This post is a personal one. It’s a post about my mother, her story, her impact on me, and the final lesson she taught me - that I want to share with you.
It’s been 18 months since I was told about mom’s late-stage cancer condition. And it’s been a bit over one year since she passed away. I miss her a lot. For a long time, I was in a dark place - confused and lost. I now finally have the courage to reflect and write what I know about my mom.
My mom was born in a small town called Pingtang, a quiet and pleasant beach county, just 78 miles away from Taiwan. She was the eldest among her four sisters. Growing up, surrounded by the pleasant breeze and the ocean, my mom always had a smile that was warm and affectionate. When she smiles, her eyes sparkle with joy and that joy passes along to people.
Maybe it’s the beach vibe or the loving environment her parents gave her, Mom was very artistic about every detail of her life - she was very elegant in how she carried herself. She paid attention to how flowers smelled, the laughing sounds from neighbor kids, and sometimes the subtle anxiousness from people that she didn’t even know. Later on, I learned that’s called Empathy. Maybe because of that, my mom was able to connect with people at a deep level.
People say eyes are the window to one’s soul. In my memories, Mom’s eyes were always beaming with child-like curiosity and optimism toward the world. It's clear that she was showered with love and care by my grandparents - and she gave all that love to me in return. Without her unconditional love, I wouldn’t be who I am.
Growing up in a small town did not stop her from having big ambitions. She endured the upside-down world of the Cultural Revolution and still dared to dream. She showed that side to me even when I was a little child. As far as I can remember things, I recalled she was often traveling for work, signing up for different business seminars, and giving speeches to large audiences to inspire many of those around her.
That was in the 1990s, the "opening years" of China. The whole country was rethinking its path and embracing the market economy. The brave and adventurous were starting businesses, and my mom was one of them, despite the fact that she had never finished college.
She was not interested in following the crowd; instead, she was following her heart.
In the early 1990s, women were rare in business settings in China. So in a male-“guanxi” dominated world, my mom was quite a misfit - but a savvy, rebellious one.
I expected that many people in business had underestimated her initially but she used that to her advantage. Because people might have underestimated her, she often shows up with additional efforts that often left a stronger impression. She would be making deals cross country, sometimes taking a five-day slow train by herself just so that she can negotiate with her counterpart in person.
Her hustle and efforts paid off in the early years. When I was growing up, we were likely one of the few Chinese families to own a Sony recorder, a PC, and even a PDA in the early 1990s. Now that I think about it, she was always curious about new things and she never hesitated when it comes to solving that curiosity.
I think she inherited the traits from her dad, a successful self-made entrepreneur. Grandpa read a lot. He was a scientist and agriculturist. People respected Grandpa because he was knowledgeable and yet humble. He also liked to learn new things.
Every now and then, as a kid, I would find new plants and sometimes small animals such as ants and rabbits in grandpa’s place. Nothing satisfies a kid’s curiosity better than nature. As it turned out, I was not the “only kid” - grandpa was keeping his eyes wide open to the new things in the world. So was my mom.
Early on, when Mom was focusing on her career, she traveled extensively for business, mostly within China and sometimes abroad. I was often left with grandma and grandpa when I was in kindergarten, spending little time with her. As Mom would tell me later on with much regret - the story was that one day when she returned from a business trip, she saw me standing by the door, looking at her bluntly but somehow not recognizing her nor calling “‘mama.” She told me her heart sank that day.
That day, she realized she was missing out on time with her son. She then gradually reduced her traveling and eventually stopped altogether. She would tell me that she felt guilty about this period of her life. She would retell the story to me over and over again, as if it was her way to offload some of her guilt, although frankly I’ve never blamed her or remembered much because I was too young at the time.
Nonetheless, from that point on, she spent lots of time with me - eating with me, taking me to places, and helping me with my homework. From that point on, my memory of my mom becomes much clearer: we argued, we laughed and we formed an unbreakable bond, just like friends.
At the same time, like most Asian parents, my mom was strict when I was growing up. She had high expectations of me. As is common in China, she enrolled me in various extracurricular classes when I was around 10 years old - one of those classes was Chinese Calligraphy. I didn't enjoy it, but we still kept on practicing (I said “we” because oftentimes she would be there with me, practicing with me too!). One day, I finally snapped. It was a school holiday, and my friends were outside playing soccer, while I was stuck inside with my mom, practicing “calligraphy skills”.
I felt I was being mistreated. I complained, I threatened to quit, and when neither seemed to work, I cried. Still, she remained unmoved.
She said something to me that I didn't understand then: "Son, we were not born with privileges or any smarter, if you want to be the best, you have to work harder.” She then wiped away my tears and called it a day. She let me go out and play soccer with my friends.
From that day on, she never made me practice calligraphy again. In hindsight, I think she was trying to help me explore different interests and passions, and it was clear that calligraphy wasn't for me.
As I grew older, I became more rebellious - just like my mother. Although I achieved good grades in school, I hated the rigid teaching style in China. I disliked the fact that everything was focused on one single metric - standardized test scores. In school, I’d be thinking and asking questions that are often outside of the “exam zone”, which was annoying to the teachers who had to answer them.
Many people and my teachers viewed me as a strange kid who ask too many “irrelevant questions” and made fun of me - but not my mom. She likely saw herself in me: she herself was free-spirited and curious, never wanting to be confined in a box or be told what to do. When she noticed my unhappiness at school, she was the first one to suggest we explore some alternatives.
