I’m Still Hot, It Just Comes In Flashes Now

Posted on December 10, 2025 by bonnevivantelife
menopause

I feel like we, as a society, don’t talk about women’s health issues enough. And that even very educated women tend to minimize our symptoms. So I’m here to overshare and contribute to course correcting this phenomenon, and to continue the importance of women helping women and holding each other up. If not for my sisters from other misters, I would have just sucked it up and slowly suffered in silence.

We as women tend to do this, suffer in silence and plow through—it’s part of our charm after all. Certainly there are some instances when we raise a ruckus (please stop assaulting us), but overall we keep our heads down and continue making the world go round. Because that wet towel on the floor is not going to pick itself up. Fortunately, we also vent to each other. And it’s in these spaces where we find our collective voices.

Two games women like to play are “Does this make me look fat?” and “I am so old, that I _______ .” It is the latter game that allowed me to connect the dots that I was in menopause. You would think being 52 years old would have tipped me off. But I have had an IUD for many years, and have been grateful that it has stopped all my periods. That in itself was so freeing. I highly recommend it. I had not realized how much time and bandwidth I lost from the bloating, physical aches, discomforts, and inconvenient and messy bleeding. It felt like I literally gained half of each month back.

But because I no longer had a period, I did not tie any menopause symptoms to actual menopause because I didn’t have the menses as an anchor point. And because the symptoms came on gradually, they were easy to dismiss. Night sweats? I literally attributed to global warming. A non-judgmental friend asked kindly, “In your bedroom though?” Some days are better than others for me.

The increased frequency of urinating, thinning hair, brain fog, fatigue, greasy hair—those all came on one at a time, slowly and quietly like a cat burglar. Like I didn’t even notice the silverware was stolen spoon by spoon. I chalked this all up to aging. And I was hellbent on aging gracefully and quietly.

But here’s the thing, ladies, It IS aging. It’s menopause. And we need not be martyrs. We need not smell our hair burn, I mean, it is thinning after all, and we need to save what we do have left. We need not suffer in silence when there’s a simple and effective solution. Hormones. Give me all the hormones please. These symptoms are not all in my head. They’re literally the lack of hormones coursing through my veins. Less stigma, more hormones!

Over 20 years of research has debunked the overcautious previous fear about hormones and links to cancer. So speak to your doctor about your specific medical history and circumstances. There’s non-hormonal options too. I know, no one loves taking medications. I get it. We each have to make our own decisions of what we’re comfortable with.

I am here to tell you that I am super comfortable with waking up feeling rested and not struggling to push through each and every day through a heavy fatigue and brain fog. I am here to tell you that I am super comfortable with being able to sleep through the night not waking up to go pee or throw that blanket off me in a night sweat. I am here to tell you I am super comfortable not having to go to the bathroom every time one is offered because I pee so often.

I’m actually super comfortable in my own skin that is not so taut anymore. My gray hair is growing back. My skin is clearing up. We are not made to suffer, yet we as women often feel like suffering sits on our second X chromosome. It is not. Growing old gracefully can be comfortable and gentle and kind.

The cat burglar who stole the silverware one by one? He also stole each comfortable minute one by one in my life, replacing each minute with a heavy weight of fatigue, or brain fog, or jacked up internal body temperature control. I had not realized how heavy and burdened each day had become, until the hormones lifted it all away. It is not hyperbole when I say it literally changed my life. Life literally need not be so hard.

So this is my PSA for sisters to unite and talk loudly about our health woes, and to raise each other up with hormones, a raised fist, or literally helping one of us up from a seated position on the ground. It can be very difficult to get back up these days. So here’s to supporting one another loudly, comfortably, and well informed

Posted in Empowerment, Health Issues | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Bigmouth Strikes Again

Posted on August 29, 2025 by bonnevivantelife
fulfillment
I’m sorry this blog post has nothing to do with the Smiths and this amazing song, but I hope you’ll stay to read the post!

I have this recurring theme that weaves through each chapter of my life: I can’t keep my big mouth shut and then something happens. It always starts off innocently enough. But then, before you know it, I’m married. Or arrested. Or in a band. Trust me, I’m just as bewildered as the husband, the cops, and the guitarist. And the audiences for all three.

I’ve learned to go with it though. What other choice do I have? I mean, what is that quote: “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end?” It reminds me of that other cheeky quote where we always find things in the last place we look. Both quotes seem to just throw their hands up in the air and say “I dunno, just keep going?” Either way, things have worked out pretty well for me, and yet somehow I’ve managed to lose things over and over again after finding them (like my dignity, my pride, my will to adopt healthier eating habits).

So a few months ago I found myself walking into a meeting innocently enough. I smile, make small talk, settle in. Pleasantries are exchanged, introductions made, agendas disseminated. Points are made, questions are raised, discussions unfold. Not my first rodeo, I’ve got this. I even managed to snarf down some snacks. Meeting ends, goodbyes are exchanged, people disperse.

Unbeknownst to me, I did it again. I opened my big fat mouth. Again. A colleague I worked closely with over the years at my previous job used to tell me that I see the bigger picture and identify patterns quickly in a way that allows for strategic planning. I told her I just make shit up. I’m coming to realize both things can be true at the same time.

Because I walked into a room thinking only that I could help on someone’s political campaign. I offered to do “chief of staff” duties if she was elected—you know, advising on strategy, helping with priorities and scheduling, working on things behind the scenes, addressing constituents’ issues, building alliances. I walk out of the meeting and am promoted to campaign manager. I was kindly told the next day.

