Asal was 6 months younger than me. She would have turned 51 this year, but instead she will always be 36. Friendships are strange like that. For reasons I never fully understood, she really wanted to be my friend. She saw something in me that she felt she was missing, something she needed in her life. Maybe I gave her a sense of legitimacy. Maybe I made her feel more anchored. I don’t know. I just know that the connection mattered to her, and eventually, it mattered to me too. I’ve been thinking about her with her birthday coming up, and with everything happening in the world right now.
Grief doesn’t go away with time. It just changes shape. Some days it’s sharp and heavy. Other days it’s quiet, almost manageable. Sometimes it shows up as anger, sometimes as clarity, sometimes as questions that don’t have answers. Birthdays do that. They remind you that time kept moving, even when someone you loved couldn’t.
Asal and I talked almost every day, about everything, but especially about politics. What’s funny is that in my late twenties, I wasn’t even that into politics yet. She was. She paid attention early.
She once told me that the Kanye West and Mike Myers moment during the Hurricane Katrina telethon was one of the most honest snapshots of where the country was at. Mike Myers, clearly uncomfortable, is pleading with people to care and to help. And Kanye saying plainly that Bush didn’t care about Black people. That was 2005. She understood then what a lot of people would spend the next twenty years arguing about.
To her, Katrina was never just a “failed response” by our government. It was about us ignoring the truth about climate change and poor infrastructure. It was about power. It was about who was considered disposable. She was good at spotting patterns and cutting through the official explanations when they didn’t hold up. What’s harder to talk about, and what feels more honest now, is that she was also a deeply flawed human in ways that didn’t always line up with that clarity.
She wore strength well. Too well, sometimes. She hid her brokenness behind intelligence, conviction, and a tough exterior. She wasn’t unique in that. A lot of us do it. We learn how to look competent, composed, principled, while quietly panicking that if anyone sees the scared, messy parts underneath, they’ll turn away.
She lied sometimes. A lot, actually. She crossed lines. She hurt people. She took things that weren’t hers. And in the end, she chose escape over accountability. I don’t say that with cruelty. I say it because pretending otherwise flattens her into something simpler than she was.
People like to believe humans are straightforward creatures. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Victim or villain. But we’re not. We’re complicated systems of fear, desire, trauma, love, and denial, all stacked on top of each other. We can see injustice clearly in the world and still be unable to face our own pain. We can call out power while being terrified of being truly seen.
I wonder what she’d think now. About Iran. About the U.S. About women’s bodies being controlled everywhere under different justifications. About masks getting heavier instead of lighter. I think part of her would be furious. Part of her would feel vindicated. And part of her would still be afraid.
I miss the version of her who could cut through the bullshit and name uncomfortable truths. I also mourn the parts of her that never felt safe enough to come into the light. Grief holds both at once. It lets memory shift between love, anger, tenderness, and disappointment without asking permission.
Her story reminds me that strength without vulnerability is brittle, and that hiding doesn’t make pain disappear. It just waits. And waits. And grows and grows until it becomes an unbearable burden you no longer can live with.
On Asal’s birthday, I don’t want to sanctify her or condemn her. I want to remember her as she was: brilliant, flawed, perceptive, scared, and very, very human.
And maybe let that be a reminder to the rest of us to tell the truth sooner, ask for help earlier, and stop pretending that fear makes us unworthy of being seen.
I love you. I miss you. I wish you were still here. And sometimes I’m glad that you are not. May your soul be at rest wherever you are.
“God does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.” — Qur’an 2:286
** If you or someone you know is struggling, you’re not alone. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 for support, 24/7.
Recently at work, I’ve been called “sir” more times in the past two days than I have in the last six months. New year, new masc energy?
I was joking with my coworkers that I don’t think I’ve done anything differently, other than allegedly looking like my coworker Brian, who is… a totally different kind of Asian than me. Honestly, I don’t know who should be more offended. Me or Brian. 😂
I joked to my boss that maybe I’m just exuding a lot of big D energy lately. To which my boss, a gay man, immediately replied, “That’s why I’m so attracted to you.”
Honestly. Iconic.
No one ever says, “For my New Year’s resolution, I’m going to be less active, gain 30 pounds, and really commit to being cruel and insensitive.”
Probably because we already spent most of the year perfecting being tired, busy, overstimulated, and occasionally unfeeling jerks. Uncomfortable, but not inaccurate.
I’d like to think that, in my own small existence, I try to be a better person every day of every year. I don’t need resolutions to be unhealthy or mean. That happens effortlessly. Being kinder, healthier, more present, more loving, more intentional, more courageous? That actually takes effort. It takes work.
So maybe we stop waiting for January 1 to be better humans. If we want to be happier, healthier, more connected, more mindful, more grateful, more useful in the world, the best time to start is always right now. At this very moment. Let’s at least try to be more kind. More soft. More gentle.
This last year has been about letting go of old versions of myself and paying closer attention to who I am now. Not in a dramatic rebirth way. More like a quiet recalibration.
