1,087 days.
That’s the total amount of days since I last penned paper for this blog (yes, I am still a guy that handwrites in 2026).
While I feel like I have good reasons why this blog has been completely ignored for 1,087 days, I don’t have one good one to justify why I stopped writing all together. Writing is a pillar of my being, and doing so keeps me grounded without collapse. But this doesn’t mean I’ve been face to floor this entire time, it’s actually the complete opposite. During a handful of moments I was able to get a few ideas down, but only enough to formulate particles that eventually fluttered away with the wind. I stopped dead in my tracks each time to tend to this girl who, rightfully so, is always looking to fulfill her constantly evolving, long list of needs.
Truth be told, I need her just as much.
642 days.
That’s the total amount of days since I became a father to my daughter, Autumn Jem (yes, my wife and I named her after the 80’s animated series Jem and the Holograms).
Case and point, I just stopped for a long moment because Autumn wanted to write on her dry erase board, and she needs me to carry her while she does so. But just like her, I’m not skipping this writing session this time. We’re going to see this one through today.
In the 445 days prior to her birth were a lot of soul searching with my wife and I after several failed fertility rounds and a debilitating miscarriage. You would think that in these 445 days I’d have a lot to say – which I did.
Just not a lot of heart to write it.
People will always tell you how harsh it is to navigate these waters, and all the empathy will never make you feel it’s true weight unless it happens to you. And I could not describe the feeling well enough for anyone else to truly see these endless, sordid knots inside me, so I didn’t bother trying any further than a few words before I let it simmer in pity.
So when I say that Autumn is perfect, it’s pure fact. I cannot track the endless amounts of biological cogs, levels, and pieces that needed to be in the right place and the right time for her to grace the world with her existence. And during these last 642 days – this time on the greener side of the grass and a whole lot of my heart behind this – I’ve attempted to find and construct words together to paint this aura of perfection.
Only to reach failure each time.
The energy behind the sentences, statements, sequences lacked the literary cadence to match what I feel being her father. Reading what I wrote felt like listening to a bad cover band of Air Supply (Low Air Supply, if you will. I’m here until Wednesday).
I would say it’s because I’m not a poet, who are masters in writing about pain, bliss and everything in between. But I technically have two poems that have been published. Do I prefer these books remain buried and hidd—yes please. Am I a good poet? Absolutely not.
So I rather not chase these rhythms that can never match these Autumn days and nights
And will merely live to the beat of the surf together
After all, father and daughter only has spots for her and I
Maybe, I can be just poetic enough.
Tag Archives: family
Compass
Structured Query Language, or SQL (pronounced ess-cue-el) for short, is the standard language used to find and extract data from multiple tables of related information from a database. In simpler terms, this is how it works:
You spit your game and slide in the DMs by way of love letter in this nerdy ass SQL language, and if your code is correct, engaging, and heartfelt, you’ll achieve a ‘swipe right’ and get the data you’re looking for. Most of the time, you’ll continue to take the data on breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates at Excel where you can manipulate and breakdown the information in order to find insights in what is happening (and not happening) in your business or organization, city, state, country, so on and so forth.
This is 75% of my job – writing SQL queries to help find quantified answers to questions looking for measurements of quality. Within the last two months, I seemed to have broken through several layers of wall, and I’ve written more meaningful queries during this time than the last two years prior to, and I’ve finally figured out why. It wasn’t by way of books (though I have been reading a lot of books about Big Data… and um. Daredevil), a changed diet containing nothing but superfoods, or the limitless pill.
My mathematical writing has reached new highs, because I’ve been too much of a coward to write the final love letter to my cousin Angie, whom my family and I lost earlier this July. She was young at the age of 46.
Today, I have at least enough courage to find a way to stop writing code, and start writing emotion.
Writing SQL queries can be very difficult, but it’s easy for me to digest from this specific vantage point – it’s either the right answer or it’s not. I always found comfort in my math ability and patience to solve for x. So it made sense that I was too chicken shit to face the problem of why Angie died way too early – there was or never will be a right answer.
