You Only Miss It When It’s Gone

I’m Chinese Filipino. Chi-noy for short.

Which means I grew up celebrating Chinese New Year like it was louder than Christmas and more chaotic than any birthday party combined.

It wasn’t just a holiday. It was an event.

It was cymbals clashing so loud your chest vibrated.
It was drums pounding like the whole barangay (small community) shared one giant heartbeat.
It was the smell of firecrackers lingering in the air for days.
It was grocery stores packed with people fighting over thirteen round fruits like prosperity would evaporate if you only bought twelve.

Round fruits mean wealth. Because coins are round. And if you’re going to manifest abundance, you might as well do it with citrus.

Every mall was red. Every hotel was red. Even the tiny stores with flickering fluorescent lights were red. Lanterns everywhere. Decorations everywhere. It looked like the color red personally sponsored the country. You didn’t need Chinese blood to celebrate. The whole country claimed it.

Dragon dances would snake through mall corridors. The dragon would bow dramatically at each shop entrance, and the store owners would slip red envelopes into its mouth. Even businesses barely breaking even would give something. You do not mess with luck.

If you’re not Chinese, you probably think red is automatically lucky.

Not exactly.

Real Chinese families know it depends on your zodiac sign, your element, the year, and how the stars are feeling about you. Chinese New Year follows the lunar calendar, which is why it falls somewhere between January 21 and February 20. It begins on the first new moon of the lunar year and the celebrations go on for fifteen days.

We also love reading our horoscope for the year.

And I mean love.

We would wait for the newspaper to publish the zodiac predictions. My mother would literally hand it to me and say, “Read yours. It’s a lucky year for you.”

If it said money was coming, we believed it.
If it said career success, we walked taller.
If it said romance, well… we pretended not to look too excited.

By midyear we didn’t even remember what it said.

But in January? That horoscope felt like a contract with the universe.

The Flowers I Never Got (And Why I'm Over It... Mostly)

Valentine's Day is coming, and I have complicated feelings about it. Not the angry kind. Not even the bitter kind. Just... the kind where you've lived long enough to know that the dream and the reality rarely match, and somehow you're okay with that.

I used to dream about Valentine's Day the way other girls dreamed about their weddings. Flowers. Chocolate. A card with actual words written inside, not just a signature. Maybe dinner somewhere nice. The whole romantic comedy package.

Instead, what I got was life.

The only Valentine's flowers I ever received in my entire existence came from my children. They were young. Working early jobs with practically no money. And they showed up with a bouquet they could barely afford, proud and a little shy about it.

I cried.

Not sad crying. The kind of crying that happens when you realize love shows up in ways you didn't script.

Let me back up.

Things I No Longer Feel the Need to Explain

Lately, I’ve noticed I’m explaining myself less. Not in a dramatic, I’ve-found-my-power kind of way. Just quietly. Like I forgot to give a reason and realized… nothing bad happened.

I say no without adding a paragraph. I leave without an excuse. I choose things without a backstory. And somehow, the world keeps turning.

This is new for me.

I used to explain everything. Why I was tired. Why I was leaving early. Why I didn’t want to eat that. Why I changed my mind. Why I didn’t reply right away. Why I needed time. Why I needed space. I treated every decision like it needed footnotes.

Now I don’t.

I no longer explain why I’m tired.
I’m past the age where exhaustion needs justification. I don’t need to walk anyone through my week so they’ll agree I earned it. I’m tired because I’m alive. That feels sufficient.

I no longer explain why I’m leaving early.
There was a time when leaving before everyone else felt rude, like I was breaking a social contract. Now I leave when my body tells me to. Dinner ends. Energy drops. I go home. No dramatic exit. No apologies.

I no longer explain my food choices.
I don’t explain why I’m eating salmon instead of steak. Or dessert instead of salad. Or nothing at all. I don’t owe anyone a breakdown of my health goals or a disclaimer about balance. I eat what I want. I stop when I’m full. This feels like progress.

I no longer explain my silence.
If I don’t respond right away, it’s not a mystery or a message. It’s just life. Sometimes I’m thinking. Sometimes I’m resting. Sometimes I just don’t feel like typing. All of those are allowed.

I no longer explain why I changed my mind.
This one took practice. I used to think changing my mind meant I was unreliable or flaky. Now I see it as updated information. I learned something. I adjusted. End of story.