During that time, the alternative probably meant two things - either to leave school and start working early or to leave China and study abroad. I was still a teenager at the time. I didn’t think I would survive the first option so we went for the second one. I then started applying for schools overseas - also for scholarships because we needed them.
Many of her friends thought she was out of her mind: not only it was a seemingly impossible task but why would a mother send her only child to a country half the world away?
In fact, people in my hometown thought both of us were delusional, as nobody in my town had gone overseas to study at my age. As I’m thinking back now, she must have faced a lot of peer pressure and behind-the-back mockery. But she insisted and encouraged me to pursue the path that would make me happy.
Pursue we did.
After months of preparation and anxious waiting, I got in. From that moment on, it marked almost 20 years of separation between her and her only child. Thinking back, I now recognize the significance of the sacrifice my mother made for me. She did so purely out of love for her child. She was willing to let me go so that I can grow.
The first few years in the US were difficult for me. Coming from China, I didn’t speak fluent English and I had to adjust to a vastly-different new culture. Even with friends, I felt lonely inside.
However, Mom made herself available to me, no matter the time of day - it was as if time zone differences didn't exist for her.
Whenever I encountered setbacks or people who treated me unfairly, she was always a call away to listen and to comfort me. She asked about my friends and wanted to know what I had learned from my new life experience in the US. In the early days, I would talk extensively about my insecurity and anxiety. She simply listened patiently and then tried to cheer me up afterward.
As I got more accustomed to the environment, I got busy enjoying my new life. I then called her less; and when we did talk on the phone, I shared much less. But somehow she remembered every detail I mentioned: my friends' names, the jokes I told, and the good and bad incidents that happened at school.
She really cared. She was my best friend.
Time then passed quickly. I soon graduated and started working in tech and the startup world. I also started traveling a lot - primarily for work, just like her when she was in her early 20s.
One time, seeing how tense I was with work, she asked me to explain what I do for a living and why it caused me so much stress. I tried to explain to her the uncertainties of early-stage companies, the fund, our investment approach, the carry, and more.
After a while, she just nodded and said, "Son, work is work, life is life. Don't mix them up and get confused."
I brushed it off as I didn't think she understood anything I said. And that was the end of that conversation.
Mom had a list of places she wanted to travel with me. I'd always tell her - as if I was the reasonable one - that my trips were for work, not leisure, so I couldn't take her. Whenever she heard that, she'd simply smile and say, "Well, maybe one day."
That "one day" had never come. And I've always regretted it, deeply.
It has been one year since my mom passed away. I really miss her.
I was fortunate enough to have been able to spend the last few months of her life journey with her, along with all the family members. My aunts, uncles, and cousins were nothing but helpful and supportive. Without them, I surely would not be able to company and support Mom well during those four months.
Those four months seemed like a fleeting dream and yet so permanent. We were in a temple-like facility where there were monks and other seniors. It was elegant and peaceful. Looking back, those weeks were passing by fast though the days were slow.
It was my first time to be so close up to see a human life fade away so gradually and so noticeably. End-of-life care is many things but lightheartedness is not one of them.
As the cancer developed, mom got visibly skinnier, and her body got weaker. But her spirit was strong, just like a tiger (which is also her Chinese Zodiac).
Despite how uncomfortable (and oftentimes painful) she was feeling, she rarely let it show. Whenever there were visitors, she would show them the biggest smile she could give; if she had enough strength, she would participate in the conversation with genuine curiosity and even crack some jokes to lighten up the mood.
She was making everybody around her feel better, even though she was the one going through the suffering.
Then her physical condition deteriorated even more. She started to sleep a lot. She was barely able to move herself lying down, let alone standing up by herself. But she wouldn’t want to trouble others. We even had to convince her before she agreed to use the wheelchair so that we could assist her better.
She had a sense of pride, just like a tiger. Maybe in her mind, she really believed she was capable and she had never given up on fighting for herself and for us.
Late-stage cancer usually comes with pain, often times unbearable pain. Maybe it was Mom’s good karma, she’d never had severe pain and suffering throughout, until perhaps the very last few days.
One day she woke up from her deep sleep and asked to see me. Out of nowhere, she said to me:
“Son, the journey is a beautiful thing. I’m proud of you… My biggest achievement in this life is that I can call you my son… When I’m gone, don’t cry, and don’t miss me…”
Those are the words that I can still hear to this date. And I had never cried so hard in my life until that day.
We hugged for a long time. And we talked about the idea of the final day. She told me with her clear eyes that she was not afraid and she was ready. She continued to comfort me and asked me not to cry and not miss her after she is gone.
I nodded. I told her I love her. She said it back, gently.
She then kissed my cheek and my forehead - at that moment, it was as if we went back in time, a time when she was full of youth and energy and a time I was still a little kid.
Little did I know, that was our final goodbye.
On January 11th, 2022, my mother passed away, at age 59.
Even to the very last journey of her life, Mom was teaching me the true meaning of life and what it means to be courageous and loving.
The impermanent nature of things, people, and beauty in this life is the reason why we should treasure them presently and permanently, whenever we have the chance.
Live a life presently, couragously and artistically.
That was the last lesson she gave me. It has taken me a year to reflect on it, and it will probably take the rest of my life to truly internalize it.
Words can not describe how grateful I am to have a mother like her - she has given me life, joy, and love. In the short period of time she had in this world, She has lifted me up and made me who I am.
I miss you, mom. I will always love you.
May you rest in peace.
Beautiful, Jay. I lost my mother too about a year ago. She gave me up for adoption when I was about 4 years old from South Korea. She couldn’t afford to feed her three children. We later reconnected when I was an adult. Love between a mother and child is timeless.