A story about me

It’s me, Freya.

I was born and grew up in Da Nang, Vietnam – a beautiful city by the sea that always finds a way to feel like home. When I was writing this, I was standing at a new beginning, starting my business again after a year-long hiatus. This is a story of mine – from the hardest years of my life, to this new beginning. But to tell you where I’m going, I would like to share where I’ve been.

A little note: this is a long read, so please take your time.

The last few years were hardships I wasn’t prepared for.

Three years ago, I became a caregiver for my family when my dear mother was diagnosed with a brain cancer, Glioblastoma. Each injection of morphine served as a stark reminder of the pain she endured and a testament to her incredible strength. I witnessed her vulnerability – the fear, the anger, the moments of despair. Yet, I also saw her unwavering spirit, her resilience, and her ability to find joy even in the darkest times. I admired her strength, but also felt helpless and uncertain of how I could truly help her. It was a battle within myself that made me strong, but also broke me a little, day by day.

Back in September 2024, my mother fell into a deep coma. I never knew if she could hear my voice, if she ever felt my hands on her skin. I never knew how she felt, whether she was in pain, whether she was at peace. I didn’t know that one night would be the last chance I could kiss her goodnight.

On a day in September, I was sitting by her bed, watching her disappear with her eyes still closed… I held her soft hand for a very long, long time, listening to her every breath through the respiratory device, until her last heartbeat went still.

After the funeral, I went on a long road trip with my father, my brother, and my fiancé. When I returned home and back to work, I realized something in me had forever changed. The job I once loved, the people I had been close to over those five years… didn’t fit anymore. On the last day of December, I resigned from the manager position and left my job.
Not long after, my long-term client in Canada had reached her milestone and stepped into her retirement. Our contract came to a natural close, and so had that chapter of my life.

I spent the next year in the “in-between.” I let myself put the weight down and simply live. I became quiet. I moved into a new apartment with a sunset view in the heart of the city. I spent quiet days at home cooking meals. I read books, watched movies; taking care of my little family, with my handsome cat boys, Simon and Leopold, who somehow knew when I needed them near.

Since my mom’s first diagnosis, the illness has left me with an obsession for well-being. I spent countless days researching nutrition and wellness, trying to understand how our bodies function, and learn how to live healthier and whole, so I could take better care of the people I love.

The longing for my mom somehow guided me to a deeper level of spirituality as I kept thinking about the afterlife. Then I took a flight to Saigon for one last tarot class with my tarot reader, before she retreated into seclusion.

That year looked peaceful from the outside. And in some ways, it truly was.

Also there were untold stories. The journey has been a profound lesson in empathy and compassion, but it also brought me to tears more times than I can count. Beneath those quiet days was a hollow darkness. It’s the nights I cried myself to sleep, and woke up with tears already falling. I was shattered, questioning my own identity and the meaning of life. Behind a shield, I was living in survival mode for a long time, too scared to open up again. Since my mom’s passing, I felt like I finally hit rock bottom, and was in a dark void. It was so quiet there, yet my mind felt so loud.

And then, the calendar turned again. On new year’s eve, I did a tarot spread for myself. There was one card about my mother when I looked for a sign of her. But I couldn’t quite interpret it, so I asked AI for a perspective. And the message that came broke me open in the best way possible:

“I am shining on you. Don’t hide in the dark anymore — step out into the light.”

Though my mom is now forever gone, I can no longer share my wins and lows, or even small ordinary things with her in person. I carry her with me wherever I go, and I believe her prayers will always be protecting me.

Then came the moment I decided to start over.

I launched Fr-Atelier. Things slowly started to rebuild. And honestly, it took a lot of courage to finally work on. It felt like returning to where it all began, back to the work I’m good at – but as a calm, bolder version of myself.

Each step I took is small, but to me, it means everything. Because it shows we are moving forward.
It was about staying. Staying through uncertainty. Through doubts and fear. If there’s another thing I’ve learnt, that you don’t need a perfect start. You just need to start, and keep going. Because one day, you’ll look back and realize every hard moment was quietly building something bigger than you ever imagined.
I also want my mother to know that she can be proud. She can rest in peace knowing her daughter is wonderful. Because her daughter is still here. Still going. Still becoming.

This is the first time I’ve ever shared this story outside of my diary. Thank you for reading these long, long words of mine. And thank you for being part of this new chapter with me.

Warmly,
Freya.