Story of my life. So I go with it. I get to know roles and personalities, and goals. I learn the lingo and the rules and the context. But see, as important as the details are, that’s not what drives me. It’s the macro, the bigger picture, that sings to me. That’s the organism that has life and power and energy. You can swap out the details, names, and buzzwords, and the dynamics of groups, systems, and programs all remain familiar.

So I get to work. Making lists, asking questions, suggesting SOPs. “What’s an SOP?” someone asks innocently enough. I just about, well I actually literally, jumped up and down a little excitedly. “StandardOperatingProcedures!!!” I blurt out. “I’ll write them! I’ll write them ALL!”

How is it possible people have gone through their lives not appreciating the beauty and simplicity of Standard Operating Procedures? How do you ensure continuity of operations? How do you onboard people efficiently and uniformly? How do you ensure quality and consistency of work? How do you identify pain points or errors? How do you maintain effective systems and processes for institutional knowledge? WITHOUT STANDARD OPERATING PROCEDURES?

No matter, I’m on it! I reorganize all the documents, old and new. I frame out operations and tasks. I salivate at the thought of all the reports that can be pulled. I identify data points and the metrics to analyze said data. I create new tasks and procedures to maximize what we are capable of and to amplify the core values of this candidate.

I do all this because I know what happens with good intentions and best laid plans. Without the structure and accountability, balls drop and candidates lose. There’s usually no scandal, but this helps avoid that too.

And I realize I am in all my glory. I text my old colleague, “I miss it. I was so good at it. I miss doing this. I miss feeling alive.” I miss creating programs. Creating teams. Creating processes. Making order out of chaos. Staying on task. Managing projects and multiple balls in the air. Getting shit done. I thought I disliked what I thought was drudgery in my career. Turns out I loved what I did, and I was really good at it. Even when I make shit up. Who knew?

So I started offering these consultation services: helping other people with both program and evaluation development to grow their businesses; identifying problems or places for improvement and fixing them; being creative, impactful, and accountable. I realized if I loved what I did, why not do more of it? I mean, moderation was never my strong suit after all.

What’s that other quote? The one where you don’t miss something until it’s gone? Yeah, I never would have guessed this is how I would discover what I love to do. How much joy it brings me. To be useful and impactful in this purpose. I might need to make a habit of opening my big fat mouth more. Although if you know me, you know I’ve already done that again by the time this essay ends.

Tell me, how have you discovered what you love to do?

Posted in Empowerment, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Story of My Life: Lessons From Motherhood

Posted on July 22, 2025 by bonnevivantelife
life lessons from motherhood

My son gave me a book, “Mom, I Want to Hear Your Story,” after he heard me share my essay about mothering last year. I was flattered he finally showed interest in me. Up until then, I think he saw me only as an opportunity, a provider, and a vehicle. I provided opportunities for him to grow and thrive academically, physically, and mentally. I provided lodging, sustenance, clothing, and money. I transported his ass everywhere.

I was surprised he finally wanted to know me as a person, not just a parent or giver-of-things. But I’m having a difficult time answering the prompts in the journal he bought me. It asks me things like:

-Did your family have pets growing up?

-Did your family have special traditions on birthdays or holidays?

-Did you have hobbies growing up?

No, no, and no. Well, that was easy. And an amazing waste of money buying that journal. The answer to most of the questions is a resounding “no” because my immigrant parents didn’t have the time or resources for these things. So many of the prompts are completed with “No’s,” that I took to drawing little emojis next to them to fill up space and make my childhood look less pathetic. Growing up, I did really want a cat, but there weren’t any questions for unrequited desires.

I understand my son wants to hear more stories about me to better understand from where he came, and because my family is not a talking family. We are silent, stoic, and secretive. This sounds mysterious, romantic. But it’s not. It’s just setting up landmines for you to inevitably step on, so you say less and less, and the cycle repeats itself until you have a dining room table full of people you love, but you don’t know well enough to like. For the record, my daughter could care less about my story, and prefers I stay silent in all circumstances.

I understand why my son wants to know more about me and what forces created who he knows today. So I’m trying to get into the spirit of it all. What do I want my children to know about me? Should I tell them that my minor hoarding tendency stems from a place of fear because we didn’t have much money when I was a kid? So that there’s always a little bit of not-enoughness lurking around every corner?

Should I tell them I’m a little bitter and resentful that growing up, people made fun of me for my Chinese culture and quirks, and now it’s both trendy and appropriated? I want them to be proud of both their culture and quirks because it’s who they are, not because it’s trending on TikTok. And to be clear, re-using Ziplock bags was always a good idea and not a new reuse-recycle green strategy.

Should I tell them that I momsplain so much precisely because my family is so silent and secretive so I overcompensate? Also, I’ve coined the word “momsplain” as the maternal version of mansplaining. The concept of condescendingly overexplaining remains the same, it’s just that I’m a mom and not a man. The unnecessary nature of this also remains the same. See? I just did it again. I momsplain because I want them to use their words and not perpetuate my family of origin dynamics.

Do my children really care what my favorite cake flavor is (It’s chocolate)? Or who my favorite teacher was (I’m sorry to say I do not have one, but I loved my high school journalism class)? Or what my most embarrassing moment was (Not the most embarrassing, but I’m willing to admit there was an incident when I walked into a parked car because I was admiring a rooftop full of fraternity brothers, who all saw me walk right into the parked car)?

