex, and cutting. You did not approve, did not understand, would not tolerate and so I pulled farther away from you. Then one day I found myself very close to death and you were there for me. You stopped judging me. You simply reminded me that I must “keep on, keeping on.”

That wouldn’t be my only brush with death and the third time I landed in the ER you had lost your patience. How could I explain that even though I held Bob Dylan’s words close to me, there was a part of me that had to self-destruct? It was as if a monster had sucked me into his very bowels and all my fighting was turning out to be worthless. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to “keep on,” it was more like I had lost the motivation and tools to do so. I was not just sick but broken beyond all repair… or so I thought at the time. Even though you couldn’t fathom my disease, you found for me a place where I could find wholeness. In a multitude of other languages, I relearned your old soliloquy to “keep on, keeping on.” I found old and new tools for fighting the monster that had taken me and slowly but surely reclaimed my will to live again. My healing and repair were not completed there, maybe it never will be, but I got to a place where I could breathe again. Since then, I have ventured further into the ocean depths of living, riding her waves with bits of calm to regain my courage. Sometimes it is barely enough, but those words to “keep on, keeping on” beat like a drum in the jungle synching along to the rhythm of my own heart. No matter the obstacles in my way or the enemies beating me down, I believe I will stay on the path of living and never fall backwards again.

Love,

Your First-Born Daughter,

Kara

To the little girl next door,

There weren’t many kids on our block, but I knew you existed on the other side of that old wooden fence. I was a rough and tumble tomboy that played with my brothers and you had your little sister to play with. One day, I saw you peer around the fence while I was sitting on my front porch steps. I smiled and waved. You waved back. We asked each other’s name. I recalled your little doll with tangled blonde hair.

We began playing every day, then every other day until we no longer played. I didn’t know why, we just stopped. And I went back to playing with my brothers.

Years later, I brought you up in a conversation with one of my brothers, wondering why we just stopped playing. He looked at me curiously. “You don’t remember? Her Mom said she couldn’t play with you anymore because you’re not Black.” That blew me away. To this day, I still wonder if I was so traumatized that I erased it from my memory. I wasn’t angry; I was perplexed. Not only was I shunned because of my brown skin; my family was faced with many adversities; an anomaly in a neighborhood with only a few Asian households.

I think that was the moment that formed my want of connectedness and understanding of differences in opinions and beliefs. And It was summed up when I came upon this quote from Rumi:

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” -Rumi

In that instance, I wanted to have a conversation. It had to be something more than not being Black. I wanted to know more. I wanted us to come to an understanding of each other and form a connection. That’s how I move through life now and a significant amount of my writing comes from a place of empathy.

Little girl, if you would indulge me for a moment, I’d like to share a poem that I wrote. In my career, I worked in human resources and conducted exit interviews. In this particular organization, I noticed the same word came up; silos. The repeated concern resulted in individual offices not being open to collaboration, even though the collaboration would be a positive push towards the organization’s overall mission. This led me to create the following poem:

Silos
Towering into the blue sky
Seen from afar on a country road
What do you hold?
Contained in concrete countenance
Are we the same but cannot speak?
What if we opened the doors
And let the grain spill out
What a beautiful mess
Feeding all that stop and wonder
Let’s talk

After I wrote this, I came to the realization that this wasn’t just about a particular organization’s communication problem. It’s bigger than that. This is about what is going on in the world today; deep seated religious beliefs, political dissension…divisiveness.

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing…”

Little girl next door, I’m not mad at you or your Mom.
I just wish we could’ve had a convo, but turns out rejection turned into catapulting me into the world, with a hunger to understand and the need for finding what connects us and not divides us, with meaningful respectful conversation.

Be well, little girl next door. I hope you are safe and doing fine in life.
Maybe someday, we’ll see the same field.

“I’ll meet you there.”

