This morning, my mom passed away. It was after her long fight with lymphoma, a type of blood cancer. For myself, I realized that opening up on my own about her death was important for me to move on: speaking honestly about what I was feeling, even if it wasn’t easy.
Grief doesn’t hit all at once. It comes in quiet waves: disbelief, sadness, anger, and eventually, something that looked like acceptance.
We experienced each of these stages — as we were holding her hand, talking to her, or giving her something to drink. Ultimately I learned that there isn’t a “right” way for anyone to feel, and that everyone responds differently.
When my mom’s health had started to decline back in May, I tried to stay in control — translating between hospital staff in English and my parents in Vietnamese, communicating out to group chats so everyone could stay informed and we could make the best collective decisions… Hoping that my efforts could change the outcome.
But once we discovered that her condition was now terminal, love stopped being about fixing things. The priority became easing her pain and seeking relief.
Acceptance, for me, came from clarity — from realizing we had done everything we could, and that the kindest thing left was to let go.
Now, what’s within my control is how I show up for the people mourning or still in my life — family, friends, and whoever I’ll meet in the years to come. My mom’s passing reminded me that time is fragile, but love isn’t. It carries forward, from person to person, quietly shaping how we live and how we care for others.
Thanh Thi Nguyen was born in Vietnam in 1951, and is survived by her husband and three adult children. She was 74 when she passed on November 10th 2025, and will be remembered for her strength, humor, and unwavering love.
Kim H. Nguyen 