I don’t think my children need to know all of that. I do think they need to know that having children has forced me to be a better person. I think they need to know that becoming a mother has saved me from myself. I think they need to know that the moment the nurse placed my son on my chest after a long and difficult labor, I literally felt the axis of the earth shift and my soul suddenly settled for the first time in my life. I think they need to know I suddenly had the answer to a question I didn’t even know I had.

The past memories—they aren’t who I am today. I am only brave and vulnerable and courageous because I know I need to be a good role model for them. I use my words and fight for justice and do hard things because I want them to do these things. I only push myself to be a better human everyday because I want them to be amazing humans living a life of wonder and curiosity. Left to my own devices, I’d likely be a selfish, foolish wanderer. I’d likely be a crazy cat lady.

In my past memories, I had people who wanted more for me, but it came in the shape of someone being disappointed in me. Like most parents, I too want more for my children, so I had to show them what that looked like, and to make sure it didn’t look like someone who was disappointed in them. And that instead, its shape is someone who learns how to make the most out of life.

In my past memories, I didn’t think I deserved better so I sacrificed myself for people who fought dark demons. But I know my children deserve better, so I had to learn good and firm boundaries. I had to learn hope is a powerful thing and that I can hope for what is possible for someone, and also still say “no thank you.” I had to learn that I too deserve better.

In my past memories, I thought generational trauma was a destiny. I had to learn it can be a destination, and that I can change that destination–that I’m in charge of the GPS. Staying in a destination is an implicit acceptance. So I did hard things and divorced my children’s father so that they could see the stark difference between what is appropriate and kind behavior, what is unconditional love, and what kind of life they deserve.  I needed to show them you get what you deserve. And that they deserve respect, kindness, and grace.

I want them to know that I am who I am today because of them. So what is my story, you ask? My sweet children, you are my story.

Posted in Parenting | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

How a Meditation Retreat in Costa Rica Changed My Life

Posted on July 1, 2025 by bonnevivantelife
Costa Rica sunset pura vida

There are many places I would like to go visit. Costa Rica was never one of them. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I had anything against pura vida, sloths, or great coffee. I just had other destinations in mind. I am also not a Woo-Woo person. I have just enough Woo to be mistaken for a Woo-Woo person, but I’m not all in. So when I was invited to a meditation retreat in Costa Rica, I had my reservations. But the universe was talking to me when she invited me, so I listened. See what I did there?

So I went. I came back with a few gifts. Coffee was one of them. Amazing headbands that fit my unusually large and flat head are another. I also regained the capacity to empathize—I had literally lost the ability to empathize in the whirlwind of really toxic and terrorizing events that unfolded daily over months at work. I also came back with a new and amazing friend group of really smart and empathetic women who are so brave and kind and supportive (Hi, CR Sisters!).

I came back grounded to be able to make difficult decisions. The time away and intentional mindfulness helped me get back in touch with my gut and my heart. I came back with an inner peace and a reminder that I already have everything I need inside of me. So I made the difficult decision to take an early retirement and start my own business. I went to Costa Rica to get grounded again, and I came back unemployed.

What does a psychotherapist, writer, and marketer know about starting a business? Great question. It’s a real question, not the setup of a joke. The answer is, next to nothing. I’m also allergic to math, and I think there’s numbers (math!) involved in the whole income/tax/bookkeeping part of business. So I took advantage of learning opportunities and my network, and the universe rallied around me to help me make the next right decision every single step of the way. I’ll take a side of Woo with my entrée of Hustle please.

But this early retirement didn’t feel celebratory. This business launch didn’t feel exciting. Because I felt forced into these decisions. I need to pay my bills and this was not part of my careful life planning. I’m over the bitterness and resentment, but I had not embraced this fully as a clear positive yet.

Then I remembered two things. One is that I firmly believe words have meaning, and I can turn “This happened to me,” to instead be “This happened for me.” I can say “I am an unemployed grifter,” or I can say “I am retired and I am doing what I love.” In a world where I cannot control much, I can control what words I use.

I remembered the second thing when a friend noted that he was so excited for my business launch. I was about to reply, “I don’t know if I’m excited, but I know I’m anxious and nervous and scared.” And in that moment, I suddenly remembered Costa Rica.

This is the volcano!

One day, we were heading out to go ziplining on the side of a volcano, up above the jungle tree line. A young family sat behind me on the ride up, and two little girls (one was about 7 years old, and the second was about 12 years old) were talking. The younger girl asked if she was going to die that day. The older girl reassured her that today would not be the day. And that she has found it helpful to remember that her heart starts beating faster and her stomach gets butterflies when she is both excited and when she is scared. The older girl told her that when the younger girl is scared, she can tell herself that she could also be excited. Same feelings in the body. Both can be true at the same time. Excited and scared.

Thank you, wise child. Thank you, Costa Rica. Thank you, Universe. I will now excitedly take a full serving of the Woo and go about excitedly marketing myself and hustling like my mortgage depends on it. Because it actually does. All of these can be true. Woo True. 