When I start to sink it happens in waves
My thoughts weigh me down slowly but steadily
A premonition takes over me
I see myself beginning to drown wondering why I wasn’t fighting to break out
Dissecting the voices in my head like they’re the deep murky waters yanking me down
I allowed myself to stay just hardly afloat
Basking in the depths of the tormenting waves
Finding solace in the solo sea almost refreshing to let my tears consume me
My grandmother once said something I’ve repeated silently throughout this life
Never paying much mind how could I when I was only just five
Never turn your back on a wave
Suddenly the meaning passed right by me while drifting away I lifted my gaze
It was a single red balloon signaling to return to grace
Now 30 and won my battle at sea
I fled to freedom feeling the sand beneath my feet
No longer waiting for someone to save me
Feeling the glimmering orange haze from the sun beaming down on me
I once felt constrained while the Kraken imprisoned me
Now I’m finally safe I feel the joys of life pour back into me
Peacefully floating in rivers now but only in my dreams I feel them cleansing and changing me
Never turn your back on a wave what a simple way to remind me to stay safe
Even your own mind can commit the darkest of crimes
When I feel everything begin to crash down on me
Meet me at the sea I’m no longer afraid to fight even the darkest shadow versions of me

We often live our lives with expectations someone else set for us.
“Do you have children?”
“What do you do for work?”
“Are you married?”
Overly asked common questions.
When responded with “no,” it’s met with judgment as those tools are what we use to commonly measure the success of a person.
“Are you happy?”
A question that is rare but important.
I found joy within myself when I stopped following what was expected of me and began living for what made my soul shine.
Expressing my creative side
That’s why I exist
I don’t believe in guilty pleasures
Why should I feel ashamed for what brings me a glimmer of glee?
When I die I don’t want to be remembered as an individual who was stuck in a pattern of endless misery
I want to be remembered as the peculiar girl who lived life blissfully
I get one life and I don’t plan to waste it by living it in a way that isn’t true to who I am

“People seldom do what they believe in. They do what is convenient, then repent.”- Bob Dylan

Dear Unsealers,

When I was married, my ex-wife and I fought a lot.

We were married for eight years, together for thirteen.

You would think we would learn to get along by then.

We tried couples therapy for almost three years, to no avail.

It came to me one day.

I never felt right with her.

I never felt as if I could tell her anything.

I hid a lot of my life from her.

She read me her journal entries.

I kept mine under lock and key.

Something inside of me told me not to trust her.

And it came to me:

I never felt like she was home to me.

I always felt out of place.

As if I weren’t welcome in her heart.

Because I never let her inside mine.

I left her the next day, for good.

I walked away from thirteen years of misery – emotional homelessness and destitution.

I could not, in my heart and soul, stay with her another day.

I thought that was the turning point of my life.

When I found a new place to live in, I felt the same.

I had not found home, even back with my family of origin.

My dad reluctantly welcomed me and threatened to kick me out several times.

I felt unwanted there, too.

When he died, I found relief.

But I still had not found home.

I was still with my loving mother, who said I always had a home with her.

She meant a domicile, not a true home.

I don’t think I knew what a home was, yet I was still trying to find it.

I searched far and wide.

I drove everywhere, speaking with the locals.

I formed tight friendships locally, sharing our lives together.

Where was home?

I still hadn’t found it.

It was not under a roof.

It was not with loved ones either.

I searched outside of myself my entire life – for four decades.

It was time that I looked for home from within.

I found that my home was bare.

I went to building and decorating.

I built on the foundation of my values – creativity, compassion, camaraderie.

I created routines that kept the home functioning.

I cleaned up the cobwebs in my mind by journaling, meditating, and reflecting.

I nurtured my interests – art, writing, mental health advocacy – and that garden flourished.

I secured my boundaries and exercised caution with whom I let inside my home.

After all this work, I realized I had only scratched the surface.

There is a lot of upkeep required.

Constant home improvement projects.

Weeding out the structures and objects that do not suit me.

Slowing down occasionally so I don’t burn out.

Making time for fun.

The work never ends, but it’s worth my time and attention.

It is my home.

I am home.

Dear Unsealers,

“Fake it until you make it.”

I think this motto is disingenuous to the human experience. Here is a modified version which I live by:

“Do until you become.”

Why do I prefer this motto over faking it?

The first motto implies that you are trying to be something you are not.

My preferred motto sounds as if you are stepping into a suit that is custom-tailored for you.

This motto saved my life recently. For months, I had been suffering from severe depression.

I was even admitted to the psych hospital for two weeks.

One day, I decided that this was the last straw. I could not keep living like this –

Experiencing no joy in activities I normally love.

Having trouble getting started on tasks.

Constantly worrying about money.

Hurting myself because I hated myself.

Thinking many times a day about ending my life.

Feeling hopeless that nothing in my life would change.

I thought about everything wrong in my life.

Then I discovered a self-care app that changed my life.

At the risk of sounding like free advertising, l will not reveal the app’s name.

This app helped me develop coping skills.

