A Father’s Unspoken Truth
For ten years since my father’s passing, I’ve managed my grief, compartmentalizing it alongside daily tasks: school drop-offs, homework, and the quiet ache of his absence. On Father’s Day, my seven-year-old mused, “If I had a time machine, I’d tell Steve not to kill himself. He wouldn’t have left if he knew we were coming.” “Absolutely not,” I answered, a rare untruth. We openly discuss his suicide, free from shame or secrecy, but the full, intricate truth isn’t one I can share just yet. My son added, “You said he wanted us to call him Abuelo. Abuelo Steve, I truly wish I could have met you.”
— Ali Moss
A Season for Connection Across Continents
As 11:30 p.m. strikes in Minnesota, it’s midday in Vietnam, where my boyfriend, Nghia, is on a break at the Iris Hotel – a place named for hope and vibrant hues. I send a quick text, “Craving anything?” Then, I open a delivery app, my credit card details at the ready. He replies: guava juice and roasted pork belly noodles. From eight thousand miles away, I arrange his lunch. I understand this small act can’t replicate a warm embrace, but my heart echoes the wisdom of Ecclesiastes: “a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.”
— John Ngoc Nguyen
Embracing My True Self
After winning the Ms. Canada United World pageant, my partner urged me to “tone it down,” even asking me to delete social media posts celebrating my achievements. Believing love required compromise, I began to diminish myself: fewer celebrations, less pride in my two businesses, my doctorate, my TEDx talk, my writing, my teaching; my ambitions softened. Yet, he still left. For too long, I mistakenly thought his departure was because I was “too much.” Eventually, the truth dawned on me: we are never meant to be less than our authentic selves. Love that demands you shrink yourself simply isn’t love.
— Shara Ally
The Story My Hands Tell
My hands, once familiar with the backs of many lovers, eventually found their truest resting place, gently held by the woman I cherish. These same hands tenderly cared for our newborn children and offered comfort to my mother during her final moments on Earth. I am profoundly grateful that my hands serve as instruments to caress and nurture those I love, and I strive to remember that I, too, am worthy of being held and supported. Though they may occasionally falter with age, my hands remain my constant connection to others and to myself, guiding me through life.
— Robin Rosenbluth
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