Posted in Empowerment, Meditation, Mindfulness | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Mistaken Identity

Posted on July 19, 2024 by bonnevivantelife

As shared live on stage for Stoop Storytelling Series (click to hear the audio!):

Look at me. What do you see? You’ll probably say a middle-aged Chinese woman who has worked very hard for every single one of these gray hairs on her head. And you would be right. If any of you are leaning into stereotypes or implicit biases, you may be thinking you’re looking at a rule follower, a promise keeper, a good human. And you were right. I was. Until I wasn’t. Turns out there was a mix-up of sorts, if you will. 

I am a child of immigrants from Hong Kong. The best thing you can be as a Chinese child, is to be “Gwaai.” That is the Cantonese word for Good. Obedient. Do as you’re told. So I was good and obedient and followed all the rules. Also, as a child of immigrants, you’re always ‘On.” You’re always scanning the room, feeling the temperature of the room. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re soaking in all the messages society sends you, because it’s how you learn the rules of engagement. The bonus side effect of this state of constant observation? Is that you’re so busy noticing, you don’t have time to say anything. This too, is Gwaai.

So I continued to grow up, get older, yet still so obedient and good. And I started dating. And wouldn’t you know it? Men would, unsolicited, tell me that they could not marry an Asian woman. They could not have mixed-race children. They would tell me this on the first date. Or the third date. One gentleman had the good timing to tell me this after 6 months. 

Who said I wanted to marry you in the first place? Who said I wanted kids at all? And why were these the two things that outraged me the most? Probably because I didn’t have the words then to call racism for what it was. And probably because I was in denial that they were only looking for situationships. So I started to hope for someone who wouldn’t leave me. I was hoping to avoid nursing yet another broken heart. People told me to date a nice guy.

So I met a guy. He seemed nice. We got married after a couple years of dating because that’s what we were supposed to do. Right? After all, I’m no dummy, my friends asked all the time, “So, how are things going with ____?”  I’d watched all the movies, read all the stories, it was supposed to be happily ever after. This was the next logical step after dating for years. And he hadn’t left me. We were good to go?

Turns out we were NOT good to go. I won’t go into all the issues that came up in the marriage, because this isn’t about him. There’s lots of tales, but at the end of each tale, it turns out that I was never lonelier than in that marriage. At the end of each tale, it turns out that we did not share the same values. At the end of each tale, it turns out that he refused to show up and do the work to make the marriage work. 

Because I was Gwaii, I tried to do all the work to make the marriage work. I tried ignoring the issues, I was good. I tried working on the issues, I was a rule follower. We tried going to therapy for the issues, Gwaai. I tried changing myself, Gwaai. I tried changing everything around me, Gwaai. With every change, I died a little inside every single day. But I got what I wanted. I got someone who would not leave me. 

It got to the point where I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. And I had two young children. Maybe I could slow down the dying inside a little to raise these two humans? But the thing with children is that you are reminded of their innocence, their potential, their possibility. Their joy, their curiosity, their goodness. Children are good, without being obedient. 

And children look to you to learn what they’re supposed to do. I didn’t want my children to think this was a good marriage, a fulfilling relationship, a worthy goal. I did not want them to feel trapped and lonely and dead inside in a relationship that was not respectful and fulfilling. 

And in one moment, I knew. I knew I had to end this marriage to save myself. Because I’m a rule follower, I listen to the flight attendants before every flight. I remembered that they tell you when all hell breaks loose, you need to put on your oxygen mask before you help others put on theirs. To make sure these children would thrive and live their best lives, I had to take care of myself first. I had to save myself in order to save my children.

But if I ended a marriage, I was no longer Gwaai, obedient, and doing what I’m supposed to. I struggled with how to reconcile this with myself. I struggled with the fact that I made vows. Till death do us part. I promised, happily ever after. I meant that. I’m not a liar. I’m responsible. I didn’t take this lightly. I said I’d love you forever. Forever.

Turns out forever is a very long time. I struggled with being a liar, someone who breaks promises. How do I ever trust myself again? How do I ever tell anyone else I will love them forever? How do I disappoint my parents, my children, everyone, in such a deep way?

And then I was reminded of my parents. They had a couch in the living room by the front window when I was little. I knew all the contours and lines of the couch, the texture of the upholstery, the colors of the fabric. One day when I was older, they asked me to help move that couch. I could see where the sun had faded part of the upholstery day after day, for years. But I didn’t notice it until then, years later. That was me. I was still recognizable, but so, so faded.

I had to raise my children so that they could live their best lives, but here I was a faded shell of a memory. I had to break my promises before I had the answers to any of my struggles because to raise them, I had to not only find myself, I had to decide who I wanted to be. I had to decide what colors I wanted to be. And to do that, I had to try lots of new and terrifying things to see what resonated, to see what would stick. Some of those things:

Drumming, still terrifying, but that stuck. Flying a plane, so terrifying, and did not stick. Running really long distances, that felt good until it didn’t. The flying trapeze, that was a literal disaster. Belly dancing, so not pretty. Handling a gun—I should not be armed. But the scariest thing I did was dare to have the audacity to fail.

I had to do all of these things because I needed my children to learn they can do hard things, they can be scared and brave at the same time, that they have Mary Oliver’s one wild and precious life to lead. I needed them to know they aren’t passively who they are, but instead have the agency to decide who they want to be. I wanted my children to learn to trust themselves, figure out what resonates with them. Because I didn’t. I hadn’t trusted myself, I hadn’t trusted all the red flags about my ex-husband, and instead I held on tight to the narrative that I was supposed to be married. I know my children will make their own mistakes, but I do not want them to make mine.