It kept track of my goals and special projects.

It built my support system.

It made me stay busy so depression would leave my mind.

It gave me motivation and strengthened my will to live.

I’m not going to say that this app worked right away. That, too, would be disingenuous.

It took a few weeks of using the app to feel euthymic again.

Tranquil and stable instead of highly anxious and severely depressive.

My head is now filled with positive affirmations.

When I have a negative thought, I ask myself “Is this thought helpful to me right now?”

If the thought suits me, I do something about it.

If it does not help me, I table the thought until I can take action, or I let it go and replace it with a positive thought.

“Do until you become” almost always involves a slow burn, but it is effective when I work at whatever change I desire.

It can help you, too. It may take weeks or months to see results. Be patient. You will find the outcome you need.

Dear World,

It started when I was in the psych hospital in August 2020 for a severe mixed manic-depressive episode.

I was sitting at the table, coloring pictures with the friends I had made at the hospital.

I looked up and saw the psychiatrist who was seeing me during my two-week stay. Except this time, I was looking at him… differently. He stood across the day room at the nurses’ station, his back to me.

I actually checked him out.

Checked. Him. Out.

“This is crazy!” I thought.

“What’s crazy?” my friend to my right said.

“Did I say that out loud?” I asked.

“You sure did.”

“I think I’m… in love with my psychiatrist.”

There was pandemonium at the table. My friends asked me so many questions. Nobody had ever talked about having romantic feelings for their psychiatrist. The interest was high.

The problem was that I had no idea how to answer any of their questions. This concept was new to me, too.

After I was discharged from the hospital, I spent months battling my romantic interest in my psychiatrist. I felt confused. Ashamed.

I was seeing my psychiatrist in intensive outpatient therapy as well. I never once mentioned my love for him. I was afraid that if I told him, he would reassign me to another psychiatrist, and I would never see him again.

One day in January 2021, five months after I… you know, I was curious and typed “I’m in love with my psychiatrist” into the Google search bar.

The results were amazing. I was not alone. There were articles about people falling in love with their therapists. Psychiatrists were less common.

I was experiencing a phenomenon called transference. Simply put, it happens when a client transfers feelings about an attachment figure in their lives, usually their parent or guardian, onto their therapist or psychiatrist.

Usually, those feelings of transference are familial, but sometimes those feelings are romantic. So while I am not a common occurrence, I am certainly not alone in my romantic feelings.

I digested this information on my own for two weeks. Then, I summoned the courage to tell my psychiatrist that I had been having romantic feelings toward him for the past five months.

My psychiatrist was compassionate. He said that while he will never pressure me to reveal anything else, the invitation to discuss my love for him will always be there.

I poured out my feelings to him slowly over the next four months as I kept switching between inpatient and intensive outpatient treatment. However, I still felt anxious to tell him yet more.

I had told very few people about being in love with my psychiatrist. I still felt uncomfortable sharing my feelings about him with others.

One day, I finally told my therapy group at intensive outpatient treatment that I have feelings of love for my psychiatrist. Then, I told them a little about transference.

I was not completely alone. Two other clients in the group said they had loving feelings toward their therapists, but it was parental for them, not romantic.

The group therapist said that transference is “the goal” in therapy – that if a client wants to make any progress in resolving their attachment issues, then they need to experience those feelings with someone compassionate – a therapist or psychiatrist – who will help them process and heal their attachment trauma.

I don’t think I’m a typical case of transference. I don’t see my psychiatrist regularly, only when I am in crisis at the psych hospital.

I have a therapist I see weekly, with whom I process my feelings toward my psychiatrist. I wish I could see my psychiatrist at least twice a month, but that, unfortunately, isn’t possible.

It has been four years since I fell in love with my psychiatrist. I have not resolved those feelings yet. I have processed so much, yet something feels stuck. However, I still believe it is possible to heal, so I am honest and open during every session with my therapist.

Here’s my message for you: If you develop strong feelings for your therapist or psychiatrist, whether your feelings for them are familial or romantic, you are not experiencing a setback.

You are making incredible progress.

Keep going. Explore your feelings for your therapist or psychiatrist. Talk to them about how you feel. A good one will be receptive, warm, and friendly.

You will peel back many layers of emotional pain and trauma, and you will eventually heal. I believe in you.

Dear Friends Simply Hanging On,

I had trouble thinking about a dream or goal I had that came true that I would feel good writing to you about.

