One piece of advice I would give everyone in the sector

Hi everyone, this post is long, personal, and likely melancholy. One of the questions I get asked often is “What’s one piece of advice you would give to those of us just entering the sector?” or “What’s the one thing you would tell your past self?”

I generally find questions like those difficult to answer, because distilling decades of scars and victories and lessons learned into a succinct few words is impossible. But as I get older, the answer is simple: Spend more time with the people you love. Lots more. And don’t let your work take so much priority that you end up with regrets.

My mother’s birthday comes up next month. She had died at 49 years old, and her birthday, Mother’s Day, and other holidays always bring up bittersweet feelings. We didn’t always have the best relationship. My parents did the best they could, but war and trauma and our traditional Vietnamese culture were not conducive to raising US-inclined children. I was resentful that they moved us from Seattle to Memphis right when I started high school, and I was bitter they made me work at the store they owned, something they expected as filial duty and never paid me once.

For years I didn’t say much to either of them. My mother would pick me up from school, and the 20-minute ride back was done in awkward silence. One day, five minutes into our trip, both of us staring into the distance, she said, with a worried look on her face, “Linda’s dog is not doing well. It lost 2 pounds.” I was surprised, because my little sister, seven at the time, didn’t have a dog. My mom was talking about Linda’s Tamagotchi pet, which was entrusted to her care while my sister was at school. My mother, seeing no response from me, said nothing further the rest of the trip. That was how it was for years.

I left for college, where I found an escape from the suffocating cultural and familial obligations. My parents and I talked on the phone maybe three or four times in total during those years. They did not like that I dropped my plans to be a doctor to study social work.

With distance and their selling the store and moving back to Seattle, our relationship gradually improved. I came home during breaks to the scents of my mother’s cooking. I had become vegan in college. She was worried, telling me I would be malnourished. But she made foods she knew I would like. In all my life, I don’t recall a single time hearing my mother say “I love you” to me or anyone else for that matter; her braised bamboo shoots and straw mushrooms, sweet and sour soup with okra and taro stems, and fried tofu simmered in tomato sauce did the work.

I finished grad school in St. Louis and moved back home. That summer, my parents were going to visit Vietnam and celebrate their 25^th-year marriage anniversary. Before their trip, I sometimes joined my mother on her afternoon walks around the neighborhood. She would tell me of her life in Vietnam, the harrowing years of the war, and the difficult ones after, when my father was in "reeducation" camp. She told me stories of my aunts and uncles and their various quirks, laughing as she recounted their antics. And then she teared up, recalling her baby sister, who had died of illness at the age of six.

She told me she wanted to see the movie Million Dollar Baby; I said it’s kind of heavy on dialog and I wasn't sure she’d understand anything.

The dozen or so walks we took were happy ones. The years of war, immigration, and constant struggle for survival seemed to be behind us; I could see my glimpses of my parents as individuals, and they finally saw me as more than just a sullen, defiant kid and source of free labor. I looked forward to when my mom would be back, and we could have more walks, just the two of us.

Those walks would never manifest. On that trip to Vietnam, my mother died unexpectedly of a health complication. I got the phone call from my cousin at 3am. None of us had a chance to say goodbye. It seemed cruel of fate, that just as my mother and I started getting to know each other, she was gone. I hung up the phone and went into my parents' room, knowing she would never walk through the door again. On her night stand were several vegan recipe books.

When you lose someone, you lose all future chances to make more memories with them. All the memories you’ve made up to then are all you will ever have; and with time, these memories also fade, and the sounds of their voice and laugher become echoes in your mind, fainter with each passing year.

I’m lucky that the last memories I have of my mom are happy ones. But I do wish I had made more and different ones. Maybe I wouldn’t be such an asshole son. Now that I am a parent, I know there’s little reason for guilt or regrets. We don’t fault our kids for being kids, even if they sometimes say or do hurtful things.

But still, on our rides to and from school, I would tell her about my day. I would reach out when she tried to connect. I would go grocery shopping with her and cook beside her. I would call more during college. I would take her to see Million Dollar Baby and we’d sit in the back so I could try my best with my terrible Vietnamese to interpret what they were saying onscreen.

It’s been 20 years now, and the grief lessens with each passing day, but it shows up here and there, sometimes accompanied by thoughts about what could have been. My mother would have loved my two kids, her grandkids. Both are feisty and hilarious.

In our line of work, there is always so much to do, and because many of us are so dedicated, we prioritize it, and, usually without meaning to, take for granted the people in our lives.

I remember one morning, I rushed out of the house, trying to avoid being late for a meeting. Suddenly my four-year-old Viet ran out onto the porch barefoot. “Daddy,” he shouted, “you forgot to kiss me goodbye!”

In my rush to get to work, I had skipped our little ritual, where I held him and tickled him and kissed him on the cheeks. I came back. “You didn’t kiss me goodbye,” he repeated, looking bewildered. Staring down at his tiny face with its messy curly hair and big eyes, I realized he and his brother would only be this little forever. I had only a few years left to create childhood memories with them.

Viet is turning 13 in a couple of months. His voice has changed. The other day, I took him and my nine-year-old son Kiet to the playground, at Kiet’s request. I was happy to see that Viet still enjoyed the swing and still wanted me to push him, though his deep growl of “higher, Daddy” was comically disconcerting. Their childhood is rapidly progressing. I figure we have one, maybe two more Halloweens where they’re both excited to dress in costumes and go trick-or-treating together.

Occasionally I see glimpses of my mother in the kids' faces and personalities. I've been trying to recreate some of the dishes she made, and they are hit and miss with them. But maybe one day, something will land, and I can tell them I learned the recipe from their grandmother.

The work that we do is vital and urgent, and it is easy to get consumed. But once a while, we do need to stop and acknowledge that we don’t have an infinite number of afternoon walks around the neighborhood, or trips to the playground, or opportunities to catch a movie. The people we care most about are not going to be there forever. Or in the same form. Kids grow up fast, and our parents and older relatives age just as quickly. Our time with the beings we love is always shorter than we know.

And so we should prioritize it and be intentional about how we spend it when we can. Even—or especially—while we try to save the world.

--

Here are a few events to get on your radar:

·       February 25^th at 10am Pacific, I’m having my virtual book launch. Details and register here.

·       March 4^th and March 5^th, I’ll be speaking at the Nonprofit Fundraising Summit, which is free, and you can register here. I’ll be on for a session called “Fundraising During the Apocalypse: A No-BS Conversation with Vu and Candace” with my colleague Candace Cody. And On March 5^th at 1pm PT I’ll be speaking with a panel of cool leaders in a session called “From Crisis to Courage: Supporting Communities and the Future We’re Building Together.”

·       March 19^th, I’ll be having a conversation about the book with colleagues Andrea Caupain Sanderson and Rashad Morris of Ile Kimoyo. This will be a more in-depth dive into the book than the book launch on 2/25. Register here.