Myth about being strong

We praise people for being strong.

We rarely ask why they had to be.

We call it strength when someone keeps going despite pain.

When they endure uncertainty.

When they show up everyday.

When they move forward with depleted finances and a tired mind.

But endurance is not the same as strength.

And suffering is not a badge of honor.

Real strength is quieter.

It is choosing to move forward even when clarity is gone.

Even when the numbers no longer comfort you.

Even when your mind feels heavier than your body.

But strength is not just pushing through.

Strength is knowing when to stop.

When to rest.

When to ask for help before exhaustion becomes identity.

We glorify resilience.

But resilience without care becomes slow erosion.

True strength includes the mind.

It is protecting your mental health with the same seriousness you protect your body and your livelihood.

Because life will apply pressure, and it will.

And if strength feels forced right now,

if continuing feels heavier than it should,

pause.

That weight is not a flaw.

It is information.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is stop proving how much you can endure and choose what allows you to keep going.

That is strength too.

A crossroad

We love our parents.

They gave us life.

They stayed up when we were sick.

They sacrificed quietly, repeatedly, often without being asked.

They raised us the best way they knew how.

We owe them everything. Or so we tell ourselves.

Now imagine this.

Your parent is in a hospital bed. Machines humming. Time thinning. A doctor tells you there is a way to extend their life. Not cure. Not reverse. Just extend.

Months, maybe years.

But the cost is everything you have saved.

Ten to twenty years of discipline and sacrifice.

Early mornings. Late nights. Missed vacations. Deferred wants.

Your life savings.

Money you planned to use for your child’s education.

For their safety net.

For their future, their chances, their mistakes.

Money you hoped would buy them time, the way you are now being asked to buy time for someone else.

And suddenly, love has a price tag.

What do you do?

Do you spend everything to keep a parent alive a little longer, knowing they have already lived a full life, loved deeply, seen the world change?

Or do you protect the future of your children, who have yet to experience life at all?

There is no spreadsheet for this.

No financial model.

No morally clean answer.

Only guilt, no matter what you choose.

And then let me make it worse.

What if it is not your parent?

What if it is your spouse’s parent?

Would you allow your shared life savings, the product of both your sacrifices, to disappear for someone you love by extension, not by blood?

Would saying no make you selfish?

Or would saying yes make you irresponsible?

At what point does devotion to the past begin to steal from the future?

We say family is everything.

But which family are we really talking about?

The one that raised us?

Or the one that depends on us now?

This is not a question of money.

It is a question of duty, love, fear, and the quiet terror of choosing wrong.

Most of us pray we never stand at this crossroad.

But if we do, we will learn something uncomfortable.

That love is not limitless.

That resources are.

And that sometimes, being a good child and being a good parent pull us in opposite directions.

There is no right answer here.

Only the one you can live with.

Until it isn't

One day, you are healthy.

The next day, you are not.

One day, you are active.

The next day, your world shrinks to a room, a bed, a waiting chair.

One day, time feels generous.

The next day, you count days. Then hours. Then minutes.

One day, you have savings.

The next day, you watch them dissolve into receipts, lab results, hospital corridors.

One day, you are still with them.

The next day, you speak to photographs and silence.

This is how fast life turns.

Yes, this should make us demand better healthcare for the country. That matters.

But before policy debates and grand solutions, there is a quieter truth we often avoid.

We are more fragile than we admit.

And preparation is not pessimism. It is respect for reality.

Prepare your body, not just your career.

Prepare your finances, not just your lifestyle.

Prepare your mind for the fact that strength is temporary, dignity should not be.

Do it for yourself.

And do it for the people who would have to carry you, wait for you, or remember you.

Because preparedness does not prevent loss.

It prevents panic.

And when life inevitably takes something away, preparation gives you one thing back.

Choice.

That is the difference between surviving and breaking

Limited, also

You think you have time.

But look at your parents.

Their hair is turning grey.

Their steps are slower.

Their pauses last a little longer than they used to.

It’s subtle.

Until you start noticing it everywhere.

We tell ourselves we’ll visit more next year.

Call more often when things calm down.

Be more present when life gives us space.

But here’s the math no one likes doing.

If you see your parents twice a year

and they have ten years left,

you don’t have ten years.

You have twenty visits.

That’s it.

Twenty conversations.

Twenty hellos.

Twenty goodbyes.

Time is the only thing you cannot buy back.

Not with money.

Not with success.

Not with regret.

One day, you’ll realize the last time you hugged them already happened,

and you didn’t know it at the time.

This isn’t about guilt.

It’s about awareness.

