My Practice Writing

I was awake, still lying in bed and enjoying the quiet morning. I already knew what had happened when I heard the bus passing. I got out of bed without saying much and drove her to school.

In the car, I started lecturing her. She kept her head down while trying to explain that she had overslept. She told me she set five different alarms and somehow still slept through all of them. I felt angry, but also helpless. I want her to become more responsible, and I know she is trying, yet things still fall apart.

As I drove, I kept thinking quietly to myself that one day I would not always be there to fix things for her.

After I dropped her off, the car still felt heavy. The tension remained there quietly, unresolved, with no clear solution.

When I came home after dropping her off, my mind was still searching for a solution. But I had to get ready for work. The house was empty and quiet, like any other ordinary morning. The feeling faded as my focus shifted toward the day ahead.

She talks through everything, explaining why she brings each item and where she places it. She needs someone to listen so she can keep going. I’m her only audience, so I stay, even when my mind drifts.

I feel a little bored, but I also see how excited she is. I stay and listen in my own quiet way.

Tonight, I watch her, and I feel protective. While she is excited, I find myself worrying at night. I know I need to let her go, so she can be more independent, one small step at the time. One day, she will grow up, detach, and live her own life.

It feels like life has treated me well, like I’m on a path that was built just for me. It hasn’t always been beautiful. There were bumps and thorns, but also lights and rainbows.

There were days when I questioned my existence and my purpose. Days when I felt like I wanted an exit—when I was too tired and alone, trying to find my way, hoping someone would help me stay grounded.

But even through those dark moments, I can see now that there were always signs of light. Not the kind that appears after the rain, but the kind that was already there—quietly, if I just looked up.

Lately, life feels like a blessing. I’m starting to understand why things happened the way they did.

I feel both excited and a little worried about what’s ahead.

The excitement comes from the unknown. The worry comes from the thought of losing myself—my stability, my clarity.

Whatever it will be, I trust - it will be shaped in a way that fits me.

I tried different approaches to help users and support my team, but I still ended up hitting a wall.

At the end of the day, I rushed home to make a quick dinner for my kids. Now I’m sitting here, still in front of the computer, following up on the remaining issues

I feel overwhelmed. I tend to keep going until the problem is solved, just so I can finally rest and take the pressure off my shoulders.

Maybe I need a short break—to recharge, then come back to it again.

I was worried, so I called the doctor’s office after hours to get advice. A kind gentleman called me back. He asked about her symptoms and told me what to do, step by step.

He reassured me that I could call or text him anytime if I wasn’t sure what to do. An hour later, he even texted to check on us.

My tears started to fall—not because I was still worried, but I was touched that someone was there for me. He gave me a sense of safety I didn’t realize I needed. Something to lean on when I felt lost and unsure.

At the time, it meant more than anything.

Lately, I think I’ve become more sensitive to small acts of care from strangers. Maybe I’m starting to realize that there are people out there who truly care. I just have to reach out.

I’m not alone—trying, struggling, and protecting my little family.

He checked on us again this morning. All I could say was thank you. But I know it’s not enough to express how much I appreciated his presence in that moment.

They take time, energy, responsibility—things I don’t have. Then a stray cat gave birth to four kittens in my aunt’s garage. She couldn’t keep them, so she asked around. My kids begged me to take one. I gave in.

We were only supposed to bring one home. But my older daughter kept asking for another. I was tired, annoyed… and I said yes.

That’s how we ended up with Cookie and Melo.

Over time, Melo became special to me. I know I shouldn’t have favorites—but feelings don’t really follow rules.

He doesn’t like people. He hides when we have visitors. He doesn’t like to be held or squeezed.He likes his space, his freedom.

And yet, I still squeeze him. His cheeks, his belly—they’re soft, irresistible. He doesn’t fight me. He just endures it quietly, until he can’t anymore.

Then comes one angry “meow”…and he carefully jumps away—making sure not to scratch me.

