The Year of Magical Thinking

Every week or so, my extended family would have dinner together. For a couple of hours, my kitchen is filled with a cacophony of noises and smells. My dad would look forward to it days in advance, as it’s one of the few occasions we have so many people in the house.

My dad passed last November. One year later, somehow it’s still the defining truth of my year. Maybe it will change next year. But for now, it’s mostly what I could think of during my annual recap.

I was going to write a longer post about careers. How to choose jobs, bosses, and things to do as a young ambitious person. I learned so much in the last two years, it seemed like this knowledge would be unique and helpful. But after reading a dozen of articles in the same vein, I began to realise this was not a quest where I am first. I will also not be the last.

The most personal is the most creative. So I’m going to write about the personal.

In my journal on February 24th, I wrote:

“Something nobody tells you about grief: it comes in waves. Yes, it comes time after time unceasing, striking you at your weakest, unpredictable. But it’s also short. I grieve for 30 minutes, and then I’m back on the familiar shore of the un-grieving again, not quite sure what to do with myself or when the waves would hit again. In some sense this feels like a betrayal. How dare you, the waves say, how dare you stand on the ground? Why are you not drowning? The un-grieving citizens wave their flags to drag you back home with mantras of healing. But you keep staring at the sea, wondering if it’s more appropriate to drown.”

The sentiment pretty much stays the same ever since. I’m confused at times by my ability to function. But what has also emerged, that no one else seems to think important enough to mention to me, is how trivial life has become. The working, the resting, the playing. How am I supposed to take them seriously if they’re all going to end? Not with a predetermined deadline, with which I can plan and plot, but all of a sudden. All human efforts seem futile in the face of the imminent clock.

“I have loved you for the last time.” There was a last time for everything I did with my dad. Now I catch myself wondering every time I have dinner with my family - is this the last time? Or will it be the time after? I have anxiety when somebody doesn’t text me back. In my mind, there’s always a scenario where they collapse in the shower or get run over by a car. The end.

I’ve tried long and hard to find a better ending for this post. I don’t want it to end on a negative note. I dug into Notion and Notes and Google Docs, looking for an answer. A cohesive, optimistic continuation to a litany of fragmented, pessimistic thoughts. Another gem from my journal, dated October 26th:

“The fundamental aspects of my life has changed. Gone, in another word. My dad. My uncle. My grandma. Myself. The fact that time has gone by, these losses have occurred, and yet my ability to live and laugh and love and grieve is basically the same as before terrifies me. I should be feeling something different. And yet I don’t. Sometimes I wonder if dad was still here, would he make better use of my youth than me. There has to be something else right? There has to be! But alas, there is not. ‘And here I am, left to shore amongst my ruins.’ Not so dramatic, but well, you know what I mean.”

I got into Harvard Business School in June 2024. The day the results came out, we lost power in my neighbourhood. My phone was at 3%. I remember how the air was thick with heat. In my dad’s bedroom on the second floor, we sprawled on the floor together in the dark. I remember staring at the dark cesspool that was supposed to be the ceiling, hearing my heartbeat and my dad’s quiet breathing. I remember reading the acceptance letter with my heart at my throat. I remember translating it to my dad again and again, since he kept asking me to reread it out loud to him. “They must have written this letter only for you,” he said. He thought the letter was so specific to who I am. I laughed him off.

That was the last time.

Before that, there were other times. When I finished my high school entrance exam, he asked me to read the opening of my essay out loud again and again. “You would have one of the highest grades,” he said. He thought my prose was outstanding, and was unreasonably certain in his judgement given how he knew absolutely nothing about Grade 9 Literature. Funnily enough, he was right. In trusting me, he was never wrong.

I guess there’s supposed to be a neat linkage to a conclusion here. I’m not bad at writing, but it’s easier to piece together meaning in things that are not as personal. To bend words here and conjure meaning seem disrespectful. So I will try to keep it simple.

The most moving experience I had this year was reading “Learning to Measure Time in Love and Loss” by Chris Huntington. I sobbed violently when I finished the piece. I strongly recommend it to all of you. I sobbed particularly hard at:

“I’m constantly aware of lost opportunities. I used to think such lost opportunities were beautiful towns flashing by my train windows, but now I imagine they are lanterns from the past, casting light on what’s ahead.”

I sobbed because I could only empathise with the first sentence. Every joy in life now seems like an opportunity that would be lost.

I wish I can tell you I found an answer. A cure to my cynicism. I haven’t.

But my family still has dinners. Where my dad used to sit is now Sunny, my four-year-old cousin. She always wears pink, even in her pigtails. She hates the kind of food we usually eat, so her parents usually let her scroll TikTok for the entire meal.

Maybe Sunny will grow up and hate this kind of old-people gathering. Then maybe we’ll move to another house, and there will be a last family meal in that kitchen. Most likely, I wouldn’t know it’s the last time.

And that’s alright.

I leave you with this poem I’ve loved since high school, that in its many different interpretations has somehow been the blueprint of my life.

I miss you dad. I love all the things we did together, even though some of them were going to be the last. I love you. I will always love you.