There’s a version of me that’s still unfolding—like a photograph in a darkroom, slowly revealing itself, line by line. She’s quieter than she used to be, a little more raw, but steadier too. She doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She’s learning to let herself become—without needing to explain it to anyone.
Lately, the topic of love has been circling me like a persistent wind. Friends bring it up over coffee. My parents mention it in that way only parents can—part suggestion, part subtle plea. The question floats in the air: “Have you thought about dating?” And I smile, politely. But inside, I want to whisper, I’m still married.
Because I am.
No, not in the legal sense. Not in the way the world keeps score. But in my heart—in the way I wake up and still look at my ring and think, Logan would’ve loved that song or he would’ve made the lighting just right. I still wear my wedding ring. I still talk to him when I need guidance. I still honor him, not as a ghost from the past but as someone who lives inside everything I’m building now.
Everyone seems to want me to “move on” as if happiness is a destination you only arrive at by holding someone else’s hand. But I’ve come to realize something: happiness isn’t always tied to romance. It’s not found in the arms of someone new—it’s found in the moments when you feel whole within yourself.
I still believe in love. I just don’t believe it has to look like what people expect.
I’ve heard that “grief is love with nowhere to go,” and for a long time, I agreed. But now? Now I know better. My love has somewhere to go. I pour it into everything Logan inspired in me: the stories I write, the worlds I build, the mission behind Windgarden Books, the creative fire of Hmong Nouveau, the heartbeat of Chaotic Good.
All of that is love.
All of that is him.
All of that is me, becoming.
And that—this purposeful, soul-fueled life I’m crafting—is my happiness. Not some replacement. Not some forced “new chapter.” Just… this. Becoming the woman I’m meant to be, while still holding space for the love that shaped me.
So no, I’m not dating.
I’m not ready.
And truthfully? I may never be.
But I am full of love. So full, it spills into every project, every sentence, every sunrise I greet with the quiet knowing: he’s still here.
To anyone else trying to become while holding grief in one hand and hope in the other—I see you. You don’t have to be “with someone” to be whole. Your love is not wasted just because it’s not romantic anymore. Give it somewhere to go. Let it bloom through you.
Because you, too, are still becoming.