Be OK with failure. Failure is a part of life.

I say this as someone who needs the constant reminder, I think, more than others. I've blogged before about my penchant for starting and not finishing projects, and even when I did finish a project, it resulted in me falling off the face of the earth for...well, arguably, I'm still hermiting.

I think when it comes to creative endeavors – particularly when there's nothing holding you accountable (like consequences at work or in school) – failure to see a project through hits hard. For me, when I begin something like a blog or vlog series, I'm putting 100% of my heart and mind into it. Or, at least, I want to put 100% of myself in it. When that energy starts to slip, I panic and then wait until I feel like I'm in the "right" place again. But that ignores the initial purpose of so many of these personal projects: to help put me in the "right" place.

I think my biggest challenge these past few years – and even more so these days – has been to create without consequences. Just...make stuff. And yes, that's advice I've written multiple times on this blog, but a reminder never hurts.

I wrote a blog post for my pal Phil over at Angry Asian Man while he's taking a much-deserved break...

"We never talked about it. The word "undocumented" was nerve-wracking, confusing, and -- as it's been argued in my grandfather's circumstances -- not exactly true. Growing up, my sister and I were told many stories about our family history, but we had also been taught a moderately conservative stance when it came to immigration, about the "right" way to do things and the hard word that comes with that journey.

Which is why when, during a visit to California in April, I sat down with my mother to talk about this in-depth, she didn't use the word -- at least, not at first. Let me explain."

OK. I'm going to do it. After five years of living on the East Coast, I'm taking the plunge: I'm going to buy a rice cooker.

Every time I tell someone I don't own a rice cooker, they stare at me with eyes that say, "But how?" mixed in with the more awkward, "Don't you eat a lot of rice, because....you know..."


If you know me, you know I've been lazy about cooking over the last couple of years, despite having a decently nice kitchen. I could lob my various excuses at you about why that is, but that's irrelevant here--

Except...actually, it is kind of relevant. What if I buy a rice cooker and don't use it that often? And because I was raised by a family who made their American Dream a reality thanks to being chefs, buying a cheap rice cooker would be side-eyed so hard. Trust me: I asked them and they all recommended the Asian brands. Those ain't cheap.

When I first moved away to college, I felt this sharp jab in my chest every time I thought of home. I had spent 18 years of my life living under the same roof as my parents, and suddenly they felt so far away. I was excited about the next chapter in life, but it still stung every now and then when I thought about how much I missed singing along to the radio with my mother in the car and how those days of picking peaches with my father and sister in the backyard were gone.

When I left college and parted ways from my roommates, my friends, my soulmates, I felt that similar sting. When I left California, that feeling was there too. And all the while, I knew it was nothing new -- when you spend an extended period of time away from the familiar, it's bound to hurt a little. Especially when you don't know when, or if, you'll see those faces again.

My 94-year-old grandfather was put into a nursing home a couple weeks ago. It was supposed to be temporary, and now it's permanent -- although nobody will say that word exactly, because the rest of that sentence is "permanent...until he goes." We don't really talk about death and things like that so candidly (which is perhaps why I'm terrible at handling grief), but I can't stop thinking about how, for the first time in 70-some years, my grandmother doesn't know how her husband is.

About nine years ago, my grandfather had a stroke. The doctors had said they weren't sure if he'd make it, and even if he did, they only guessed he had a year. That Christmas, he hugged everyone.

So I guess he's been living on borrowed time (though aren't we all?), but I think it's his nature to be scrappy. It's what you did to survive a war and coming to a foreign country and starting over again and again.

I've been thinking a lot about my grandparents since I moved across the country -- their past, our history, the moments I took for granted as a child when they would take care of me. People used to tell me how lucky I was to have three of my grandparents alive and able to see me grow up. I've never felt the weight of that sentiment until now.