I had to save myself to save my children. Turns out that people thought I was a promise-keeper, a rule-follower, but they were mistaken. I am instead, a lifesaver. 

Posted in Parenting, Relationships | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

My Journey to Listening To Your Mother

Posted on June 15, 2024 by bonnevivantelife
My reading of my essay to a sold-out audience.

I’ve died a thousand deaths to find myself. Or at the very least, the self I am today. And I fall in love with myself each and every time. Is that conceited, arrogant, proud? Maybe. But definitely proud. And content. How do you not fall in love with this feeling, this settling in your own skin? This knowing that you are right where you’re supposed to be? This nodding in affirmation to all your hard work to be the person you want to be?

Past iterations of me include the self consumed by shame and inadequacy, the self who tried to be confident but walked alongside Imposter Syndrome in lockstep, the self who hustled to be perfect and complete all the “shoulds” in life. There were 997 more iterations of me, and many of them overlapped. 

Seasons come and go, each spring familiar and similar to all the other springs, yet unique in that year. Seasons of my life have come and gone, and the world thinks I’m familiar, similar. It’s still me. And it’s not. Each spring, there is digging up weeds, cleaning up garden beds, pruning bushes. And in each of my life seasons, there is digging up, cleaning up, pruning. Adding a new something, rearranging things, fertilizing things. Nurturing, growing, deepening roots.

I have been intentional in my personal gardening, in decisions within recent iterations of self. A new friend said it best, “A decision was made.” Yes, I’ve been mindful to make decisions.  Some have ended badly (head injury from the trapeze), some have brought glorious joy (drumming on stage), some have been cringe-worthy (magnetic eyelashes).

All the while, each decision led me closer to my current iteration, one who truly no longer cares what others think, one who listens to their inner voice, one who makes decisions to do things, or not do things, simply because of desire. There is a surety of self in these moments, a surety and satisfaction and release of fears. How do you not love this state of being?

An opportunity arose recently. A local writer was bringing a juried national storytelling event to my area. There was a call for an essay contest and the chosen few would read these personal essays in front of an audience. Comprised of real humans. Real humans with opinions and judgment. Previous iterations of me would have yearned to do this, and terrified of all the possibilities. What if my essay wasn’t chosen? What if the audience didn’t like my words? What if I was paralyzed in fear of failure and judgment? I may not have even submitted an essay. I may have just complained to friends that I really wanted to do this, and possibly created excuses to not.

I will tell you what I did do. I met the moment. I closed the announcement for the call for essays. And I started typing. I submitted it within an hour. I knew I was made for this moment. I’ve died a thousand deaths to get to who I am today. Don’t tell me you don’t like aging. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of growing older. Don’t tell me you feel like your best days are behind you. Tell me who you are, and who you want to be. I can’t wait to meet them soon.

Posted in Empowerment, Mindfulness | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Don’t Forget Who You Are

Posted on May 12, 2024 by bonnevivantelife
Click here to watch the video of the reading!

“Don’t forget who you are. They will take one look at you, and they’ll always remind you that you’re different. You think you’re White, but you’re not. They’ll always treat you different.”

I wish I had listened to my mother. She, along with my father, moved here from Hong Kong. It was not easy immigrating to the South in the ‘70s. Is it ever easy? Not really, but it was especially not easy then. I was born here in the U.S., and learned Cantonese as I simultaneously learned English.

I also learned that people stare at you like you’re a zoo animal. In the grocery store, in the library, in a restaurant. I learned kids mostly play with most other kids. Until they call you names and pull the corners of their eyes upwards. I learned people talk to you slowly, and loudly. Until you reply in perfect English and you can see their bodies relax.

Maybe it was because of all of these things that I didn’t listen to my mother. Maybe I didn’t have the words for it back then, and I hoped and hoped she was wrong because hope is a powerful thing. Maybe if I believed it enough, then I could be White. And treated as White. I was so desperate, I scrounged together enough money during the 80’s version of supply chain issues, to buy a blond Cabbage Patch doll. Even then, I knew that was as close as I would ever get to having a blond baby. Even then, I knew that Mary Jo Cabbage was as close as I would ever get to being White.

Maybe if I had listened to her, I would not have been shocked when people in bars asked me to say something in Chinese like I’m a circus performer for their entertainment. Maybe if I had listened to her, it would not have hurt as much when men told me how much they love Asian skin and exotic women, like it was a compliment. Maybe if I listened to her, it wouldn’t have been as invalidating to always be mistaken for other Asians who look nothing like me, as if we were all interchangeable.

But what if I had listened to her? What would I have done differently? Would I have raged and pushed back at the world at every turn? Maybe that’s what she wanted for me. Maybe that’s what she wanted for her. She didn’t have the words or standing to rage and unapologetically claim her space. Maybe she wanted me to do it for her, instead of rage and push back against her. Because that’s what I did instead of listening to her. What did she want me to do with her words?

I don’t know, and I can’t ask her. She died 7 years ago. I think she, like most mothers, wanted to protect me from the harsh realities of the dark side of humanity. I think she wanted to spare me from the years of confusion and sadness that come from being a model minority, and yet always a minority. Always different. I think she wanted me to be unapologetically me.

It took me a longer route, and more years than it should have, but I did finally listen to my mother. But only by becoming a mother myself. Once I gave birth to my son, I understood her. I understood how important it was to know your heritage, to know where you come from, to know who you are. I understood that you need to embrace who you are in order to call out micro-aggressions, biases, racism. I understood that you need to fully know your heritage before you can call out the fools, simpletons, douche canoes.

