wrapped in simple comforts.
The morning started with beef nacho lumpia and warm señorita bread. I picked up donuts for the girls to share later and paired my breakfast with a Vietnamese hazelnut coffee—extra sweet, just the way I like it. For a moment, everything felt right. There were conversations, some spoken aloud and others left quietly understood, and I carried on through the day with nothing more than my little routines and a peaceful heart.
Life has a funny way of reminding me, again and again, that what I have is enough.
No matter the season—whether life feels abundant or whether I have to tighten my comforts and adjust to new circumstances—I somehow always feel provided for. Even in moments when I have less than what I’m accustomed to, I’m aware that I still have so much. There’s something beautiful in recognizing that. I hope I never lose that perspective.
By dinner, we decided on cold foods. Sushi for most of us, though Akira, ever faithful to the foods she trusts, chose a slice of pepperoni pizza. Afterwards she had the most delicate New York cheesecake, along with freshly squeezed orange juice. It was one of those desserts that makes you pause after the first bite, simply because it’s perfect.
In between meals, there were little snacks scattered throughout the day. Whole wheat sea salt crackers, butterkäse cheese, and guacamole. Maylana happily dipped her favorite kettle-cooked jalapeño chips—the kind in the bright green bag—into her guacamole as if she’d discovered treasure.
Later, my daughter convinced me to try a Belgian waffle she had picked out. She declared it would have been better warmed up, and she was probably right.
Then Maly introduced me to something magical—a sorbet gelato popsicle bursting with fruit. She couldn’t finish it, so naturally I volunteered to help. One bite and I was completely enchanted. Rich, bright, sweet—like summertime frozen into happiness.
Oakland greeted us with cool weather, and somehow Whole Foods felt cozy and safe. We crossed bridges and watched the bay shimmer beneath the cloudy sky. But what I love most about those drives isn’t just the scenery.
It’s the music.
Ever since the girls were babies, I’ve always been the DJ. Not the kind who quietly plays songs in the background, either. I’m talking music turned all the way up. Windows cracked open. The kind of loud where the whole car becomes its own little world.
And the girls love it.
Maybe because it’s familiar. Maybe because it’s all they’ve ever known. But I think they feel safe there. Safe inside our little concert hall on wheels, where every drive has a soundtrack and every song somehow becomes part of the memory.
I’ve always appreciated music deeply. Not just the lyrics.. though sometimes the lyrics speak to me, but the melodies, the instruments, the harmonies, and even the silence between the notes. Sometimes music says what words cannot.
So with the windows down and the speakers alive, we crossed bridges and followed the curves of the bay, letting the music carry us. The girls gazed out at the water while I admired the scenery, and for a while it felt like we’d stepped into another world altogether.
Those drives are special.
That’s where my father rests.
His ashes were spread near the bridges and the water, and every time I return to the Bay, I think about him. It’s funny because I don’t remember him doing much in the Bay Area while he was alive. Life has a funny way of choosing endings we never would have imagined for ourselves.
We really don’t have much control over how we’re remembered, how we’re honored, or how others carry pieces of us after we’re gone. Eventually, we let go. We surrender. We trust.
And somehow, with the music filling the car and my children beside me, I feel close to him.
Sometimes I think he rides with us.
The drive home became a little adventure.
I followed GPS and took Highway 12 and soon realized my gas tank was running lower than I liked. Every time I searched for a gas station, it seemed to be twenty miles away. Darkness had settled in, and with tired children in the car, I could feel that familiar uncertainty quietly creeping in.
Eventually, I recalibrated my maps and refreshed my route. There was a gas station much closer than I had thought.
And then something strange happened.
I remember telling myself that I didn’t want to drive fast. We had already had such a wonderful day, and I just wanted to get home safely.
As if the world had heard me, I found myself behind a vehicle with hazard lights on. For nearly five miles, we traveled together. They drove slowly, and everyone else behind us had no choice but to slow down too.
I thought they were heading toward the gas station as well, but when I pulled in, they simply continued on. Their troubles had nothing to do with gas. Eventually, we parted ways.
But standing there beside the pump, I couldn’t help but think about life.
Sometimes we think we’re running on empty. We fear that everything will come to an abrupt stop. Maybe one day it will. Life itself is temporary, and none of us know whether our ending will arrive quietly or suddenly.
But until that day comes, we just keep going.
We trust that somehow we’ll make it.
We ask for help when we need it.
We follow the little lights ahead of us.
And perhaps that’s enough.
Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to do.
Father’s Day wasn’t filled with grand celebrations. I spoke only a little about him the day of but I expanded more on my thoughts and feelings about this year being different. Mostly, I wanted to spend the day with my children, watching the water and crossing the bridges, feeling close to someone I miss.
And maybe that’s what love looks like now.
Not elaborate plans.
Not chasing some picture-perfect life.
Just ordinary moments.
Making meals with care.
Touching your children’s hair as they sit beside you.
Listening to their stories.
Sharing bites of dessert.
Driving nowhere in particular.
Taking out the trash.
Exercising.
Following familiar routines.
Being present.
Sometimes the world tells us that life must be bigger—more travel, more experiences, more excitement, more everything.
But I think there’s something sacred about enough.
At least for me, this is enough.
These little moments…
the loud music,
the sleepy conversations,
the girls laughing over sushi and cheesecake,
the bridges and the water,
the memory of my father,
the familiar roads home,
and these children beside me…
they are everything.
And somehow, beautifully, they always have been.
Dear Diary, 