I graduated from university with highest honors but I went through a hell to achieve that goal that I would rather have no one else repeat.

I had a beautiful wedding that I was proud of because I planned it almost entirely on my own while working 50 hours per week at my job, but now I am divorced after eight years of marriage. The wedding clearly was not a long-term success.

I landed my dream job, writing law that would affect mental health care, but working there mentally and emotionally broke me to the point where I am disabled and unable to work ever again.

The dream I had that came true, that I am actually proud of, is living to age 40. I did not expect to live nearly this long.

My suicidal ideation and attempts began when I was 14 years old. Given how often I was injuring myself intentionally, it is a wonder that I lived to walk the stage at my high school graduation when I was 17.

My adult life often treated me harshly. I was in two long, challenging relationships. It took me seven years to graduate from university. Twenty years of intermittent employment were a huge challenge before I finally accepted that my mental health conditions severely limited my ability to work. I have been a patient at the psych hospital 18 times from the ages of 15 through 40.

When I feel any danger to my own life, I make it to the psych hospital quickly. The psych hospital is the soft place to land so I can give up the fight with the part of myself who wants the pain to end so badly that they would rather not exist.

My resilience and incredible will to live vastly outweigh my many urges to end my life every single time. I get up off the ground more times than I fall.

For many years, I have tried to fight the urges on my own. Sure, I went to therapy and took medications, but I was not completely honest with my care team. I put on a happy face because that was what I thought I was supposed to do. I even laughed and cracked many jokes throughout my life to maintain the facade.

I had a lightbulb moment eventually during one of my multiple psych hospital stays at age 36. I realized I had to be honest about how I felt and advocate for myself to get what I needed. I also had to get honest with myself and stop seeing the negative in everything.

I have had many challenging life events from ages 36 through 40. Divorce. Relocation. Death of a parent. Career loss. Bankruptcy. The list goes on.

I choose not to see these as negative. I feel incredibly blessed to have experienced all of this. I feel grateful that I could live long enough to tell these tales. I could not have endured any of these challenges had I ended my life while I was in high school.

Life is quickly looking up for me. There are still challenges, but I know I can handle anything the universe throws my way. Making it to age 40 has been fantastic. In fact, I spent my 40th birthday in the psych hospital, surrounded by an understanding care team and a handful of kind patients. It is not how I envisioned celebrating 40, but it is certainly a creative way for my birthday to be recognized.

I have plenty to live for, although I have little money and I cannot work. I set many goals, such as learning new skills and hobbies, meeting people with common interests, and getting back to my first love: writing.

If you have lost the will to live, please remember that things do get better. No emotion lasts forever. Try to imagine yourself five, ten, twenty years from now. Where do you want to be?

It is a dream come true that I have made it to 40 years of age. My next dream is to reach 50 years. I hope you become grateful for your life, too, if you have not already. I am telling you with absolute confidence that it is possible for you because you, too, have an unshakeable will to live. It is in your DNA.

However, if these feelings of despair persist, please call the crisis line in your country. You do not have to endure this alone.

The life you’ve fought so hard for is more than just a dream.

We both know you’re the most solid on my team.

Greatness is your birthright; you’re a true visionary.

I admire your power; it is nothing short of extraordinary.

Once I got to know you, I knew we’d be unstoppable.

Nothing in this world can stop us from doing the impossible.

When I faced my deepest, darkest fears, you never chose sides.

With you, I’m an open book absolved of pride.

I’m far from perfect, but I try my best to do what’s right.

I no longer want to be a shadow of my former self; I was born to shine bright.

I recently received my college acceptance letter after a 6-year gap.

I took your advice, trusted my intuition, and built a better mousetrap.

I was shocked by the news; I know you’re one proud little girl.

I promised I’d make it up to you; it’s your dreamworld.

Continue working towards your goals; the results will come to fruition.

Always believe in yourself, and God will place you in position.

Not everyone is lucky to experience someone like you.

You’re truly one of a kind in all that you do.

I’ve learned that good things come to those who wait, but everything comes at a cost.

Are you willing to sacrifice what’s making you comfortable to gain more than you lost?

Write, write, write!
Letter by letter
Press by press
Line by line, each dot connects.

Write, write, right?
You did it, you did,
Every key typed in
Every lettered line is drawn tight.
Writing done right.

In books, on pages,
In emails and spaces
A mark you have left for the ages.

Online, offline, books, or naught
A writer, you are, but forget you should not.