Because love is not measured in intention.

It’s measured in presence.

And presence, like time, is finite.

So call them.

Sit longer.

Listen without rushing.

Not because something is wrong.

But because something is precious.

Limited

Older people used to tell me this all the time.

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Blink and it’s gone.”

“You’ll miss this one day.”

I smiled. I nodded.

I didn’t really understand.

And only now does it start to make sense.

You don’t have decades with your child the way you think you do.

You have a handful of years

when they still reach for your hand without thinking.

When play happens on the floor, not on a screen.

When bedtime means one more story,

and one more,

and one more.

You have a few summers where scraped knees are cured by your presence.

Where laughter is loud and uncomplicated.

Where they run toward you, not ahead of you.

You have mornings that start too early and nights that feel too long, days that blur into routine, and moments you don’t yet recognize as memories.

This is the season people are talking about when they say you’ll miss it.

Count the summers.

Before the baby becomes a toddler.

Before the toddler becomes a child.

Before the child becomes a teenager who no longer calls your name the same way.

The window is smaller than we admit.

And this season is not gentle.

It asks you to slow down in a world that rewards speed.

To turn down opportunities you worked hard to earn.

To accept that your career may plateau while something else quietly takes priority.

It asks you to be away for work

while wishing you were home for bedtime.

To sit in meetings while thinking about missed moments.

To measure success in absences you can’t explain on a résumé.

It asks you to give up parts of yourself too.

Quiet mornings.

Uninterrupted workouts.

Time alone that used to feel earned.

The gym becomes optional.

Rest becomes fragmented.

“Me time” becomes a luxury you schedule weeks in advance.

Some days feel like loss.

Not because you regret it.

But because sacrifice, even when chosen, still hurts.

So when your child calls you, even when you’re exhausted, even when your mind is elsewhere, pause.

Many people would give anything to return to that moment.

To hear that voice again.

To be needed in such a simple, complete way.

This is life.

Not the milestones.

Not the photos.

This.

Messy days.

Short nights.

Trade-offs.

Weight you carry quietly.

Hard times, yes.

But deeply fulfilling ones.

And if you’re reading this as a parent feeling torn, depleted, or behind... hear this

You’re not failing.

You’re choosing.

Mental health in parenting is not about balance.

It’s about permission.

Permission to be imperfect.

Permission to let some things wait.

So fellow parent,

if today felt heavy but you still showed up, you’re doing well.

Keep going.

These years are finite.

Count the summers.

You don’t have many left.

Most of us only get about ten.

And they matter.

Right now.

How do you like your steak?

Those who know me know I like steak.

Eating, not cooking.

Lately, it dawned on me.

A steak asks a question you cannot avoid answering.

How done do you want it?

Rare.

Medium rare.

Medium.

Medium well.

Well done.

There is no universally correct answer.

Only an honest one.

Rare is trust.

You accept heat did just enough and stop there.

Medium rare is balance.

Warmth without surrender.

Control without fear.

Medium is compromise.

You want certainty, but not at the cost of everything else.

Medium well is about safety.

No risk. No surprises. No ambiguity.

I’ll say it plainly.

I like mine well done. No reds.

Not because I don’t understand steak.

But because I understand myself.

After a life full of uncertainty,

some people crave tenderness.

Others crave clarity.

Neither is wrong.

What is wrong is eating steak the way someone else insists you should.

We do that in life all the time.

We stay in situations that feel undercooked because we’re told to be patient.

Or we overcook ourselves chasing certainty,

until what made us tender disappears.

We call it maturity. Or responsibility. Or strength.

Sometimes it’s just fear of choosing for ourselves.

Doneness is personal.

What feels rich and alive to one person, feels raw and uncomfortable to another.

And what feels safe to some, feels dry and joyless to others.

The mistake isn’t choosing rare or well done.

The mistake is ignoring your own signal

because someone else is louder.

So order your steak the way you like it.

Live your life the way you can actually digest.

Because satisfaction doesn’t come from doing it right.

It comes from knowing yourself well enough to ask for what you need without apology.

So order the way you want.

Notice how it feels.

Peace starts there.

Different gen, same strain

We like to talk about generations.

The Silent Generation learned to endure.

Boomers learned to push through.

Gen X learned to be tough.

Millennials learned to carry burnout.

Gen Z is learning to name their feelings.

Gen Alpha is growing up watching all of it unfold.

The commentary is endless.

The quieter truth is this.

The younger the generation, the more openly they talk about mental health.

Not because they are weaker.

But because they are less willing to pretend they are fine.

