In the Dark, I Found My Name

I am writing this to keep myself honest, and to mark where I am today. Life has been heavy, and I am learning to carry it with both hands. At the end I share a quick update on my first YouTube video.

Life has been rough lately. Since my aunt passed, the days have felt longer and quieter. Part of me expected this. After these last years, I promised myself that no pain would ever wreck me again. I trained my mind for days like this. When my Grandma died, when my other Grandma was diagnosed with severe Alzheimer’s, when my dog died, when my uncle passed, and when we lost Sao, my unborn son, I told myself I would not be surprised by life again. I would meet it with discipline, breath by breath.

I do not know exactly what this blog will become. For now, it is a journal, a place to tell the truth as I live it. What is life without faith. What is life without courage. What is life without perseverance.

The root of this resolve is in that basement. My stepfather was cruel. When I brought home my first C’s, fresh to the United States and still learning the language, he locked me downstairs and killed the lights. He wanted the dark to break me. Instead, it made me. His violence against a smiling boy became my first lessons in courage. I can still feel the cold air, the hum of the house above me, the way time slowed.

I called out to my father. I called out to my Grandma. I called out to Buddha. I even called out to God. BUT, NO ONE ANSWERED, but one; ME. In that pitch dark I met a voice inside that refused to break. That is where and when Destin was born. I would open my eyes and walk the room, learning the corners, memorizing where the boxes were, finding a way to move. It began as survival. It became a promise. If I could keep my mind steady in the dark, I would be okay in the light.

Years later I chose the name Destin as my legal name, as an act of becoming in honor of the that boy who kept me alive in that room. He was my only light. Because of him, I am never truly alone. My mind, my body, and my spirit NOW know how to hold each other.

As a Vietnamese American, I keep returning to a simple teaching from Thich Nhat Hanh. “No mud, no lotus.” The mud is not an accident. The mud is the condition for the flower. My mud is grief, and memory, and the old ache of a basement that went dark. My lotus is this steady heart, this family, this stubborn hope that refuses to quit.

I think about Sao often. His name means star. When the house feels dim, I say his name and it is like a small light appears in the sky. I think of my Grandma, my uncle, my aunt, my blue eyed husky who followed me from room to room. I miss them. More than missing, I try to practice gratitude for what their lives gave me. A language of tenderness. A deeper backbone. The courage to tell the truth.

This first YouTube video is harder than I thought it would be. I shot the footage months ago. The files look at me and I look back. Editing feels like pushing a heavy door that does not want to move. I CHOSED, Adobe Premier as my go-to, and it kicked my ass more than once, but after numerous beatings, I began to learn the basics. This brings me back to Steven Pressfield’s idea that resistance grows strongest right before the finish. That is where I am. I am not doing this to be rich or famous. I am doing it for my journey, for the people who believe in me, and for the kid in the basement who decided to live. I will finish this first video. I believe the first is the hardest. After that, momentum will help. The scripts are ready. The stories are waiting. And I will do this, so that my sons, and their son's sons, are able to understand exactly who their ancestor was, because to me LEGACY is everything!

For now, I keep reciting my personal mantra, "for the ones who went ahead," tuck my chin and keep going. I will talk more soon about my transformation, and about childhood abuse in our Asian American, and in my case Vietnamese American, community. Silence protects the wrong people. Telling the truth sets us free.

Thank you to my aunt, my Grandma, my uncle, my husky, and Sao. Thank you for your lives. Thank you for the lessons you left behind. I carry you with me into every room.

Looking back from today, I can say this. Pain remains, but it no longer owns me. It reminds me to live fully, not just for myself, but, for the ones who went ahead.

August 26, 2025 — New video based on this essay

A few notes since publishing: how discipline met grief in the edit, what I cut, and what I kept to stay honest. I am still learning to speak straight to the lens, and I will get better with every cut. Thank you for watching.