Cindy Ly

My idea about death has changed over time—not in the abstract, philosophical sense, but in the “this-could-be-my-last-moment” kind of way. It hit me during a drive home through a torrential downpour. Rain so heavy it swallowed every sign, every sound, even my thoughts. Flooding alerts flashed every 50 feet.

Some days, I want to give up — not on life, but on effort itself. The day-to-day feels so heavy, it’s like my body is filled with lead, weighing down every move. Hope feels thick, useless, impossible. On those days, I feel like Eeyore: carrying a constant raincloud only I

I spent a lot of my life quiet. Not just soft-spoken—silent. Because growing up, I was told to be that way. “Shut up.” “You’re a child.” “Be good and obey.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” So I didn’t talk. I served. I obeyed.

Bác Hai’s daughter got a full ride to Northwestern. One cousin became a pharmacist by 23. Another got married right after graduating and posted flawless wedding photos from the mountains in Aspen. I don’t remember anyone ever saying it directly to me, but I didn’t have to

I grew up with this idea of perfection. Get straight A’s. Be skinny. Be polite. Make people proud. Make sure everyone else is happy, even if you're miserable. That was the unspoken rule in our house. In our culture. In the world I grew up in. So

Have you ever felt like the outsider? Not the cool kind—the mysterious, intriguing loner in the movies who somehow steals the show. I mean the real kind. The kind who eats lunch alone, who doesn’t get the inside jokes, who hears their name butchered in roll call and