And regardless of generation, the reality does not change.

Mental strain finds all of us.

As a husband, a father, and a son, I carry different responsibilities.

But they all point to the same question.

Am I well enough to show up?

Not just to provide.

Not just to function.

But to be present, steady, and safe for the people who rely on me.

That question pushed me to look for answers.

I watched the talks people skip because they are uncomfortable.

I read the articles we usually bookmark and never return to.

And eventually, I decided to undergo mental health responder training.

Not to become an expert.

But to become better prepared.

I learned that mental distress does not always announce itself as crisis.

Sometimes it hides behind competence.

Behind humor.

Behind reliability.

And if you are reading this quietly,

nodding more than you expected,

carrying thoughts you rarely say out loud,

this part is for you.

You are not alone.

Your feelings are valid.

If you are struggling, it does not mean you are failing.

It means you are human.

And if you are well right now, that is not a reason to look away.

It is a reason to be ready.

Learn how to listen.

Learn how to respond.

Learn when to step in and when to step back.

Consider becoming a mental health responder.

Not to fix people,

but to make sure no one feels unseen when it matters most.

Photo we almost didn’t take

We were in a rush that day.

Didn’t want to be late and end up in a long queue for Disneyland.

My child was bouncing with excitement, clutching his Lightning McQueen like a VIP pass.
I, on the other hand, was mentally counting tickets, snacks, strollers, and sanity.

“Come on, we’ll miss the parade,” I said.
But my wife stopped, smiled, and said, “Wait, let’s take a photo.”

I sighed. That kind of sigh parents do when they think time is more important than memory.
Still, I stood beside them. Forced a quick smile. One click. Done.

Hours later, as the day unfolded.
The laughter. The rides. The slurpee smudges.
That photo became my favorite from the trip.

Not the castle shot. Not the fireworks.
Just that imperfect, rushed photo before the fun even began.

Because it wasn’t about the pose. It was about proof.
Proof that we were there. Together. Tired, sweaty, but happy.

We often think memories will make themselves, but they don’t.
You have to pause for them.
To freeze the moment before it moves on without you.

So next time someone says,
“Wait, let’s take a photo,”
don’t roll your eyes.

Don’t rush. Just take it.

5 more minutes, Daddy

My child talks so fluently now.

Full sentences. Clear thoughts. Even opinions.

The same child who once pointed and babbled now negotiates bedtime like a lawyer.
“Five more minutes, Daddy. Promise, super duper last one.”
And somehow, my child always wins.

The other night, he said, “Daddy, it's my turn. I can do it myself.”
Just like that.
No hesitation. No need for help.

I smiled. Then paused. Because beneath that pride was a tiny crack in my heart.

One day you’re in love with a baby.
Next, you’re talking to a little person with their own words, humor, and world.

And while I’m amazed by how fast my child is learning, a part of me wants to slow it all down.

To freeze the way my child still reaches for my hand when we cross the street.

To hear the way my child still mispronounces “carbonara” and calls it “cargobanara.”

To keep that sweet in-between. Old enough to talk, but young enough to need me.

But that’s the deal, isn’t it?
We raise them so they can eventually run ahead.
Even if every step forward is one more goodbye to the version of them we first fell in love with.

So I listen to my child's stories.
Record his voice.
Take too many photos.

Love them loudly. Capture them often.

The rest can wait. 

Stop looking ahead

We were walking through the park one afternoon, and I was deep in my phone.

Checking messages, replying to emails, scrolling through updates I didn’t even care about.

“Daddy” my child said. “You’re missing it.”
“Missing what?” I asked, still half-distracted.
My child pointed to the sky.
“The clouds are shaped like trucks!”

I looked up. There they were. A pick-up truck towing a car made of cotton and sunlight.

For a moment, I laughed.
Then I felt a quiet kind of guilt.

My child wasn’t just showing me clouds.
My child was showing me what I’d stopped noticing.

Somewhere along the way, adults trade wonder for Wi-Fi.
We start seeing days as schedules instead of stories.
We stop looking up.

That day, I put my phone in my pocket.
We lay on the grass.
Named every cloud. Let time breathe again.

It didn’t make me more productive.
But it made me more present.

And maybe that’s the better kind of progress.

One day, I’ll remind them to look ahead.
But today, my child reminded me to look up.

Buy the ice cream

I used to stop myself from small joys.

I’ll just buy it next time.
I don’t really need it.
It’s not practical.

Until one day, my child pointed to the freezer and said, “Daddy, let’s get the ice cream before it melts.”

Simple. Obvious. But it hit me.

