I was born into a family of love —

not perfect, but filled with warmth and reverence.

The firstborn daughter of my father’s lineage,

I came into the world not hurriedly,

but like a quiet blessing long awaited.

My parents had me later than most in their generation.

And though they were still young by life’s standards,

they were already caught in the tides of building something —

a business, a future, a name, a home.

And like many families shaped by tradition and sacrifice,

they asked those with the strongest hands and softest hearts

to raise me in their stead.

That’s how my life began —

in the arms of my grandparents,

in a house where love lived on different floors

but always found its way to me.

My Grandmother, My First Safe Place

My grandmother became the sun of my earliest sky.

She fed me, held me, spoke Vietnamese idioms into my small ears

as if she were watering the seeds of culture and kindness before I even knew what they meant.

She didn’t just care for me —

she felt me.

She understood my quiet nature,

my inexplicable need for stillness, for space, for solitude.

Even as a baby, I wasn’t easy.

I didn’t coo and reach out to strangers.

I didn’t let just anyone hold me.

No, I chose —

instinctively, silently.

I could feel people — their energy, their tension, their unsaid words.

And if my grandmother had to leave even for a moment,

it wasn’t just anyone who could calm me.

Only those I trusted.

Only those whose souls didn’t rattle mine.

Looking back now,

I know it wasn’t stubbornness or moodiness —

it was intuition.

It was the earliest version of what I would later come to understand

as a deep, soul-level sensitivity to energy, to truth, to heart.

Even before I could walk or speak,

I could read the emotional climate of a room better than most adults.

Growing in Stillness, Listening in Silence

As I grew, I didn’t blossom with noise.

I bloomed in silence.

I was the quiet one.

The one who listened more than she spoke.

The one who stared out windows and asked questions that made adults pause.

I was never meant to fit into the bright, busy mold of “normal” childhood.

I didn’t want toys — I wanted stories.

I didn’t crave parties — I craved peace.

My inner world was vast —

full of thoughts, feelings, and abstractions

no one else my age seemed to understand.

But when my parents came home after long days chasing dreams,

they would call to me softly from downstairs.

And I would run — not because I had to,

but because even from a distance,

I knew they loved me.

Especially my father.

A Father’s Quiet Love

My father isn’t a man of grand gestures.

He’s not loud in his affection.

He doesn’t always say the right things —

but he has always shown up.

And that, I’ve come to realize,

is a love language of its own.

When I returned from my years abroad,

he would cook my favorite meals —

not saying he missed me,

but showing it in the warmth of the broth, the way he placed the dishes.

I used to laugh at his quirks,

get frustrated with his old-school ways.

But deep down, I knew:

this was the man who taught me that love means showing up,

even when it’s hard to say the words.

And perhaps that’s why I’ve always had

a soft spot for men who speak with actions.

Not flowers and fireworks —

but the small, steady, soul-soothing things.

The kind of man who remembers how you like your tea.

Who brings you a snack when you’re sad.

Who doesn’t interrupt when you’re silent,

but sits quietly beside you until you’re ready.

That’s the kind of love I learned to recognize

from my father’s silent care.

Why I Could Never Settle for Less

Because of all this —

because I’ve been raised by quiet strength and deep devotion —

I know now that I could never survive

a love that is shallow, distracted, or afraid of my depth.

I could never be satisfied

with a relationship built on surface-level comfort.

Because my love is not light.

It is deep.

It is dense with devotion.

When I love, I offer everything.

My heart, my prayers, my silences, my laughter.

And I know — with both ache and reverence —

that not every man can hold that.

In fact, most can’t.

Most will run when they feel how heavy love can be

when it is honest.

When it is sacred.

When it asks to be held with both hands and a brave heart.

But I’ve stopped apologizing for the way I love.

And I’ve stopped waiting for someone to tell me I’m too much.

Because now, I know:

my love is not too much — it’s just not for the faint of heart.

This Is the Start of My Truth

So here I am,

writing this not from a place of pain —

but from a place of reverence.

For my grandmother, who gave me my first taste of unconditional love.

For my father, who taught me that love can be quiet but powerful.

For the little girl I once was —

who already knew,

even before she had words,

how to feel everything the world didn’t say.

And for the woman I am now,

who is no longer afraid to be deep,

to be tender,

to be seen.

This is where it begins.

Not with perfection.

But with truth.

And that is enough.