I no longer explain my no.

The Older I Get, the Earlier Dinner Gets (On Aging, Love, and Boundaries)

I decided to be healthy in February the way I decide most things now, casually and without any long-term vision. Not a resolution. Not a lifestyle change. Just a vague intention to do better than whatever January was.

I had just celebrated my birthday a few days earlier, which at this age feels less like a milestone and more like a polite head nod to time. Like, yes, I see you. You’re still moving. I’m still here.

My kids did greet me. Eventually.

Birthdays are complicated now because of time zones. Some of them are a day ahead. Some are a day behind. Some are probably staring at the clock wondering if it’s too late, too early, or safer to pretend they already texted. I never know if a greeting is early, late, or being coordinated in a group chat I’m not invited to. At this point, I choose to believe the delay is due to global time differences and not selective memory. I choose peace. This is also part of being healthy.

For my birthday, I asked my husband if he could ski so we could spend the weekend up in the mountains.

For the record, I do not ski. I’m from the Philippines. We don’t have snow. We have heat, humidity, and sweating for no reason. Asking him to ski is my way of participating in winter culture without risking my life. I enjoy skiing the way I enjoy haunted houses. From a distance. Preferably indoors. With coffee.

In my head, the plan was perfect. I imagined waking up, sipping coffee with a view of Lake Tahoe, feeling inspired to write my next book. Taking breaks to wander through tourist shops. Walking all the way to the lake for the obligatory birthday selfie. Something like “54 and I still got it,” which is a lie I only believe when the lighting is good and my knees are cooperative.

I even planned dinner. Friday’s Station. Lake view. Sunset behind snow-capped mountains. The kind of birthday that sounds effortless when you describe it later.

This was the dream.

Reality arrived immediately and without apology.

I Tried to Declutter and Accidentally Audited My Entire Life

I started decluttering the way I do most things, confidently and with absolutely no plan. I told myself I was just going to clean one small area. One drawer. One box. Something manageable. Instead, I sat on the floor holding things I haven’t used in years, negotiating with myself like each object had feelings.

I don’t know why January does this to people. Every year, suddenly, we all decide we need to clean our lives. Reset. Purge. Become a new person with fewer possessions and better habits.

I never really understood the whole “spring cleaning” thing until I worked in retail here in the U.S. Probably because where I came from, seasons were not really a thing. I’m originally from the Philippines. Chinese Filipino descent. We don’t have winter or spring. We just have hot and raining. Sometimes both at the same time.

But anyway, back to decluttering.

I started with the things I brought back from my mother-in-law’s apartment. I told myself I was keeping them safe for her. Preserving them. Being responsible. Being thoughtful. And then, slowly, it dawned on me that she no longer cares about them.

Not in a sad way. In a peaceful way.

She already kept what mattered. The rest are just things that finished their job.

Which means now they are my problem.

I don’t want to throw them away. I want to donate them. Because another man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Also because I need to believe someone else will love these things more than I currently do.

For a brief moment, I thought about selling some of it.

This was my first mistake.

I tried Poshmark. People out here offering a dollar like I’m going to carefully package something, print a label, drive to the post office, and feel fulfilled for spare change. Excuse me, dear. At that point, I’d rather donate it and get a better tax write off and some peace.

Then I tried eBay. Which now feels less like a marketplace and more like everyone’s collective garage sale from the late 90s. No one knows what anything is worth. Including me.

And then there is Facebook Marketplace.

Facebook Marketplace is not for women my age. It is not for people who value safety, sanity, or sleep.

Bartering starts at 9 p.m. for reasons I will never understand. People message “Is this still available?” and then disappear like ghosts with commitment issues. Honestly, that part I can live with.

What I cannot live with is when they actually show up.

Sometimes they arrive in a car full of people. Why. Why are there four of you. Are you here to buy a lamp or overthrow a small government. Please just take the item and leave.

Sometimes they come to the house and start sniffing around instead of doing a quick handoff. Sir, this is not an estate sale. This is a transaction. Take the chair. Hand me the cash. Do not explore.

The entire time I’m wondering if the money is counterfeit and whether this is how I end up on the evening news for trying to sell a side table.

Once I decided to meet someone in a CVS parking lot because that felt safe. They ghosted me. I sat there like an undercover cop who forgot why she was there.

Anyway, where was I going with this.