Maybe she wanted me to always remember I’m Chinese so that she could be seen by me. Maybe she didn’t feel seen in this country by all of these White Americans. And not seen by her own daughter. Maybe she was also asking me to take a look at her and see me in her.

By finally listening to my mother, I’ve bridged this gap with my own children. I am unapologetically me so that they can unapologetically be their fierce selves. When we’re hit with reminders of micro-aggressions, biases, and racism, there’s comfort in understanding each other’s hurts. When we’re hyper-sexualized, mistaken for someone else, or mocked for our food choices, we can turn to each other and sigh deeply in our knowing. We know our pain is seen and held gently.

I wonder how my relationship with my mother would have been if I had seen her early on. Maybe she never felt truly seen by me. I don’t think she ever really saw me either. But I do know mothers are always right, and she’s given me this gift of a close relationship with my children, by reminding me to remember who I am.

Don’t forget who you are. I am Chinese. I am a mother. I am a daughter. I am my mother’s daughter.

Posted in Parenting, Relationships, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Roots and Wings

Posted on August 28, 2021 by bonnevivantelife
moving to college dorm

The pile in the living room is getting larger. The mini fridge. The laundry bag. The desk lamp. The XL twin sheets (what in the fresh hell is this??) The box of snacks and ramen. The cleaning supplies (who are we kidding? And yes, I’m still packing these in the car because hope is a powerful thing). The bulletin board. The backpack. As the college dorm pile gets larger, so does the hole in my heart.

Every moment up to this day laid the foundation for this very day. The insistence on manners. The lessons in critical thinking. The practice of using your words to get your needs met. I had one job to do, and I did it. And now, I’m kind of bummed I worked myself out of a job. 

I know he won’t be far away. I know he’ll come home for holidays and summers. I also know this is the beginning of the end. The end of our daily mundane connections. The end of how his man-child presence fills the space and atmosphere in the house. The end of the high energy and loud volume in the air. After 6,445 days (but who’s counting?), this era will come to an end. When the packed car backs out of the driveway, I know I’ll have holidays and summers. I also know summers won’t be guaranteed when he gets an internship or takes extra summer classes. Summers will eventually disappear with real jobs. And then we’ll only have some holidays when he’s partnered. It’s like a long, slow good-bye.

I don’t think anyone can ever truly be prepared for this sadness and anxiety. I suddenly have all these parenting regrets and my head tells me that I did the best I could. My head tells me that if I made different decisions, there would be other consequences too. But in my head, it feels like I’m scurrying around the deck of a sinking ship picking up litter in an attempt to make things right, and honestly to soothe myself. 

I’ve realized that when things are going well, when one of the kids demonstrates maturity or resilience, writes a kick-ass thank-you card, or gets into college, I pat myself on the back for a job well done. When things go south, when one of the kids is struggling or makes a bad decision, I shoulder the blame and start my morning off with a strong cup of regret. I forget that these not-so-little people have agency, autonomy, and self-determination. No matter how much I think I’m in control, it’s all an illusion. 

I must confess part of my agita of sending a child off to college is rooted in the fear that I’ll lose all control and everything will go off the rails without my expert supervision and extensive lists. I’ve believed that my incessant nagging about waking up before the sun sets, doing laundry at least monthly, and eating more vegetables than preservatives made a difference in who my children are. Sending a child off to college removes any illusion of control and bitch slaps me in the face that these children will make  all sorts of decisions in their lives, big and small, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it (other than bailing someone out of jail).

This has always been the case. It had never been about control, or wet towels on the floor, or the pile of shoes in front of the door. A large part of who they are today is a mix of luck and all those moments of listening, talking, and modeling values and behaviors. It has been about validating the fears and hopes of each child, about holding each child’s story in a safe place as each child writes a new chapter. I’m remembering the only thing my kids need from me, no matter how old they are or where they live, is to continue to validate who they are and the decisions they make, and to hold their stories. Even when things go south. Especially when things go south. They will tell you they need spending money too, but no one is asking them today.

It has never been about who I want them to be, or what I want for their lives, and trust me, I had grand plans. It’s been about clearing the air around them enough so they can listen to their gut and inner voice. Sending a child off to college has reminded me that I’m only the boss of me and that my children have made me a better person, a person who has the capacity for unconditional love. They’ve made me exhausted and exasperated too, but mostly a better person.

A friend reminded me, “roots and wings.” This makes the ache a little duller, a little more palatable. I can do roots and wings. I can do hard things. Even with nagging doubts, I know in my heart that my kids have grown roots and wings. I’m really sad that I won’t be watering those roots daily anymore, but I have to remember that those roots have taken hold. And that wings can’t flap well when wet. 

Posted in Parenting, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Foreigner in My Own Country

Posted on March 19, 2021 by bonnevivantelife
#stopasianhate, stop asian hate, stop white terrorism, #stopwhiteterrorism, white supremacy

Weeks before the Atlanta spa shootings, someone asked if I felt safe, if my family felt safe. She was asking as a check-in during a steady escalation of violence and harassment of Asians in America. I told her that when you are not white in this country, you have always been cognizant you are not safe. When you are not white in this country, you are well aware you are in the spaces you occupy by permission only. And though it’s “nice” that there’s more awareness, this is not new.

