#134 Coffee with John

Over coffee, we found ourselves talking about photography and our shared story as immigrants, naturally leading into something deeper. He shared with me about his mother.

Without going into the details, as it is not my story to tell, what I will say is that she is a woman who chose forgiveness over resentment, love over chaos, and peace over the pain she had every right to hold onto. The circumstances that demanded that choice were extraordinary. Her response was more so. Sitting with that story, it made me think about the long journeys that go unseen to reach a certain level of peace, expertise, triumph, or healing.

We see those things in others, and we want them now. Especially in an age where immediacy has become our default expectation.

It took the Buddha six years of practicing extreme asceticism and yogic discipline before reaching enlightenment under the Bodhi tree. It took Julia Child a full decade of learning, cooking, and writing before achieving mainstream success. She didn’t even learn to cook until she moved to France at thirty-seven, publishing her seminal work, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, ten years later.

It took his mother years of quiet, unseen interior work to arrive at a forgiveness that transcended hurt into love and openness.

There is no magic number of hours. No formula. We might luck out and arrive sooner than expected, or we might toil and see no apparent progress for years. But the progress is there, even when invisible.

After years of writing, building this project, and picking up a camera with intention—I am still finding the words, still progressing one photo at a time, still learning to sit across from a stranger and be fully present without armor. None of it is finished. All of it is the work.

All we can do is put in the hours, believe in the search, and live in the process. The hope is that we can reach a level we ourselves cannot perceive, but will inspire others to understand and truly see.

#133 Coffee with John

It all ends.

Relationships, connections, careers, and, ultimately, life itself.

But mortality aside, and without going into the metaphysics of what happens after our last breath, the ordinary “ends” of our lives always demand a new beginning—whether we want it or not.

Heartbreak forces us into new chapters of romance or solitary self-exploration. The same is true when a job, or whatever else informs our identity, suddenly shifts from the ground we know.

Over and over, after watching people get swallowed whole by circumstances, I have witnessed them emerge and pick up the pieces after the world as they knew it had tumbled. Humanity is filled with extraordinary resilience.

Ends are inevitable. What I have been thinking about, though, is the after.

What makes some people adept at moving forward, while others become paralyzed, getting stuck in narratives of victimhood, old identities, or past lives? Is resilience a mindset that can be cultivated over time? Or are some simply born with an innate wiring that makes them more capable of weathering the storm of change?

Certainly, our psychology, our upbringing, and our life experiences inform how we deal with the fractures. But for most of my life, I have been a firm believer—perhaps to a fault—that you simply have to move on.

My patience for hearing broken-record stories of old grievances is thin.

I want to give people the space and time they need to heal. I believe in providing a safe space for people to be heard. But I struggle when the needle gets stuck in the groove, playing the same track of suffering over and over. In those moments, I fight the urge to yell: “How is this serving you? Move on. There is no point in drowning in self-pity or anchoring yourself to a situation that brings you nothing but misery.”

Being uprooted to a new country, losing my parents at different stages of my life, and experiencing the grief that came after my wife died have given me the armor that informs my impatience. My tolerance, I admit, is limited.

Sure, there is no moratorium on the time it takes to “get over” pain and sorrow. We all move at our own pace. But I wonder how many of us use our grievances as crutches. What might have served as a necessary shield at one point in your life can easily become the weight that hinders your progress later.

I don’t know what to offer someone in the midst of their tumbling – maybe nothing beyond presence and patience at the outset of the wreckage, without trying to fix or force a timeline to get over things.

Ultimately, however, when we have sat with our emotions and wrestled in the arena of our sorrow, however long that might be, we have to reclaim authorship.

There will always be plot twists we didn’t ask for and endings that break our hearts. How we choose to write the next chapter is within our power.