Because life, much like ice cream, does melt when you wait too long.

So that day, I bought the ice cream.

We sat by the couch, messy and laughing, spoons clinking against the tub.

It wasn’t even the best flavor, but it was the best moment.

And that’s the thing: we overthink joy.
We audit it, postpone it, try to earn it.
But sometimes, happiness is just about saying yes faster.

So here’s a small reminder, from one overthinker to another: Buy the damn ice cream.

Send the message.
Take the photo.
Say “I love you” first.

Because all of it melts if you wait too long.

Board books aint boring

“Wow, that's a massive library of board books.”

Was surprised too.

Until I realized my child's little library is worth one iPhone Pro Max plus a brand-new top-of-the-line PlayStation.

PSA for incoming parents: children’s books cost as much as the self-help books for adults. 10 to 20 USD apiece, on average.

“Why do you need so many? Pretty sure those stories already have their iterations on YouTube.”

Maybe. But I’d still pick the physical books.

Books are worth the investment.

In case you haven’t heard the cliché: A book is a portal,
A book is a teacher.
A book doesn’t just tell you something,

It transforms your child.
Quietly, privately, one page at a time.

You don’t always notice it happening.

But the version of your child who closes the book is never the same as the one who opened it.

Return on imagination (ROI)

"Wow, that’s a massive Duplo collection.
Why would you spend over 3,000 USD on Legos?”

Fair question.

For some, they’re just colorful blocks.

Overpriced plastic that ends up scattered on the floor.
To us, they’re building tools for imagination.

Every brick my child stacks teaches something.

Focus. Patience. Creativity.

How to dream. How to fail.
And how to rebuild when things fall apart.

I’ve seen my kid build towers taller than those litle arms can reach.
Laugh when it crashes, then rebuild.
Faster, better, stronger.

That’s not just play. That’s practice.
For life, for resilience, for creation.

Someday, those same hands will build something far greater.
Not out of plastic, but out of passion and purpose.

That’s the real ROI.

Paycheck I didn't expect

Was with my child at a toy store, looking for Tomicas to add to our garage.

Someone who looked to be in his late twenties approached me.
“Excuse me, Sir, did you happen to teach college back in the 2010s?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

His eyes lit up. “Sir! Long time no see!”

He told me he’s now working in a big company. Stable job, good life. He said I was one of the few teachers who made him believe he could actually make it.

That moment stopped me.

Wow. Guess I did touch someone else’s life, after all.

Sometimes, life gives you moments like that.

Reminders that your effort, though buried in attendance sheets and old lectures, quietly took root somewhere.

The salary may not build wealth, but the stories you build will outlive you.

You don’t always see the fruit of your work right away.

But when it does come back, it often finds you when you least expect it.

Maybe while you’re buying that Tomica for yourself, I mean, your child.

Our first flight as three

Me and my wife have always been travel buddies.

We started flying around the country together in 2010 and outside the country in 2011.

We have been around Asia, Australia, Europe, the United Kingdom, and the United States of America.

Back then, travel was muscle memory.

We had the momentum.

Ten-year multiple entry visas stamped confidently on our passports.

Strong legs built for long walks that started early in the morning and ended with sore feet and quiet satisfaction.

A wardrobe filled with trench coats and windbreakers, each one tied to a season, a city, a version of ourselves.

Airports felt like extensions of home.

Flights were something to look forward to, not manage.

Then the pandemic struck.

Borders closed. Planes disappeared.

And what we had was just walking tour videos of New York, Paris, Tokyo on YouTube.

Muted volumes. Paused screens.

Watching other people move while we stayed still.

Fast forward to today, we are ready again to fly.

Outside the country.

With my child.

For the first time.

And it hits different.

From two luggages to three.

From handsfree to gripping on a cabin-lite stroller.

From signature bags to a big child care hand carry.

From being excited to ride the plane

to worrying how the flight will turn out for the child.

I still feel the familiar thrill when I see the aircraft at the gate.

But it is quieter now, layered with something heavier.

I wonder if the cabin pressure will bother small ears.

If turbulence will scare him.

If sleep will come easily or not at all.

I realize that travel is no longer about how far we can go or how much we can see.

It is about how safe he feels.

How calm we remain.

How we carry not just luggage, but responsibility.

This first flight is not about destinations or visas or memories we will post later.

It is about watching a child look out the window at the clouds for the first time.

About holding a small hand during takeoff.

About silently hoping that this world we once explored so freely will be kind to our child.

We used to travel to feel alive.

Now, we travel to introduce life to the world.

And maybe that is the real upgrade.