A Canoe, a Trout, a Goodbye

I meant to use this blog to help me with my YouTube adventure, but life had other plans. Yesterday at 2 in the morning, my aunt passed away. I thought distance would protect me. It did not. I am writing this now because the page helps me breathe, and because looking back in 2025, I see how grief keeps teaching me how to live.

This entry was not planned. When I first heard, I told myself I would be okay because family issues had pulled us apart. I was wrong. I lay awake, replaying childhood and facing the elephant I have run from my whole life, death.

As a child I feared death, the idea of closing my eyes and never waking up. Over the years my view has changed. Without reaching for any religion or certainty, I believe death is a step in life, a turning of the page. Maybe there is a heaven, maybe there is nothing, maybe there is something none of us have words for. I do not need the answer. Some things feel truer when they remain unknown. Death is natural. It is the most faithful constant I know.

Growing up in a Vietnamese home, we honored the death days of our ancestors. I did not understand it as a kid. I do now. Our culture in general tries to keep death out of sight and out of mind, but it is part of the cycle. It is the end of me and the memories that are only mine, or maybe it is a new chapter I cannot read yet. Maybe we wake up in some machine and realize it was a simulation. Maybe we do not. Either way, the sun keeps rising, and this beautiful planet keeps spinning.

No day is the same as the one before. The thought of death should not keep me from living. It should push me to live with no regret, with the cards I have in my hand, with love and courage.

How I carry it
I remind myself that I am still here. I choose to move, to breathe, to show up, to keep chasing my dreams while I have time. I keep their names close and I let simple rituals hold me together. I talk about them. I write to them. I try to turn the ache into attention, so the ordinary moments do not slip past me unnoticed.

I do not know if I will ever see my unborn Sao, or my Grandma who raised me, or my blue eyed husky Destine who carried me through the worst nights. If I let their absence pull me under, I dishonor them. So I live for them by living my own.

Sally
My aunt’s name is Sally. She was a beautiful Caucasian woman with blonde hair, the reason I met my Grandma. She sponsored my abusive stepfather who hated me, and by doing that she brought the brightest light into my sky. Because of her, my path crossed with my Grandma’s, and my life changed. I am grateful for that. I hope I will see Sally again somewhere above the clouds. If I do not, it is still okay. I was lucky to know her here, to share the time we had.

My fondest memory with her is a small one that feels huge. A canoe on the mountain lake, high above Sisters, catching a trout, the air thin and cold, the water like glass, the American Northwest stretched out like a promise. She showed me how wide the world could be. I carry that with me.

Gratitude
What Sally gave me was more than a family connection. She gave me a chance to meet the woman who raised me. She gave me wonder, the urge to roam, the proof that a single decision can bend a life toward light. For that, I say thank you.

This part is the hardest. My Grandma lives with Alzheimer’s and dementia. We cannot tell her that her daughter is gone. I feel sorrow for Sally’s quiet departure, and I remind myself that every single one of us must make the journey through death alone. That truth hurts. It also clears the fog.

With love, truly. May you rest in peace, Aunt Sally.
Your adventurous nephew, Destin.

Looking back from today, I can say this: death taught me how to live.