Sometimes I have to be the person who reminds myself: you are so much stronger than you think you are.
Because in the moment, I forget.
I forget all the nights I broke down thinking that was the end of me.
I forget all the versions of me who were convinced they wouldn’t make it.
But I did.
There were so many times in my life where I genuinely thought:
this is it, this pain is too much, I’m not getting through this.
I’ve grieved people.
I’ve lost things I thought I needed to survive.
I dropped out of high school.
I moved across countries, alone, with no friends, no family.
I was the only Vietnamese girl in my school.
I was lonely in ways that felt… physical.
I remember crying in the winter in Seattle, and my tears felt like ice on my face.
I remember walking in the rain in Singapore, thinking, at least no one can see me cry.
I remember when I was in Australia, I was walking around Brisbane CBD at 2 a.m. in the morning, feeling so isolated, I didn’t know who I was anymore.
I was anxious.
I was depressed.
I was insecure.
I was lost.
There were nights I closed my eyes and genuinely hoped I wouldn’t wake up the next day.
And yet…
I’m still here.
I’ve had my heart broken more times than I can count.
I’ve felt rejected, misunderstood, and not enough.
I remember my first night in a new country, sitting with a kind of silence that felt overwhelming.
And I remember leaving that same place years later, heavy with memories I wasn’t ready to let go of.
There were moments I said too much and immediately wished I could take it back.
Moments I distanced myself from people, and moments I felt quietly pushed aside.
There were things people said that stayed with me longer than they should have.
There were times I felt invisible in a room, or questioned my own worth without anyone saying a word.
Work brought its own kind of weight.
There were days I was terrified of losing something I had worked so hard for.
Days I wondered if I had disappointed people I deeply respected.
Days I felt out of place, or simply not good enough.
And other days, I questioned everything, my role, my direction, my sense of purpose.
Sometimes a persistent ache in my chest showed up in quiet breakdowns in the bathroom.
Sometimes it followed me home in silence on public transportation.
Sometimes it slipped into conversations, or sat with me at the dinner table.
It was there in my room, in the shower, in the middle of ordinary days.
It showed up while traveling, in places that were supposed to feel beautiful.
In books, in small moments online, in late-night thoughts, in difficult conversations.
It showed up everywhere.
I’ve lost people I once believed were the love of my life.
At the time, it felt absolute.
Like they were the one.
Like losing them meant losing everything.
That’s the thing about pain.
When you’re in it, it always feels like the biggest, most final thing in the world.
Like this time is different.
Like this time, you won’t recover.
And I’ve felt that, over and over again.
But time passed.
And something shifted.
(I realize now, I no longer believe in “the one” in the way I used to.)
Not because love isn’t real.
Not because people aren’t special.
But because I’ve learned something deeper:
the one person who has stayed through every version of my life… is me.
That realization changed the way I see everything.
It made my love softer, not weaker.
More intentional, not less.
Because now, when I love someone,
I don’t love them out of fear.
I don’t love them like they are my only chance at happiness.
I love them because I choose to.
Because they add to my life.
Because they matter.
For a long time, that idea scared me.
Because if no one is “the one,”
then nothing is guaranteed.
Nothing is permanent.
Nothing is completely safe.
But now, that same truth feels different.
It feels like peace.
And when I look back, I can finally see the pattern.
Every time something hurt, every time I thought I would be destroyed, every time I felt like this was the worst pain I had ever known, I was wrong.
Not because the pain wasn’t real, but because it wasn’t permanent.
Because I survived it, every single time.
The craziest part?
I don’t even think about most of those things anymore.
Things that once consumed me,
things that felt like they would define my entire life,
they’re just gone.
Not because something magical happened.
Not because someone came and saved me.
But because:
time passed, and I stayed.
And now, in the present, I still catch myself doing the same thing:
- What if this happens?
- I can’t handle that.
- That would destroy me.
I catastrophize.
I panic.
I try to control everything.
But if I’m being honest?
sometimes the fear of pain is worse than the pain itself.
Because I’ve been here before.
I’ve felt this kind of fear before.
I’ve lived through versions of this before.
And every single time, I thought:
this is the worst thing I’ve ever felt.
But it never was the end.
I didn’t have a plan.
I didn’t know how I would get through it.
I just…
felt everything,
fell apart,
and somehow, slowly…
I moved forward.
That’s what emotional resilience actually looks like.
It’s not:
- being strong all the time
- not crying
- not breaking
It’s:
breaking, and still continuing.
I think we underestimate ourselves.
We think we won’t survive something…
when in reality:
we’ve already survived it, just in different forms.
So now, I remind myself:
I don’t need to control everything.
I don’t need to be fearless.
I don’t need to know how I’ll get through it.
I just need to trust:
that I will.
Because I always have.
And that’s enough.
Mindful Minion 
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