I have suffered the indignities of being asked if I ate cats or dogs. I have lived with “ching chong” as the backdrop of my life. I have been asked where I am from. I have been asked to say a few words in Chinese at parties and bars. I have been told I should be good at doing laundry, or painting nails. Or math. I have been told Chinese skin is better than Korean skin and that men prefer that. My son is constantly called “Can’t See” by a classmate because it rhymes with his last name, and not once does another student stand up to the racism. These examples are routine humiliations Asians suffer daily in America. This is not new.

Asians have been put in a tight spot in America. We are saddled with the model minority status, stereotyping that we are no trouble or burden to society. We are quiet, and do not raise hell. We are hard working and smart. We are told we are a better “Other” group so we should be grateful and move along. We are told we are better than our Black and Brown brothers and sisters. This hierarchy of Other groups keeps us all down, keeps us all outsiders, while pitting us against each other. This is not new.

We have also been targeted for exclusion and denied our rights legally and socially because we steal jobs, we are immoral, we are disloyal. We are a yellow peril. We are objectified as hypersexual and subservient beings. We are a blank slate for the benefit of whiteness in America–we build railroads, offer dim sum carts (but not too exotic please, no chicken feet), or love you long time. We swallow all of that and keep our heads down, and do what we need to for a better life for our children. Don’t cause trouble.. Be grateful. Assimilate. Try to lose what is you: Be a little less yellow, be a little more white. This is not new.

And then an Asian friend screamed “WTF?” when Asians were recently assaulted in San Francisco. San Francisco. “How did this happen in a city with such a large Asian population?” she asked.

We are now being assaulted in the only places you’ve let us occupy. We played by the rules. You gave us permission to be here in this spot. We did not take up too much space. We did what we were supposed to do. You remind us about your permission. You remind us that this really isn’t our country too. That it never was. You are telling us we literally do not belong here. Where are you from?

That is why you ask me where I’m from. To remind me I do not belong here. This is why you strip me of my humanity by asking if I eat pets you love. This is why you make me a sexual object to fuck instead of respect. This is why you see my eyes and hair and tell me I am exotic. Because you want to remind me I am not like you. This is not new.

It is more than offensive. It is more than mere ignorance. It is more than daily microaggressions. It is white supremacy. Until we recognize that the dominant class in this country creates and perpetuates Other classes and denies Other classes’ full humanity and dignity, we are not afforded our full rights and humanity. The dominant class will continue to control our narratives and our spaces and our bodies.

When our humanity is taken away, we are in a world where a man murdered daughters, sisters, and mothers to remove a temptation. A temptation. To him, we are a pint of ice cream, a bag of chips, a beer, to be removed. To others, we are a weed, a pimple, dandruff, to be controlled. To others, we are interchangeable slates to absorb violence from the rage, frustration, and fear of job losses, pandemic restrictions, and uncertainty.

Anything short of advocating and action for dismantling social structures, constructs, and policies that keep Other groups separate and different is maintaining white privilege and power. Anything less than dismantling our current reality and re-imagining what humanity can look like is being complicit in white supremacy. Do not tell me you are sorry. Do not tell me that you are horrified. Tell me what you are going to do about this.

HOW TO HELP:

I’ve been asked by several people how to help. Great question. These are just my thoughts, and they are certainly not exhaustive. I welcome all ideas!

  • Take active bystander training
  • Be involved with rallies, protests, signs–provide visible support
  • Call and email and write your legislators, local, state, and national, in support of anti-hate legislation, violence against anyone legislation
  • Speak out against legislation and policies, local and national, that ultimately bias against a certain class even if the words in the legislation aren’t “racist”
  • Call out and call in people who say or do racist/bigoted things and/or micro-aggressions
  • Educate yourself and others about the history of racist policies and murders 
  • Don’t mind your own business when you see discrimination or bias or microaggressions in the workplace, in the bar, in the back of an Uber. 

The goal is to move the needle to become a more just, more humane, kinder world where we welcome people to a place of belonging. Do the things that you can do to get us there. Do the things you are comfortable doing to get us there. There is no one right or wrong way. It is safer for some people to do certain things, and this may change over time. Donate your time and money and skills to groups that are active in making this world a place of more belonging. Your bandwidth, your availability, your wallet, will wax and wane through time. It’s a marathon: take water breaks, potty breaks, come with snacks, be prepared to stay a while. Come with friends.

Just do something. 

In elementary school, some kids were screaming racist slurs at me on the bus, calling me a Gook. I had no idea I was supposed to be offended, as I had never heard that term before. My white friends jumped to my side. “She’s not a Gook!” That’s when I realized I was supposed to feel offended, so then I felt relieved. “She’s Chinese you dummy! She’s a Chink!” 

Oh. Didn’t see that one coming. Moral of the story though: do what you can, when you can. Rinse and repeat. It doesn’t need to be perfect. We’re human, we’ll mess up and get things right. But each day, we can move the needle. 

