10 Years Later: What Lunar New Year Taught Me About Holding Joy and Loss

Where Joy and Loss Coexist

This time of year carries so much symbolism, but it also carries a deep sense of memory. I try to be intentional about holding celebration and grief at the same time. Lunar New Year (Tết) has always been sacred to me. It has been my personal checkpoint, a moment to reflect on who I was, who I am, and all the things I am still becoming. If you know me, you know I love growth. I love celebrating the woman I’ve been and getting excited about the woman I am still evolving into. But this season is layered. Today marks ten years since I lost my grandma.

She had twelve children and too many grandchildren and great-grandchildren to count. And yet, I feel so lucky. Of all her grandchildren, it was me who got to spend the most time with her. Just as my mom is to Phoenix, she was that person for me, watching over me and my brother so my mom could work. She had lost my grandpa when he was in his 60s and spent most of the latter years of her life with our family, pouring herself into us with the same love, guidance, and care that I now see in my mom.

She was a stay-at-home mom her entire life, but she was good at so many things, cooking, maintaining the house, keeping everything running smoothly. One thing I only became aware of much, much later was her preference for boys over girls. By the time I understood it, it was already too late to communicate this to her. Now, I recognize it as part of the era she grew up in, and it helped me see her humanity, her strengths, her flaws, and the way love can show up in complicated ways.

She also had a timeless beauty. In my eyes, she never aged. She was always so elegant, so radiant, so striking. Even in the quietest moments at home, her presence felt magnetic.

Losing her was the first time I ever experienced grief on that level. It was not just sadness. It was not just missing someone. It was the kind of heartbreak that carved into my soul and permanently shifted something inside of me. People see me now and think I have everything under control. And I do. I have done the work. I have grown. I have built a life I am so proud of. But there was a time when I was sitting in the unknown.

I had just graduated from a top university with no job and no clear direction. For the first time in my life, there was no structure guiding me. No syllabus. No next step. I felt untethered. That same year, I lost a pageant. At the time, it felt like another door closing. Another reminder that I didn’t know where I was headed. And in the middle of all of that uncertainty, I lost her. I did not know how to navigate what it meant to lose a maternal figure in my life. I did not know how to process that kind of absence. The world kept moving, but I felt like I was standing still, trying to understand how someone who shaped my childhood could suddenly no longer exist in my daily world.

There were mornings I woke up and cried my eyes out. There were days I did not know how to exist without her. But even in that grief, I knew one thing.

Life moves on. And I had to get up.

Because that is what my grandma would have done. That same year, I started my wedding business. I remember praying to my grandma, asking her for a sign. A signal. Anything. I felt completely lost and I needed direction. And then not too long after, I met my industry mentor who helped me booked my very first wedding.

I do not believe that was coincidence. I believe that was her guiding me. I feel my grandma’s energy with me as I move through life and make decisions. I felt it then. What looked like a simple introduction became the first real step into the world of events. It became the beginning of the work that would shape the next decade of my life. All this to say, I did not start from confidence. I started without knowing. I moved forward because staying still would have swallowed me.

Looking back, it amazes me how life works. In the same season that I felt the most unsure of myself, I was unknowingly stepping into purpose. Grief, uncertainty, and growth were unfolding at the same time. I miss her in the small ways the most. The Chinese dramas we watched together. The quiet walks around our neighborhood. The comfort of simply being near her. I miss her food. I miss her cà phê sữa đá (Vietnamese iced coffee) that she always made just for me. I can still see her hands moving in the kitchen.

Life moves quickly now. Motherhood. Business. Lots of responsibilities.

Losing her taught me how fleeting life is. Nothing is guaranteed. Not time. Not presence. Not another conversation. Her absence has made me more present than ever with my family and my closest friends. It has made me softer with Phoenix. More intentional. More aware of the small moments that once felt ordinary.

I think about how much she would have loved him. She would have been obsessed. I can picture her holding him, studying his face, claiming him proudly as hers. One of the reasons I speak Vietnamese to Phoenix so intentionally is because of her. Language is the thread that ties me back to my bà ngoại. It is the sound of my childhood. When I speak it to him, I feel like I am preserving something sacred.

Maybe that’s what Tết feels like for me now.

A season where joy and loss coexist, and I’ve learned to carry both.

I celebrate who I am becoming.

And I honor who I have lost.