I was primarily raised and influenced by women, with my mom leading the way. With her were my grandmother, two aunts, and literally a dozen older female cousins. It was my own Lady Avengers team that watched over me, and Angie was a cornerstone during my developing years. She always seemed to be around during some of my most endearing memories, likely because she helped create them rather than simply being present, even though being present already goes a quite a long way.
Dropped off and picked up from school? Angie was there.
Running around the arcades and reloaded me with coins? Angie was there.
Sea Life Park in Hawaii, Disneyland and Universal Studios in Los Angeles? Angie was there.
Watching horse racing at Bay Meadows and Golden Gate Fields, and making sure I always had hot dogs to eat? Angie was there.
Hanging out at her mom’s dry cleaners in Hillsdale? Angie was there.
Sprinting to the Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor across the parking lot from the same dry cleaners? Angie was there.
Protected me during the 1989 earthquake in Foster City? Angie was there.
Flying back and forth from Honolulu and South San Francisco? Angie was there.
Flying home to California after visiting the Philippines without my mom on the same flight back?
Angie was there. She was always there.
And you know what’s the most beautiful thing about this? I was never the only one. Angie was there for so many other cousins like me, and generations of nieces and nephews after. She was the magnet that helped keep so many of us together. And now more than anything else I wish I could say the same back to her, that I was there for her, especially during her time of need. But I can’t, and I feel like shit that I can’t do anything to fix this. I can’t make this right. I never checked in, I should I visited more, I didn’t do enough. Time always runs out, and my lone diminutive brain – let alone the quintessential mathematical minds of the world combined – won’t solve the stoppage of time.
This is going to happen again. I don’t know who, I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. Hell, it could happen to me, and it could be an hour from now. I don’t know the answer to death, I nor anyone else can stop this or the constant feelings of grief that come with it. All I have is this love letter. It’s not the right answer I want, but at least I know I’m not wrong.
Angie, my beautiful cousin, my guardian angel –
I will never be graced with the amount of time I need to express how lucky I have always felt being around you, and with you. Without trying, you showed me how to live, how to love, and how to chase fun, and for that I am eternally grateful.
On my wrist I wear a clock, but in my heart I have a compass. For the time I have left on this earth I hope that, somewhere in paradise, you’d do me a kindness in allowing me to dedicate pieces of my life adventures to you.
From all corners of my heart – I’m sorry, I miss you, and I love you.
Forever your Balong,
– Mike
Andrew
I’m trying to work, but I can’t. I’m angry, confused. I feel everything and I feel nothing, all at the same time.
Just like that, without explanation or warning, my friend Andrew was gone. And all I have left is the fortunate ability to remember to keep myself composed.
We came up at the Village Fitness Center together. When I first met him, he came in as a new member at the gym, and I was with the Service Desk. He was a skinny kid right before, and as I like to joke, the gamma ray accident turned him into the Hulk that everyone knew and loved. In reality, he was extremely dedicated and focused at his craft, and the physical feats he reached are proof of this.
Shortly he began an internship and eventually became a certified personal trainer with the VFC Family. After garnering success, he took his work to other locations within the company – Federal Fitness, Avalon Bay, and Fillmore to name a few. After several great years with us, he moved to Los Angeles, and found more success in the fitness industry. The sky was the limit for Andrew, and everyone that knew him believed this with complete certainty.
One of the best memories I have with Andrew was Halloween, had to have been close to six years ago. We were at a party in the city, and I’m pretty sure that, and this is something that happened way to often than it should during this previous version of myself, I forgot many of the details toward the end of the night.
But I do remember this – I was a cop. Aviator shades, vest, and two colorful water guns. There were other cops with me, and we looked really cool. I’m talking about other-side-of-the-pillow cool, trust me.
Not as cool as Andrew, though. He waltzes in as Akuma from the Street Fighter video games. He had it down to the details – the attire, the wraps, and of course, the muscles. The guy was built like a statue, and it was safe to say he stole the show.
Andrew wasn’t much of a drinker then, in fact I don’t think he ever had one up to that time. Until, this Halloween party. Maybe he was intimidated by my water guns (that probably shot out a liquid that rhymes with Pequila later in the night), maybe it was my pheromones that eventually changed his mind, or maybe – and this is what I will believe – maybe it’s because he loved me like a brother, and because of this, he was going to have a drink with me.