For the record, I’m doing well. I’ve been back in Rochester for over a year now, living a familiar life with a very different mindset. Same place. New lens.
A lot of this year has been spent rethinking what it actually means to be friends. Who shows up. When they show up. And how much it matters when they do. Sometimes we find ourselves in people’s lives exactly when we’re supposed to be there. The real choice is whether we tap into the magic of that serendipity or keep moving through life on autopilot. Whether we risk making the unthinkable real or stick with what’s comfortable and familiar.
I read The Alchemist in my early thirties during a period of deep soul-searching around identity and purpose. What stayed with me wasn’t the romance of the journey, but the reminder that the treasure we’re chasing is often where we started. The quest matters, but it begins with us and ends with us.
Along the way, we meet different people. Different characters. Eventually you realize they’re all mirrors. Different versions of ourselves, showing up to help us understand who we are and what we actually want from this one strange, ordinary, beautiful life we get to live.
Life is weird. Growth is quieter than we expect. And sometimes coming full circle is the whole point.
Every day is a new day to do better.
New year. Same you.
Cheers. 🍻❤️
Updated: Dec 29, 2025
I was talking to Kimi on the phone the other night, and she was genuinely excited because she ordered a box of string cheese. In bulk. She’s hoping it’s over a hundred pieces. She swears it’s the best mozzarella string cheese she’s ever had, and the pure joy in her voice was unmistakable. I love this for her.
There’s something quietly beautiful about that kind of happiness. The kind that comes from a simple pleasure, especially for someone who has worked hard, lived fully, and understands that life isn’t always about big milestones. Sometimes it’s about accepting that this is living. Finding joy where you can, when you can.
With the New Year approaching, it reminded me of another New Year’s Eve over twenty years ago. It was 2004, and Kimi and I were at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party in San Francisco. The kind where everyone is slightly drunk, overly sentimental, and pretending they’re totally fine standing in someone else’s kitchen, clutching champagne glasses, waiting for midnight.
As midnight crept closer, Kimi casually mentioned that the woman she had just started seeing was at a club across the city. We were somewhere in the Castro. The woman was at Fairy Butch. Somewhere in the Mission. Because of course she was. That single sentence turned the night into a romantic emergency. Because we were romantics back then.
Suddenly, this was no longer a party. This was a sapphic Mission Impossible, with fewer explosions and zero Tom Cruise. Tess and I immediately agreed that the only acceptable outcome was Kimi kissing this woman at midnight. We started making excuses to leave that were dramatic, unnecessary, and deeply unconvincing. Someone needed cigarettes. She didn’t smoke. Someone forgot something important. I think I finally just announced, “We have to go. Kimi needs to kiss this girl,” as if that explained everything.
We said rushed goodbyes and bolted. I had recently rewatched Notting Hill, which explains a lot.
This was 2004. There was no Google Maps. No calm voice rerouting us. There was only our collective, deeply unreliable knowledge of San Francisco streets and Tess, who drove like a New York cabbie with someplace urgent to be and absolutely no patience for nonsense. She said she could get us there. Trust her. We did.
We piled into the car with fifteen minutes to spare, watching the clock inch toward midnight, fully aware this could go sideways at any moment. Tess made aggressive turns, treated yellow lights like friendly suggestions, and rattled off street names from memory. We shouted directions based on vibes and half-remembered shortcuts. Left here. No, not that left. Okay fine, this left. Traffic was chaos. Streets were blocked. The city felt like it was actively working against us. At some point we accepted that the only viable plan was to drop Kimi at the curb, shove her toward the club, and let destiny sort it out.
We screeched to a stop outside Fairy Butch with minutes to spare. Kimi and I jumped out and disappeared into the line. Tess and her girlfriend at the time went to find parking and ended up kissing in the car at midnight, which feels right. Kimi sprinted inside, adrenaline fully engaged. Now all she had to do was find one woman in a packed club before midnight.
No pressure.
That night, the universe was on our side.
Against all odds, they found each other. They kissed as the ball dropped. And 2004 became 2005, and in that moment we were absolutely convinced we had personally intervened in fate.
I wish I could say they lived happily ever after, however they were together for eight years. Kimi’s breakup with the woman she once kissed at midnight was painful. As breakups usually are. But now she’s happily single and finding genuine joy in string cheese, which is honestly abso-fucking-lutely wonderful for her.
Time has taught me this, having beautiful memories with someone doesn’t mean you forget why the relationship ended. Sometimes people love each other and still aren’t ready for each other. Sometimes timing matters just as much as feelings. And that’s okay.
What I know now, and what I’m carrying into this New Year, is simple:
Don’t stay where you’re not wanted.
Don’t beg someone to choose you.
Don’t make yourself smaller to be loved.
You deserve to be with someone who cherishes you. Someone who chooses you freely, again and again. Someone who would race across the city just to kiss you at midnight. And who has a best friend who wants that kind of love for you, too.
You are not an extra in your own life. You are the main character. You are the prize. And that person willing to run across the city? They’re out there. Don’t settle for anything less while they’re on their way.
Take care of yourselves and take care of each other!