Grief doesn’t whisper, but it crashes in like thunder.
One day, life is ordinary, and the next, you’re standing in a world that feels just a little too quiet. Losing my father has been the hardest, most heartbreaking chapter of my life. It’s the kind of pain that reshapes you, humbles you, and forces you to look for light in places you didn’t expect.
I watched my mother cry, really cry, for the first time in years. Those moments broke me. But through every tear, I saw her strength shining like armor she didn’t know she owned.
My mom, Maritza, is fierce in ways she doesn’t always realize. She worries, she aches, but she moves forward anyway. I see myself in her, the same fire, the same softness, the same ability to love even when our hearts are breaking.
Together, we’ve learned that real strength isn’t loud. It’s the kind that shows up quietly, every single day, even when the world feels impossible.
When my father passed, I felt like I was walking through fog. But slowly, a light began to break through, and that light came from the people who love me.
Sharma, Marian, and their husbands Obed and Yip, along with my husband Sebastian, became my anchors during this past Oct. 31. And I do not even think they know how much that time meant for me. That respite from the pain, from my father’s unexpected and painful death and right before a second trip to his official memorial and ceremony. It was truly a blessing that I’ll never forget, and that made me realize that it’s ok to smile and celebrate life, as my father would have wanted me to.
Somehow, in the middle of heartbreak, we found laughter again. We dressed up as characters from "K-Pop Demon Hunters," on full cosplay mode, wigs and all, and for a few beautiful hours during Halloween, grief had no power.
There’s something healing about shared laughter, about friends who remind you that life can still sparkle, even in the shadows.
That story, of sisterhood, strength, and embracing imperfection, mirrors what I’ve always loved about "K-Pop Demon Hunters" and its heroine, Rumi.
She’s messy and brave, full of insecurities but never lacking heart. Rumi reminds me of my mother and me. We cry, we doubt, we stumble, but we rise. That’s real power.
When it came time for my father’s memorial, I knew I wanted to speak, not about sadness, but about life. About his joy, his humor, his love for the simple things.
The night before, I dreamt of him smiling and asking for something so him: a cake decorated with his favorite beer logo, surrounded by bottles of the same brand. So, we made it happen.
After the ceremony, that cake became a symbol of who he was, joyful, funny, and full of love. Between the tears and the laughter, I gave a speech about living fully and choosing happiness. I fumbled my notes, lost my place, laughed mid-sentence, and cried again.
People later told me, “You’re just like your dad.” And honestly? That was the greatest compliment I could’ve received.
Afterwards, life has not returned to normal, and it possibly never will. I’ve been changed. But my life found a new rhythm.
I got texts from Taylor, Marian, Sharma, JaDee and so many loved ones, and they were messages that felt like warm hugs. So many people showed up for me, the one that is always afraid to ask for help and care at times, all while caring for others. I’m the same way my dad was, and he taught me that at times, for people like us with these personalities, it’s ok to be loved and cared for. It's ok to accept what we give and get it back, and that it makes us stronger.
Marissa took me out for margaritas at Chili’s after my return to celebrate the release of "Wicked" with their themed Glinda and Elphaba drinks, and for a few hours, I laughed so hard I almost forgot I’d been grieving. My brother and his girlfriend showed up with unwavering love in Puerto Rico, and my mother’s friends surrounded her like a shield.
Together, we have become an army, one built on compassion, shared memories, and the quiet understanding that grief doesn’t have to be faced alone.
Through it all, I’ve realized something simple but profound: grief isn’t something to overcome. It’s something we carry, with love, with laughter, with community. Every tear shed was matched by an act of kindness. Every ache softened by someone’s presence.
Grief taught me to find beauty in simplicity, like in a text message, a toast, a shared meal, or a moment of laughter from so many loved ones. It showed me that healing doesn’t mean forgetting; it means remembering with love instead of pain.
My father’s spirit lingers in all of it, in the laughter that fills my home, the silly moments that bring me joy, the chaos of creativity that I can’t help but dive into.
And when people say I’m like him, as in being the clumsy, big-hearted storyteller who could turn a bad day into a reason to smile, I know he’s still with me and I love it.
If this were a song, it would sound like something straight out of "K-Pop Demon Hunters:" a power anthem about facing your demons, finding strength in your friends, and dancing through the storm even when your heart feels heavy.
Because grief isn’t just about loss, it’s about love that refuses to fade.
And when I think of my dad now, I don’t just cry, I smile. Because his story didn’t end; it lives on through the people who loved him most.
Through my mother’s quiet strength. Through my friends’ fierce loyalty. Through every laugh, every mistake, every time I choose joy.
Because grief may knock you down, but love, community, and laughter will always help you stand back up again.
Even in the darkest moments, there’s always music, friendship, and light. And I’m thankful to now be finding my way through this dark maze with my army, one that has shown up at one of the toughest times in my life. And for that, I’m forever thankful.