And yes, I loved him, too.
We go to the bar, and I tell Andrew, “F&#% it man, bring your boys too. I got all of you.” Side bar, when I drink, everyone drinks. That’s my own little life rule.
“Four Jameson shots my good dude,” I tell the bartender. We toast to… something. Maybe we toasted to being gym rats, or to friendship, or to the Akuma character, or to the fact that the Giants were one more game away from winning their first World Series in the San Francisco era. We took it like champs, hugged and high-fived like bros, and took more photos at the photo booth in the other room because we were that much full of ourselves. Andrew then tells me, “That was my first shot in my life.”
I bought Andrew’s very first shot, and I truly take that as a high honor. They say that you never forget your firsts, and I hope this rings true with Andrew. Because I will never forget him.
You always think that life gives you chances for another round, but that’s never the case. This is another reminder that the only chances in life are the ones you take.
As I remember Andrew, I am reminded how unpredictable all of this is, and that anything can be taken away at any given time. I’m reminded to continue to take those chances every day, no matter how big or small, because just how Andrew easily displayed, greatness is manifested from those with the will to win, not from those who are afraid to fail.
I am reminded to continue to live in the honor for those we’ve all lost in our lives, and pave the way for others after us to adopt the same. The best thing in this world is what we have between each other. Not of things made of matter, but things that matter – conversations, moments, laughs, undocumented sights, and unrecorded sounds.
This is the privilege of remembrance, and Andrew – my colleague, my former co-worker, and most of all, my good friend – it has been an amazing privilege to have had you in my life.
Air
To have life, we need energy. To gain energy, we need air. To have air, we need to breathe. In order to breathe, we need life.
It’s always easier to understand life when you can make it into a circle (cue Lion King music here) – its actions and reactions constantly giving and taking. All circles are different, and none of them are perfect. While they differ in size, shape, depth, color, and gradient, every circle can make an impact.
Last week, I had the honor to meet a beautiful baby girl named Leona. She was born in the early evening of a late August day in Palo Alto as the daughter of not only two great friends of mine, but two of the kindest souls I know – Mac and Kim. I must admit that prior to meeting Leona, I was rabid with excitement, nervousness, pride, fear – while I felt everything, I knew nothing.
All I knew, was to breathe.
When I arrived to the hospital, it didn’t feel like a hospital, and I really liked that. After a few hours of catching up with Leona’s parents and other friends, it was my turn to see her. All those uncontrollable feelings came back again and any senses of calm I gathered before dissipated. So, I leaned back on what I knew, back to the basics: breathing.
Mac led me to another room to Leona. I checked in, turned a few corners, and ensured that I applied enough antibacterial on my quaking hands. After treading through showering sounds of beeping machines, overlaying voices of nurses, and a handful of other crying babies in the room, I was finally in the grace of Leona’s presence. And the moment I laid my eyes on Mac and Kim’s daughter, in absolutely every sense I was swept off my feet.
Leona moved, albeit in small doses, with curiosity. Her scent was sweet and refreshing. She was unburdened with worries and new to earth, and in this moment with Leona she made me feel what I can only imagine what she felt – unsusceptible to gravity. Most of all, Leona was full of might. More might than I can ever gain in my lifetime, more might than I have seen from a team of champions.
Leona’s story, unfortunately, is one with complications. She required the aid of a machine to breathe, and the burden of this condition on Leona and her parents is one I will never be able to fathom. She fought and defied every single odd that went against her and her family. She made every play on the field, threw every pitch with pinpoint perfection, and had a batting average of 1.000 at the plate.
She did it all. And she did so, for seven days.
My one and only meeting I will ever have with Leona is on repeat in my memories. While she was not granted a full life, she put on a dazzling display of courage over fear, and risk over regret. We are reminded that life is short, whether it be seven days or seventy years. And in that time, while life simply means that you’re breathing, the meaning of life depends on what you do in between the breaths that you take. This is the story of Mighty Leona, a story that will never end.
All that might, she got from her parents.
PERFECT TIMING 