Oh right.

Decluttering.

Or menopause.

Or capitalism.

One of those.

I completely forgot my point halfway through, which is apparently my new personality trait. Menopause brain does not gently fade things out. It takes the thought you were holding and throws it into traffic.

I Didn’t Announce My Absence (My Laptop Did)

I didn’t announce my absence because I didn’t know I was going anywhere. My laptop just didn’t wake up one morning. No warning. No goodbye. No dramatic final error message. It simply chose death.

I tried everything. Restarted it. Charged it. Talked to it like a sick pet. Googled symptoms. Asked GPT like it was a grief counselor.

GPT told me my laptop died of natural causes.

Natural causes.

For a machine.

Apparently this is a known issue, which is offensive information to learn after the funeral. I felt like the whole world collapsed. Not in a dramatic movie way, but in the quiet way where you realize your entire brain lives inside a rectangle that has decided it no longer respects you.

That laptop was my best friend. My therapist. My filing cabinet. My bad idea storage unit. My password holder. My witness.

So naturally, everyone asked, “Why don’t you just get another Windows laptop?”

Because I felt like GPT and Copilot pulled me aside and said, Listen. You can either get the dependable Apple, or when the next Windows laptop dies in three years, you are absolutely on your own, kid.

Even my kids sided with Apple. Of course they did. They said things like, “It just works, Mom,” which is extremely bold coming from people who still call me to ask where their documents went.

So now I have a Mac.

What She Kept

I showed my mother‑in‑law the dishes the way you show someone proof that you were paying attention. Proof that you listened. Proof that you cared enough to remember.

“I kept them all,” I told her. “The plates. The bowls. The mismatched ones. Even the chipped ones.”

I said it casually, like it was just a storage update. I expected a polite thank you. Maybe a nod.

Instead, she stopped.

Then she reached for a cup and saucer, like one of those delicate English tea sets that look like they belong in a storybook. She held it like it was a memory she hadn’t touched in years.

“My sister gave me this,” she said. “She told me to remember her every time I used it.”

She had several pieces from family. None of them matched. Not a single one. Different florals, different shapes, different eras. A collection only a sister could assemble, kinda chaotic, sentimental, and but perfectly imperfect.

Then she picked up another cup. Small. Oddly shaped. The kind of thing that could be a cup or a vase depending on the day.

“This one,” she said, smiling at the crack running down the side, “was from my other sister. She said the crack made it look like it was laughing.”

She is ninety‑three now.

When she moved from her two‑storey house to a two‑bedroom apartment, she worried. When she moved again into assisted living, she worried all over again. Not about the move. Not about the downsizing. But about her things.

The indoor dishes. The patio dishes. The holiday mugs. The boxes of decorations. The ribbons. The wrapping paper she reused because “it’s still good.” The small, practical things that made up a life.

She worried about what would fit. What would have to go. How you decide which memories deserve space.

She made lists. Then lists of lists. Then rewrote those lists. I didn’t laugh at her. I recognized myself in her. I realized we were the same kind of woman — the kind who would’ve been millionaires if modern stationery culture had existed when we were younger. Journals. Highlighters. Color‑coded emotions. We were born too early for the aesthetic version of our anxiety.

And then, in the middle of all this tenderness and nostalgia, she said:

“There’s a man in the building.”

I looked up. “A man?”

She nodded, annoyed. “He’s hitting on me.”

My husband and I burst out laughing. At ninety‑three! But also… we’re pretty sure she doesn’t actually know what “hitting on me” means.

But the man? Oh, he knows.

“He waits for me,” she said. “By the elevator. Every single time. Like he has somewhere to be. But he doesn’t. He’s just… standing there.”

She reroutes her entire day to avoid him. Different chairs. Different hallways. Different timing. He still appears.

“He asked if I wanted to have lunch with him. I told him I already ate. It was 9:15 in the morning.”

She said it with the same tone someone uses to describe a broken appliance. Mild irritation. Zero interest.

She loved my father‑in‑law. He died. That love didn’t. She has no desire to replace it. There is something both hilarious and heartbreaking about that kind of certainty.

She mentioned her old bus seatmate too — the woman she used to sit beside every week on the shuttle. “She moved to another home,” she said. No sadness. Just a shift in the schedule. People leave. Circles shrink. You adjust.

She never once called it loneliness. So I won’t either.