Riding the Waves of Change: A Lesson in Stillness and Growth

My life feels a bit unhinged right now, but I remind myself—this is exactly where I am supposed to be. It’s a strange truth, one that doesn’t always sit comfortably, but growth rarely does. The stillness, the in-between, the liminal space between who I was and who I am becoming—that is where the real transformation happens.

So today, I leaned into it. I took myself out to lunch, a quiet moment of solitude where I savored each bite, letting the simple act of eating alone become an anchor. No rushing, no distractions—just me and the presence of the moment. It set the tone for my day, or at least I hoped it would.

Then reality hit. Morning chaos—TV blaring, roommates shuffling like their lives depended on it, their footsteps a battle drum against the floor. Voices rose, tempers flared—none of it mine, but all surrounding me. The walls felt too thin, the space too tight, and my breath was swallowed by the noise of others. I couldn’t stay in that energy. I needed to leave, to carve out space for myself, to reclaim the peace that felt stolen before the day had even begun.

Lesson One: Protecting Your Peace
The world does not pause for our stillness, so we must claim it. It is not selfish to seek solitude when the noise becomes too much. It is not irresponsible to say, "This is about me right now." There are moments when responsibilities—homework, job hunting, the endless to-do list—must step aside so that we can tend to ourselves first. The work will still be there when I return, but I will return to it whole, not fractured by the weight of everything at once.

I stepped outside. The contrast was stark, the silence almost deafening in its beauty. I welcomed it. The rustling of leaves, the hum of passing cars, the distant chop of a helicopter, the cool breath of the ocean wind mingling with the golden kiss of the sun. There, in the stillness of movement, I found a reminder—that nature doesn’t force its pace. It flows.

Lesson Two: The Wisdom of the Ocean
I have missed the messages the ocean speaks so effortlessly. It has always been my teacher, and I, at some point, stopped listening. But she never stopped speaking. Rolling with each wave, falling and rising again—it’s the rhythm of a surfer, the rhythm of life itself. Troubled waters do not last forever. They test us, toss us, churn us in their depths, but even in the storm, we learn. Then, one day, we catch that perfect right-riding wave, and in that moment, all the struggle makes sense.

I have lost my path as a surfer, but perhaps that is why I am here now—to find it again. My work, my journey, my spirit—it's all a reflection of the sea. Sometimes turbulent, sometimes still, but always in motion. Salt air therapy. Healing in each breath.

Lesson Three: Rising, Always Rising
My middle name, Phoung, means Phoenix in Vietnamese. Lien, Lotus. Neither by coincidence. Both are symbols of resilience. The phoenix burns, but it is never truly gone. It rises, again and again, from its ashes. The lotus grows through the mud, pushing through the darkness to bloom in the light. I am both. I have always been both.

This season of my life, no matter how chaotic, is part of my becoming. One day, I will look back and laugh. I will see that this was necessary, that every uncomfortable, disorienting, uncertain moment was shaping me in ways I could not yet understand.

For now, I surrender to the tides. I let the waves carry me, not fight against them. This is where I need to be. This is how I grow.