Even when he’s annoyed, he’s still gentle. Melo is a gentleman.

Sometimes I wonder what it will be like without him.

No more holding him.

No more teasing him.

It’s raining, and the day looks cloudy and a little heavy, but my mood is still good. My body reacts to the change—I feel a bit cold—but emotionally, I feel steady.

I can think clearly again. I’m back to my usual routine—cooking, making tea, and finishing my work.

One winter day, I was walking my music teacher to the door after a guitar lesson. Just as we stepped outside, it started to snow.

It was the first snowfall, and it happened right in that moment. We both paused, standing still, watching the snowflakes fall quietly around us.

I thought about the myth, and for a second, I felt a little awkward. But it was also quietly beautiful.

I found myself holding onto that moment—not the idea of being with him, but the feeling itself.

I used to wonder if the story would come true. Now, I think some moments are meant to stay as they are—just a memory, not something more.

And maybe that’s enough.

I avoid looking in the mirror at night, and I cover myself when I sleep. I’m so afraid that I can’t even sleep alone in unfamiliar places. I don’t want to see something my mind isn’t ready to handle.

Then that day came. My grandmother passed away unexpectedly. She fell, hit her head, and didn’t make it.

I didn’t go back to Vietnam for her funeral. It wasn’t because I couldn’t—I just didn’t want to. Maybe I was trying to stay in denial, thinking it would hurt a little less if I didn’t fully face it.

I thought ghost may be afraid of light. So that night, I locked myself in the closet and turned off the light. I sat there in complete darkness, hoping her spirit might come. I waited for a long time. Then I thought maybe I needed to sleep, so I could see her in a dream. I tried, but she didn’t come.

Now I’m sitting here, sipping my tea, wondering how others see “letting go.” Do they release it all at once—like letting a bird out of a cage? Or let the feeling settle over time—like a snail turns to a different direction, slowly moving forward.

Being human is interesting. We have a mind, and then we have something we call feelings. The mind tries to control, to make decisions based on knowledge and experience.

But feelings—what are they for? What are they meant to do for us?

We’re human—feelings don’t follow a timeline. They linger in their own way, and fade only when we’re ready, or when something else slowly takes their place.

I think “letting go” is more of a decision we make—the beginning of a process, not the end of it. It’s a choice we make, and something we slowly learn to live with. The heart has to catch up in their own time.

I don’t naturally like noise. I love quiet moments, the kind I can sit in and breathe. Being with her can feel overwhelming sometimes.

But then I caught myself thinking—what would my life be without that noise?

And the answer came easily: I would rather live with the noise than live without her.

I love being a mom more than anything else.

Then I became a little lazy. I wanted hot tea—to ease my thirst and comfort my bloated stomach. So I quickly made a cup and sipped it in bed.

I didn’t plan it at all, but I liked it. Being lazy and pushing back on my plan felt good.

He picked one and handed it to me to try. The alcohol had soaked into the cherry, and it was too strong—I couldn’t swallow it. I started to choke.

Before I could react, he reached his hand out and signaled for me to spit it into his hand.

I looked at him, then at the trash can right next to us, realizing I could just use that instead.

But he was still watching me, concerned, not understanding why I hadn’t done anything yet.

Every Monday, I find myself looking forward to it.

Days when I don’t have to wake up early to get ready.

It’s not much—just one extra hour in bed. Rolling around, scrolling through nonsense videos on Facebook,

Not hearing a loud alarm.

I enjoy it so much. It feels like a small blessing.

But somehow, we always found our way back to each other, even after all the changes life brought. We’ve both grown and become more mature in how we think and how we live.

It’s a bond I value, and a relationship I truly cherish.

But somehow, something still feels off. We’re too careful around each other, and the conversations stay on the surface. I couldn’t fully connect, even though everything seemed fine.

Maybe we’re both afraid of losing the friendship if we speak too honestly. Or maybe we already understand that some opinions don’t really matter anymore—most of who we are has already been shaped by experience.