When my niece’s invitation to her eighth birthday party said 1 p.m. at Skateland, I knew what that meant: Vietnamese Standard Time. Sure enough, my family strolled in late. Fifteen minutes late, to be exact. But that’s okay; by then, I’d already laced up my own well-worn skates and hit the floor. The disco lights spun overhead as I zipped past wobbly kids and cautious parents, twirling here and there to nineties pop hits. Some adults looked on with amusement, maybe a bit of confusion. But all that mattered to me was the joy in my chest and the rush of air against my skin. For me, life is about embracing my own way of being—regardless of who might be watching.
At social gatherings, conversations often circle familiar milestones: marriages, mortgages, kids, a dream job. At thirty-eight, I don’t have any of those. A decade ago, I secured a position overseeing Seattle’s New Citizen Program and thought I was halfway “there.” But every relationship I tried felt like forcing the wrong key into a lock. Eventually, I wondered: What if happiness and meaning for me mean embracing an unconventional life?
That question led me to explore becoming a Buddhist nun on multiple occasions. To my dismay, most of these attempts revealed similar barriers: patriarchal norms that uplift men while sidelining women, sometimes with women themselves reinforcing these biases.
“How can one feel fully seen in systems built on traditional authority?”
These experiences taught me that androcentric systems and human shortcomings—like a persistent shadow—lurk even in places where wisdom and universal compassion are meant to thrive. Fulfillment isn’t something I can find in idealized communities or a perfectly planned life. Rather, it shows up in ordinary moments when we create space—space to be fully ourselves, to find abundance in enough, to hold room for everything and everyone else.
In a society that measures life by more—more possessions, more status, more of everything—I’ve found freedom in embracing enough. Since I started from a place where a roof, two brown robes, and three meals were enough, everything else feels like a gift.
Take my mornings. There’s a ritual to them: coffee dripping through a filter, its earthy scent filling the air. Sunlight streaming through the windows. Sometimes, I settle into a book. Other times, I lean into brain-stretching work like writing these reflections. There’s a quietness to these moments that I cherish.
In the evenings, I might stretch, dance, try a new recipe, or simply tidy my space. Friends often comment on how clean my apartment is. And it’s true. For me, neatness is more than a habit; it’s an act of self-love. By tending to all the small things, I create a sanctuary where solitude anchors me in a world that can be chaotic.
Still, I’ve come to understand that a sanctuary is more than the walls that shelter us. The hush of a quiet morning and the scent of a burning sage leaf curling into the air can invite peace, but they cannot create it. True refuge isn’t found in what surrounds me, but in what I carry within—something unbound, something that grows lighter the more I let go.
As a woman, an immigrant, and a Buddhist, I’ve learned that identity can feel like being born into someone else’s story. There’s Vietnamese culture with its gendered expectations, Buddhism with its historical biases, and America with its unresolved wounds—not only to my homeland, but also to Indigenous peoples, to Black Americans, to LGBTQIA+ individuals, and many others. Recent elections have sharpened this clarity for me, illuminating how every community I try to call home still resists women stepping fully into their power. How can one feel fully seen in systems built on traditional authority? In response, I’ve learned to cultivate an inner sanctuary that transcends these boundaries.
This sanctuary isn’t about shutting the world out, but about creating space beyond the self. Like waves meeting shore, the lines between “self” and “other,” between “home” and “elsewhere,” fade like clouds dissolving into a clear sky. This understanding lets me move through life with lightness and spaciousness while still forming genuine connections in ordinary moments: a laugh with a barista, a chat on a bus ride, the silent bond between strangers. Home isn’t something to find or claim, but an ever-expanding awareness that holds everything without grasping at anything.
From this expansive place, I’ve come to see love differently too. Love becomes another way to explore the boundless nature of my heart—a practice in openness, without clinging, without expectation, always with understanding. When monasticism called to me, it was a path of freedom, wisdom, and service to others, and I gave it my all. Now, living in the everyday world of traffic jams, forgotten passwords, and the occasional existential crisis, I’m approaching romance with that same sincerity.
Recently, I returned to dating apps after giving up on them a few years ago. And so far, it’s been…about the same. Each date feels like an exercise in patience and math: thirty minutes to get ready, twenty minutes to drive, ten minutes to realize this isn’t it. The rhythm is familiar. Some arrive late. Others rush intimacy. Many don’t see the world the way I do.
But here’s the thing: When the spark isn’t there, I don’t dwell. I come home, take off my shoes, and let the night settle around me. In that quiet moment, I remember why I’ve chosen the road less traveled again and again. It’s not just an alternative route—it’s my route. It’s the path that feels truest to who I am.
Just like at Skateland, life is about gliding to my own rhythm and savoring each moment as it comes. Some might see a grown woman skating with abandon at a children’s party and think, “How unusual.” I feel the wind in my hair, the music in my bones, and think, “How freeing!” Sure, I don’t have a house or a husband, but I have something just as fulfilling: the courage to live as I am in a world that rarely rewards women for doing so.
Plus, I can skate backward. And do the moonwalk. That’s enough to make me the coolest aunt at every birthday party.
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