Edit: Once upon a time, I used to be really smart. I was always right. Time and experience has humbled me. People I respect and admire taught me about Grace. I’ve learned the very hard skill of listening and learning, while shutting up. I’ve learned to hold space for people. To that end, I jumped all over a meme that resonated with me, about white terrorism being the root of the violence against Asians. Turns out the meme crossed out “Stop Asian Hate” and AAPI leaders felt it dismissed and negated Asians, while putting white people front and center. There are reasons for and against this stance. AAPI leaders felt crossing out “Stop Asians Hate” and equating it with white terrorism, or just making this current movement only about racism in general was similar to people saying All Lives Matter in response to Black Lives Matter. I have learned that not hurting people is a value I hold more than being right or sharing my thoughts. I am grateful for this opportunity to practice humility, hold space, listen, and learn. I’ve changed the image to my blog post to reflect the more inclusive image. I am also widely advertising my mistake on social media because I think it’s important for me to show how messy I am instead of just talking about how people are messy. I want to be accountable and show my mistakes along with my accomplishments. I’m deeply sorry for minimizing and hurting my AAPI brothers and sisters. I will continue to listen and learn and do better. This work towards being anti-racist is hard and messy. Thank you for accompanying me on this journey.

Posted in Empowerment, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

The Burden of Choice

Posted on May 20, 2019 by bonnevivantelife

choices, parenting, values

I’m 45 years old, and I am both ecstatic and dismayed that I have one more student loan payment left. I received my graduate degree in 1997. It’s been a while. It also took me a while to understand why my life trajectory was different from my friends’. I didn’t quite grasp that my parents, as immigrants, focused on survival and pushing their children into educations that would provide a better life for us. I didn’t quite understand how not owning property or investments places you on a slightly different track in life. So being practical and driven Chinese people, my sisters and I powered through and did what it took to make my parents’ sacrifices worthy.

Being burdened with student loan payments that for many years were larger than my rent checks didn’t allow for me to join my friends on trips abroad or shopping sprees in New York City. I would instead raid my parents’ pantry for noodles and beans and Chinese oyster sauce when I was home. When I was well into my 20’s. Maybe my early 30’s. Maybe last Christmas. But who’s counting?

I am now facing the prospect of sending my own children to college in a few years, and don’t get me started on today’s ridiculous tuition rates. We are fortunate though that my son has an opportunity to earn college credits that will be honored by our state college system’s universities while he’s still in high school. Because we have already established the fact that I am nothing if not practical, I was hell bent on that child earning the maximum number of credits possible through this program, so that he would graduate with both his high school diploma and 60 college credits. I figured this would give him more options, and a real possibility of saving a lot of money. So practical! So Chinese!

It will take a lot of tight scheduling and strategic planning to fit this all in. But we were all in. Because we are practical. And we are Chinese. He realized he would not be able to fit orchestra into his senior year schedule. He was kinda sorta ok with that. He’s been playing a string instrument since he was four years old. (So Chinese!) But he figured he would continue with private lessons, and earning college credits and saving money would be worth that sacrifice. So practical! So Chinese!

And tonight, I had a very Not-Chinese epiphany as I sat through his orchestra banquet. I’m new to this. This is my first kid in high school, and I was the quietest social outcast in my own high school. I had literally no knowledge about sports or orchestra banquets or senior awards or anything remotely socially appropriate (So Chinese!). So I quickly realize I’m one of the few parents there who did not have a senior, and I silently pledge to do a slow roll next year to drop off a casserole.

As I sat through the evening, I listen to how each senior has impacted the orchestra, his/her/their peers, and the orchestra teacher. I listen to their shared memories and inside jokes. I witness a grown man trying not to cry. I witness friends hug each other for photos. And I realize there is real community in this. I realize this is so Not-Chinese.

Chinese: Not interested in social dynamics. Chinese: It’s all about the grades, saving money, earning money. Chinese: So practical. I realize this is a moment that I do not want to pass on a tradition of my heritage to my children.

Because there isn’t a price tag on finding your tribe. I want to leave space for my son to decide to stick with, or leave, the orchestra when the time comes. He may decide it’s time to leave the orchestra and focus on college credits, but I want him to make that decision on his own, and for his own reasons. I do not want to put pressure on him to make a right or wrong decision.

Because carrying the burden of that is a heavier burden than thousands of dollars in loans. For more years than not, I was paralyzed with seeking perfection. I was taught there is a right decision. And there are many wrong decisions. It led to feeling like I was not enough. It led to anxiety over feeling judged. It led to so much energy into creating a false narrative of who I thought I was supposed to be. Which was a most inauthentic self. It is not hard to lose yourself when you do not know who you are.

I want to teach my children early on that there is value in doing things that resonate; that those decisions are the right ones. That if it’s a really, really hard decision, that means you have a wealth of choices. How fortunate that you have two really good, viable choices. How could you go wrong when both are good contenders?

I want my children to know they are not their worst decision. Or their best decision. I want my children to know that doing what resonates means you are choosing something based on your values. And that is who you are.

I want to teach my children early on that best laid plans…well, they’re best left to unfold in the most unexpected ways. I want to teach them that it feels better to embrace these twists and turns in life than to brace against them. Because it’s in the bracing against the natural unfolding of life where suffering arises. Choosing the impractical path can feel scary and uncertain, and yet resilience is only built during the journey through fears and disappointments.

This epiphany isn’t necessarily about the orchestra, or if they are his tribe. It’s not about how many college credits he can earn in high school. It’s really about holding a safe space for my children to make decisions that honor who they are and what they value. I’m not sure this is practical, and yet we are Chinese. I have no idea what this means, and I have no idea how much money my children will need to borrow. I do however love a good sale (so practical to stock up and save!), so there will always be extra sundries in my pantry for my tribe.

Posted in Empowerment, Mindfulness, Parenting | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments